BECOMING AGIE

 

Usher Syndrome ~ Pumpkin Day

 

novellas

 

by

 

Grigory Ryzhakov

 

 

edited by

Stephanie Dagg

 

 

 

Copyright 2012 Grigory Ryzhakov

 

 

Usher Syndrome

 

Sometimes I think it wasn’t love at all. Maybe it was my way of shaking and waking myself up emotionally, my way of proving that I can feel and have passion for people, my way of breaking out from the shell of my inner world. Perhaps it was an attempt to re-evaluate my own existence on this planet. Maybe I just have a weird attitude. But then who doesn’t?

At the time I met Ben, I had been living in Slown for a couple of months. I had established a regular route between the Institute and the apartment that I shared with a guy from work.

Slown, like no other western metropolis, enchanted me with the autumn beauty of its parks. And as if to match the abundance of red-leafed maples, the city was overflowing with ginger dwellers - people, squirrels, foxes, even orange carp and Mandarin ducks in the ponds. The red colour of passion heralded a storm in my northern soul.

 

 

One evening I was coming home when I saw a pleasant young couple, who were smiling at me. The following day on my way back from work, I heard a voice exclaiming in Russian, “Look, it’s that guy again”. I looked round and saw the same couple I had noticed the day before. The girl giggled and they disappeared into a grocery shop.

On the third day I met them again. This time it was getting late and I was feeling hungry, so I walked home fast, thinking about food. As I passed the grocery store, I felt as if someone was following me, so I stopped and turned around and saw this girl hand-in-hand with her companion, again staring at me.

I hesitated for a moment and then approached them.

“Hi guys, have you been following me? I keep noticing you each time I’m around here.”

“Oh really?” The girl took the initiative. “Actually … Yes, we did spot you a couple of times and became curious.”

“What about?”

“Benny says you are not like other gay guys.”

I was annoyed at this. “OK, is this a formal introduction? And what makes you think I’m gay?”

She used sign language to translate what I’d said to her friend. He took out a notebook and wrote in it: You have a funny walk, it looks feminine, and yesterday I saw you looking especially hard at a handsome guy.

He then looked me in the eyes in a provocative way. I gazed back at him intently, thinking through my next step.

The man signed to the girl and she said:

“Oh sorry, my name is Marina, his name is –”

“Benjamin. I got that already. I’m Agie.”

“Nice to meet you, Agie!”

“Marina is a Slavic name, right? But you have a German accent.”

“Actually, Marina is not a Slavic name. In Greek it means that I came from the sea! I was brought up in Austria, but my parents are Russian. Ben is Austrian.”

“Is he totally deaf?”

”He can hear a bit. His hearing aid broke a couple of days ago. He doesn’t have a replacement yet, and that’s why he’s got the notebook.”

“So what do you two do?”

Poor thing, she had to sign all our conversation to Ben. And even worse, she said that the notebook was a slow and annoying way to interact when you weren’t used to it. She joked that she was going to have to interpret for us on our first date. That’s Marina for you. But I think I’m running ahead of myself.

Having unraveled the notebook mystery, Marina suggested going for a drink (and a sandwich for starving me). We found a café nearby. Since it was late autumn and a little chilly, we sat at a window table inside. When the tea arrived, I looked at Ben and wondered how I was going to tell him about myself. I decided it was way too early to think about that and I elected instead to study my new acquaintances.

I first probed:

“I remember you said something in Russian behind my back the other day. Did you know that I’m a Russian?”

“Oh, I thought you missed that. Yes, we’ve seen you ten times maybe and we’ve been watching you, because Benny fancies you.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “First of all, you look Russian; also once we heard you talking on your mobile in Russian while you were shopping. We hid behind the shelving, so you probably didn’t see us. Then I decided to use this trick and say something in Russian to get your attention. We figured if you were interested, then you would show it somehow. You remembered Ben’s name even though I only mentioned it indirectly. To be honest, I knew you would like Ben. I think you make a good match. Sorry, I talk too much. I don’t want to spoil your date, guys.”

She then signed back and forth with Ben, while I followed the intricate movements of his fingers, suppressing the urge to touch them. For some reason, Russian people often seem to get off to a quick start in relationships.

 

***

 

Several days later Ben got his hearing aid back and we agreed to meet in a park close to my place and go for a walk. He was in a splendid mood, maybe because the day was sunny and rather warm. After a long stroll, we found a bench to rest ourselves on.

There was an awkward pause and I didn’t know how to begin, so we just looked straight in front of us, turning to each other for a second a couple of times.

“Agie, I … think you are very cute,” he said shyly and he slowly moved his face closer to mine.

I hesitated but reciprocated. He touched my lips with his, very gently as if they were flower petals. I opened up my mouth and we had our first kiss. Then I remember turning away from him for a moment and saying:

“Ben, you do know what I am?” I then looked back at him, expecting affirmation.

“What do you mean, Agie?” He was clearly puzzled.

“I mean I am a transsexual.”

“You?!! No way!!” The slight embarrassment written on my face answered that, so he continued with his questions. “You mean you are a … girl? Wait a minute! Which way?”

“I was born as a guy, but I have had an operation recently, so now I’m a woman.”

“Gosh, you mean no dick?”

I nodded.

“Wow! I thought you were just a feminine guy!”

“Sorry I got you confused. I don’t wear much make-up or dress like a girl on a working day.”

“Wow! Long hair, that explains a lot … Hey, what about the boobs?”

“Still to come!”

“But I thought it was the other way around?”

“Yes, it is usually, but you see I prefer it this way. Personally I don’t find any appeal in a she-male concept, so I started with vaginoplasty. Girls aren’t born with large melon-shaped boobies. Consider me pre-pubescent now.

“Wow! Sorry if I’m asking too many questions. It’s just I have never met anyone like you!”

“That’s all right, Ben! I feel a bit of a freak myself. I know many people are shocked when they realise …”

“Well, I’m a hearing impaired guy. I know how it feels like to be different.”

“I bet you do.”

I was feeling slightly miserable after my confession. Ben, however, was very excited.

“Wow! I haven’t seen you all dolled up, but you are so beautiful already. So handsome and transsexual!”

“Remember that ‘handsome’ is now a word to describe boys only. But thank you. I think you’re cute too, maybe not the cutest, but certainly unique. It’s getting a bit chilly. Let’s go somewhere warm.”

There was an awkward silence when we started walking, so I decided to ask that question.

“So am I still attractive to you, not just abstractly beautiful? Oh, you don’t have to answer. You’re probably still shocked.”

“Yeah … I don’t know, Agie. I guess I am not a regular gay guy, still, to be honest, I don’t know how I’m going to feel … touching your body …”

“That’s all right, Ben. No pressure. No pressure … If I were you, I’d probably run away! Oh, I’m joking. I’m sure you’re a nice chap. You wouldn’t treat a lady like that, would you?”

“You’re funny, I like that. Hey, by the way, Agie, is that your real name? I mean, it sounds strange.”

 “It’s my initials. AG. My first and middle names are Andrey Grigoryevich. The initials sounded like a girl’s name, so I decided to become A-G-ie.”

“Wow! I thought I was the one who had an unusual life …”

On the next date we went to see a film, then we went for drinks, then ended up … but I won’t go into further details.

 

***

 

I reconstructed the following dialogue that must have gone on between my two new friends based on the sanitised version of their conversation that Marina shared with me afterwards.

 

“Marina, you won’t believe the news I’ve got for you!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I‘ve got something for you too. But you go first!”

“OK. Have a seat! Ready? You remember Agie, whom we met a couple of days ago? Well, I saw him again today. Did you know he’s a transsexual?”

“What?”

“He is a ‘she’ now!”

“No way! Really?”

“Yep. Isn’t it cool?”

“I don’t know. I thought you fancied Agie. How do you feel now?”

“Not sure. I feel weird, excited and maybe ... what’s the word? Baffled! And hey! You said you’ve got news for me too?”

“Oh it’s not important. Tell me more about Agie.”

“You already know a lot about her. She’s very intelligent, she has a PhD and is a respected scientist. She said she’d planned the operation for years.”

“Operation?”

“Sex reassignment surgery it’s called. It’s really difficult to pronounce!”

“I don’t know how people can decide to do that. It must have been really hard for her. I mean, can you even feel anything down there when a penis is cut off?”

“Agie laughed when I asked her about that. Actually, if it’s done properly, you get some sensation a couple of months after surgery. Not always though. Naturally, it’s a concern for many transsexuals. But Agie assured me she’s fine in terms of that.”

“Interesting. She’s lucky …”

“There’s even a book about transsexual orgasms by someone called Monica Stewart.”

“Really? Looks like there’s a book for everything these days.”

“Yeah… Funny.”

“There’s one thing I don’t get.”

“What?”

“You’re not into girls.”

“I’m not, but … Agie isn’t a girl, she’s in between.”

“I guess she wouldn’t want to hear you saying that.”

“I guess you’re right.”

 

***

 

When Marina and Ben decided to go and live in Slown it was a shock for their families. No one could understand why. Ben and Marina just wanted to be new and independent, to breathe the air of a buzzing, vibrant, international metropolis, to give it a try. They didn’t have any relatives or acquaintances when they came here, so they became even closer to each other. And soon they came across me, to our luck and grief.

 

***

 

“Agie, do you think we’ll burn in hell?”

“Don’t worry, we are already so smoking hot we’ll be just fine down there!”

“Hey, I’m serious.”

Ben often liked discussing philosophical things when we were on our own, using me as a talking encyclopaedia. I didn’t mind educating him, since we had already become a couple and I was glad of his aspirations to learn and improve himself.

“Who spoiled the child?” I teased him. “Who told you about Hell. I didn’t even know you believed in God.”

“I don’t. It’s just they say that the likes of us burn in Hell. It sounds scary.”

“‘They’ who?”

“I met some religious fanatics today, and I stupidly told them that I’m gay and therefore lost to good Christians.”

“That’s rubbish; you make a good, gay Christian. You are nice and you have a kind heart. Don’t listen to these fanatics and their prehistoric beliefs. Jesus loves you, trust me.”

“Aren’t you scared of Hell? All sodomites go to Dante’s Inferno.”

“Since when we are reading Dante? I’m surprised.”

“It’s Marina, not me. She studied it some time ago and told me about it.”

“So nothing to worry about,” I said. (Yeah, I’m that mean!) “I wonder do I pass for a sodomite in my circumstances?”

“Probably not.”

“The same with you then.”

“But I still fancy guys. Doesn’t that work against me?”

“If I were you, I’d ask if heterosexual buggery is also sodomy.”

“Yes, does that count?”

“I don’t know to be honest, but anyway … I heard about this Italian place, Inferno, nice cuisine! Demons are waiting. They take flesh instead of cash though.”

“Agie!”

“OK, OK, I’ll drop the humour. So you insist that we’re fucked?”

“Yep.”

“Bloody hell! … Well, in that case, we will have to convert to Buddhism or some other nice religion that doesn’t have a hell.”

“You’re always optimistic. Aren’t you scared of anything at all?”

“I’m scared of losing control and devouring you, my irresistible Viennese sausage.”

“You’re a lustful pig, Agie! Why do you behave like that when I know you’re much more sophisticated?”

I leaned back a bit, put on my best bitchy camp accent and emitted a tirade:

“For fuck’s sake, Benjamin, you are nineteen fucking years old! You have not seen the world; you have not really sinned yet. You have not tried to cut your veins because of some unbearable loss or unhappy love. Yet you worry about a hypothetical and highly implausible ‘Burn in hell, faggots!’ scenario preached by some narrow-minded, abstinent moron, who will only be pleased when you are buried alive for squashing an innocent bug.”

 

***

 

At first I didn’t think there was anything different about him apart from his deafness. Ben did not like clubbing or going out of the house when it was late at night. He always needed company. I thought he might be afraid of the dark. I reasoned that I myself would not feel comfortable in the dark if I were also deaf.

One day I asked him directly.

“What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you nyctophobic?”

I used the term since I knew those who suffer from the condition are usually familiar with it.

“Am I what?”

“Afraid of the dark.”

“It’s just that, well … I can’t see very well in the dark.”

“Nor can I, and everyone else is the same.”

“No, I used to see better.”

“So why has it got worse? Maybe you need to see a doctor?”

“Yeah, I did. I’m already taking some pills. Retinol, I think. Possibly I have something like a shortage of vitamin A. But don’t worry, it’s probably nothing serious.”

He smiled like the Cheshire Cat and we kissed. I told him that I feel much more passionate when I worry about him.

“That’s because you have a crush on me,” he said and grinned. Oh, he was totally cute when he grinned.

 

***

 

Marina is the girl that I still admire with all my heart. I am very grateful that she introduced me to Ben. She’s the daughter of Russian parents who emigrated to Salzburg when she was just a tiny tot. Like many other Russians, Marina is a person of many talents. For instance, she speaks several languages and does lots of different crafts, but she doesn’t have the patience to excel in any of them. Typical! She’s very intrusive but not annoying.

 Marina knew Ben for many years; they met each other in a nightclub. She was seventeen, he was sixteen. I can’t imagine how they got in there underage; I need to ask her about it. But anyway, she had been learning some finger spelling at the time and she was delighted at meeting Ben since it gave her the chance to practice. Marina also fancied him a lot, though she never admitted it before the ‘accident’.

Somehow, they became real buddies. Their families started thinking about a wedding. Imagine their disappointment and shock when Ben came out as gay by pronouncing the toast “Let’s drink for me being gay, Mum and Dad and all my friends!” at his 18th birthday party. Marina was very supportive; it turned out it had been her idea for Ben to come out like that. Sweet girl, isn’t she?

I will always remember that day. I met Marina at our regular café and we had a girl talk.

“You and Ben seem to be behaving unusually. Is everything all right?” she asked.

“What’s unusual?”

“You both seem to be a bit preoccupied.”

I studied the pattern on the table cloth, trying to compose my thoughts while she waited.

“The thing is ... I still can’t decide about the boob job,” I admitted. “I’ve talked with Ben about it. You know him, he’s always nice. He says that I should go for it, if it’s what I really want to do. But for me it’s not that simple. I care about our relationship. How would he feel about us after I become a full woman?

“I see,” she nodded.

“Well, what would you do? I mean, imagine that you have small boobs. I know you don’t, but just imagine that you do and so you decide to go for an enlargement. Your boyfriend likes them as they are, but perhaps pretends he doesn’t mind the operation, for your sake. I know it’s a pretty implausible scenario. Still. Would you go for the op?”

“I’m not sure, Agie. You have to decide yourself. But if you want to know my opinion, then do it if it’s what you need to do.”

I considered her advice on my way home. As I opened the door, I called out “Ben, are you here?”, but no one replied. Stupid me, still not used to having a deaf boyfriend.

I found Ben sitting on the couch in the living room. He was holding Jamie, his violet pet-pillow, and crying … I hugged him, kissed him and I asked, “What’s wrong, baby?”

He didn’t try to conceal his tears. I waited for him to put in his hearing aid and then embraced him protectively.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, “but we need to part”.

I was shocked and confused and said that I wouldn’t move away from that couch until he told me what was wrong.

“I have Usher syndrome. I’m going blind. That’s why I don’t want you staying around with me. I want you to be happy.”

It turned out he had Usher type II. Although Ben was not totally deaf but technically only severely hearing impaired, he had got used to the idea of not being able to hear from early childhood. However, when, in his late teens, Ben started to have some problems with his eyesight, that scared him a lot. Losing a sense when you are an adult is not at all the same as lacking it from birth. Besides, there was no option for any ‘seeing aid’ in his case.

His doctor suspected Usher syndrome and he conducted some tests on Ben’s DNA to confirm this. The mutation lay in the gene called usherin that has a rather unclear role in supporting the retina’s function in the eye.

At first I was quite stunned and kept thinking about his worsening condition and how I could help.

My scientific area is cancer research. Naturally, I know many people from different fields whom I have met at conferences and other meetings. When Ben brought the news I thought of Annie Healey.

Annie became famous before this whole Usher thing for her work at Empire College with Tony Moore on the treatment of LCA, a disease that causes blindness. Basically, they used gene therapy to replace a faulty gene in the retina of the affected patients, and half of those showed a significant improvement of vision. After that success, she managed to come up with a couple more therapeutic ideas and eventually got a lab at the Ophthalmology Centre in Slown. Lucky thing!

We stumbled upon each other many years ago, on an Internet forum dedicated to books. I remember she asked a curious question: who is the most least well-known of the Great Russian Writers? I suggested the author of The Privalov Fortune. Annie turned out to be an admirer of Russian classical literature. Her system is cool: she reads books in the alphabetical order of their authors’ names.

I hadn’t talked to Annie since I’d met Ben. I gave her a call and we set a date to meet over tea.

 

***

 

I came early and ordered a glass of water. She was on time. She walked inside the coffee shop with her inherent vigour and hailed me as she approached the table I occupied:

“Agie! Look at you! It’s so lovely to see you! It’s been ages! Now. I hope you are well. You sounded sort of disturbed on the phone.”

“I’m fine, Annie! Thanks! No worries! You look great too! Take a seat! What do you want to drink?”

“A camomile tea, please.”

The drinks came and general enquires were made: How’s everything? How’s science? Published anything recently? And so on. Then Annie asked about the business I had mentioned on the phone.

“Well, a dear friend of mine has been diagnosed with type II Usher syndrome.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Agie.”

“He’s currently OK, but his eyesight is declining slowly. I thought you might know if there’s any possibility of treatment. I’m in the wrong field, so I thought of you to get professional advice.”

“I see. So, give me the details. You said type II, right? I have never come across this syndrome in my experimental work, but I follow the literature. Has the mutation been located?”

“Yes, it’s in the gene called usherin.”

"A potential for gene therapy?”

“It’s complicated, I’m afraid not.”

“Hmmm, are you sure? Send me all the papers regarding the condition; I’ll have to ask at the centre. We have quite a lot of innovative treatments at the moment. I guess the syndrome is pretty rare and controversial, that’s why I haven’t heard much about its treatment. Anyway, I’ll look into it and let you know this week.”

”Thanks, Annie! He’s a close friend; I would really like to help him.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. Weird, I have never really been asked about these things by my friends. Vision disorders are relatively rare. I guess in your case, you must have cancer patients sent by your friends queuing at your doorstep.”

“Not at all. My friends know that I’m not a clinical oncologist, so they go to the specialist. I hope I'm not asking for too much, I know you’re busy.”

“Don’t worry, Agie. If you’re asking me about it, it must be important. Hey, I heard about your operation from Kate. How have you been?”

“Did you? Well, it’s hard to explain. It finally feels right. Of course, I need some further adjustments and a major change of wardrobe, but I’m glad so far …

“You must be under a lot of pressure to go through a thing like that.”

 We both felt rather uneasy about discussing it further, so I tried to close the topic.

“I am fine, really. I’m very much concerned about my friend now. By the way, what letter are you at now?”

“L, and what a bliss that is!”

“Lermontov?” I asked.

“I’m already at Leskov. My! What language!”

We talked about literary geniuses for a while. I kept thinking about the funny coincidence of both of us ending up in Slown.

Two days after we talked, she phoned me and suggested that I come to her lab for another chat. She said there was some promising news regarding Usher.

 

***

 

“Ben, from what I know you shouldn’t be so pessimistic about your condition. In the end, as long as you are alive, you can still enjoy life. Happiness is all about the right attitude. There are plenty of people in the world who have everything and are unhappy.”

“God, Agie, I feel so down at the moment. Do you think you are helping with your philosophical crap?”

“You are not an animal driven by your emotions, Ben.”

“Yeah, I know, I heard it all before from you. I should be strong and I should train myself to rule my emotions with my reasons. But it’s not easy. Maybe for you, but not for me! I feel like an animal. So don’t waste your time on me.”

“Ben, being with you is the best thing in my life,” I said, hugging him. “Don’t you see I love you and I won’t stop, even if you lose every bit of your body? I will suffer with you but I will not fall out with you. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’m happy with what I have even if I have to suffer.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

“You don’t have to. It’s the way it is. I’ll be helping you, anyway.”

“Thanks.”

We were resting in mutual embraces on the sofa when he suddenly asked:

“What if you stop loving me?”

“That’s unlikely. You’re too beautiful.”

He looked at me very seriously and said:

“Still, what if you do? What will happen to me?”

“Well, hypothetically speaking, it’d be hell for us. But I would get over it - remember, mind control - and I would stay your friend anyway, even if you rejected my friendship. I would still help you, because I would feel responsible.”

“Agie, sometimes I think you are a robot or an alien.”

“Why?”

“You are a very emotional and sensual person, yet you constantly analyse everything around and within you. I don’t know anyone else like you.”

“You mean I’m a chatterbox?” I asked but delayed his response with an affectionate snog.

“Yes, you are, but not only that. You don’t just bullshit; you argue with yourself all the time about important, real things that matter.”

“Well, that’s my way to develop myself.”

“And you talk about yourself all the time!”

“I know. It sucks. I should be talking about you and how we are supposed to fight your illness. Oh I just forgot, your doctor –”

“Oh, please, not now.”

“OK … Back to me then,” I joked.

“You selfish bitch!” And he squeezed me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. I felt I had never been so loved, understood and happy in my life.

 

***

 

I never imagined that my own idea might turn into a cure for Ben. When I came to her office, Annie told me straight away how excited she was. She said that a conventional gene therapy strategy, the replacement of a faulty gene with a healthy intact copy of it, would not work in Ben’s case. The gene, usherin, is too big to be inserted into a retroviral genome, which is commonly used as a vector for a therapeutical gene delivery. However, in Ben’s particular case there was a way around it, because only the last tiny bit of the usherin protein was missing and not the whole molecule.

Annie reminded me of my own paper that I had published on a synthetic gene that can kill breast cancer cells. This artificial gene that I devised some time ago encodes a protein that can, on one side, bind to a receptor molecule, which is only present in tumour cells of several cancer types and not found in the normal cells of the organism. The other half of the artificial protein can initiate a cell suicide program when it is bound to the cancer-specific molecule. Therefore, this artificial gene makes cancer cells commit suicide and thus can be used as a treatment for several types of cancer.

I asked her how this discovery of mine was going to help Ben. Annie said that a similar approach could be used for him. She said that Ben’s usherin could be imagined like as a hand without a finger. One could attach the missing finger back with magic glue. I asked her what she meant.

Annie laughed and said that, once upon a time, a Levsha from Russia managed to complete a similar task on cancer cells. In the same way, this Levsha could try to design an artificial molecule (a finger with glue). It would be composed of the missing bit of Ben’s faulty usherin (the finger) and the other half (magic glue) that could bind Ben’s usherin (a hand without a finger), thereby mimicking the normal intact usherin protein (a normal hand). These artificial molecules, when delivered to retinal cells in the eye, could potentially restore the function of the usherin and stop the progressing blindness. I told Annie that her parallel to Levsha, a fictional character created by Nikolai Leskov, sounded terribly interesting. But we did not know whether this idea was going to work out or not. We had to try at least.

Annie said that she would be happy to help me if I had any trouble with experiments. I needed to do some construction work, to select and test candidate molecules on rat retinal cells, which could be grown on the cell culture petri dishes and used for blindness studies.

Obviously, the technical side of it is not as simple as I imply here. I had to use elaborate computer design and some time-consuming biochemical, genetic and cytological techniques to create and test different versions of the wanted artificial gene.

I felt inspired and motivated, while Ben was sceptical. Still, he admitted my work was important. I remember him saying that even if it did not work out for him, perhaps it would be successful at curing people with Usher syndrome in the future.

 

***

 

Four months after I started, I had developed a rat model of Ben’s Usher, which is impressively fast. I managed to design several molecules and selected the best working one in restoring usherin’s function. The conductivity tests worked out very well, which meant that the rat retina cells could ‘see’ again. I wrote up my research and it was eventually accepted for publication in the journal Nature Medicine. I called my new gene ‘ushpin’ (a pin for usherin).

Ben, of course, was thrilled and he volunteered to try this new technology. He joked that he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to become famous as a breakthrough patient.

Ben agreed with me that a ‘needle in the eye’ was a better alternative than blindness. He went through the operation stoically. At the time he was almost on the verge of panic, fearing that he would never see me again, but he didn’t tell me that until he came out of hospital.

Several weeks passed after the operation, and Ben’s vision started showing the first signs of improvement.

This was probably the happiest time for Ben and me. Having gone through this enormous challenge, we had become even closer to each other. After all the media coverage of Ben’s ‘miraculous recovery’, people started sending us some really warm e-mails and letters.

Along with Annie, whose help had been invaluable, I received a couple of prizes for this work. I was given a promotion at the Institute and was soon busy touring and giving talks around the world. Ushpin created a wave of hope and enthusiasm among gene therapists. There were even talks in parliament about making the ‘bench to patient’ process faster and more efficient.

Sadly, in all this craziness, we had almost forgotten about Marina. I mean, the three of us still managed to meet weekly or so, but I could feel that something was going wrong. But I was too busy and, maybe, too selfish to do anything about it.

 

***

 

The evening the ‘accident’ happened, Ben was studying at home, working on some essay for his anthropology class. I was away. Marina called and invited him to hers for dinner.

They had a lovely time together, as always. After finishing their meal they started drinking wine and I think they slightly overdid it. Marina complained that she had felt very lonely recently. She said she was trying to concentrate on her studies to stop being depressed. Ben declared they should both triple their efforts to find her a boyfriend. Marina replied that this was a bad idea since she was still in love with him.

Ben was struck by her confession. Marina called him blind for not being able to notice her feelings. She was clearly upset that he had fallen in love with another woman (although not a biological one), even though he claimed he was gay.

Despite all these accusations, he tried to console her. It didn’t help much. He changed his strategy. I had told him many times his jokes were rubbish, but I had never thought they might also be dangerous. Marina was getting annoyed. Ben decided to come close and offer her ‘his manly embraces’. Marina was clearly pissed off, told him to leave and pushed him away with some force. Ben lost his balance and, as he fell, hit the back of his head against the coffee table. His blood spread fast …

 

***

 

Every now and then I think about Fate. Do we deserve everything we experience? Maybe life just randomly throws at us joy and grief, disasters and happy moments, tea bags and coffee tables …

Ben’s parents organised the funeral. They were very supportive. I was embarrassed that I felt too empty to cry at the funeral.

No one knew, but Marina also came to the cemetery, accompanied by the officer. She watched from a distance and, when the ceremony was over, she was taken back to jail. They gave her three years. I think it was too harsh, but she didn’t care about the sentence.

Nor did I at the time. Everything at home reminded me of Ben: the books he used to read, the sofa he liked so much, his Jamie. Depression crept inside me. I patiently waited for it to die out, I hoped it would eventually. And then, two weeks after the funeral, I received a letter from Marina. She wrote it in Russian. I was very shaky when I read it:

Dear Agie!

It is unbearable to think that Ben is dead. I know that I am the only one who is guilty. You were probably told it was an accident: I pushed him and he fell and hit his head. Yes, it was an accident. I did not want to kill him. You should know that I have loved him even before you met each other and I still do. I had never told Ben about my feelings before that evening, I assumed that because he was gay, he was only interested in men. When you started dating each other, I suddenly felt jealous. I felt offended. I thought: “I am a woman too. How is Agie better than me?” In my blindness I did not realise that love is an uncontrolled quality of one’s heart. You were destined for each other. I had never seen Ben happier than when he was with you. And I know you loved him too. You cured his disease, restored his vision, while at the same time my jealousy made me blind. I would have never made him happy like you did. My jealousy killed him. I should have left Slown for good; I should have blessed you and wished you every happiness. But I could not. I stayed and continued my self-destruction.

Agie, I know you are a strong person and that you have gone through a lot. You did not deserve all this suffering and my betrayal. You have been always so nice to me. I am so sorry for what has happened. I do not seek your forgiveness. I overcame my cowardice and wrote this letter to confess. Now you know the truth. I am very sorry for everything.

Marina

I read her letter many times that day. I recalled our first encounter and how I thought about Ben and her being a couple. Who knew that Marina had been in so much misery when Ben and I were together? I should have guessed. I think too much. I am very logical but I often forget about people’s feelings. No, it was no one’s fault. I could not blame Marina. Her suffering could not bring him back.

That night I had a dream. I saw Marina pushing Ben and I saw how he died. Ben was motionless and looked at Marina with a forced smile. She was kneeling down, weeping, holding the phone and trying to call the ambulance. And then I saw him whispering his last words: “It’s OK. It’s OK.”

Next morning I was still thinking about Marina. ’A see-through person’ I used to call myself, when I boasted about my knowledge of human psychology. How little I knew about Marina’s feelings towards Ben, about her jealousy. Perhaps, I am not a woman enough inside. Or maybe my love and concern for Ben were so huge that I somehow neglected her role. In a way, I separated them. But then who would have guessed that such a stunning girl like Marina would have gone for a deaf guy, cute, but still quite average. It rather seemed like a brother-sister relationship, and Ben probably thought in this vein too. I imagined Ben sitting opposite me at the dining table. I imagined him nodding in agreement.

After that night he was always nearby, like my angel-protector.

I decided to make a call and arrange a visit.

 

***

 

“Hi,” I said shyly.

“Hi,” Marina replied.

We sat quietly for some time and then she continued.

“I sent you a letter.”

“Yes, I read it.”

“I see …”

“Marina, I do not blame you. I think you should forgive yourself. I am sure Ben would not want you taking any guilt.”

“Thanks, Agie. You have a big heart and I don’t deserve this at all.” She brushed away her tears and continued. “I’m very grateful you came here. I don’t know what to do.”

“And I don’t know …”

There was a minute of silence before I could compose myself and continue:

“I saw him dying in my dream. I saw you both. It breaks my heart every time I think about it. And though you hurt me, you hurt me unwillingly. We are connected through him. It may be much too much for me now, but you are still my friend, Marina. Maybe too close a friend.”

 

***

 

I knew her well enough to be worried. I knew she depended on me. Seeing her once a week was not enough support for her or for me. We had to get through this!

One such evening after visiting her, I was really down. I was lying in my bed, calm and tearful, and I started singing a song. The words were obscure: they were more like some non-existent language, unintelligible, yet a language one could understand on the emotional level. And while I was singing, I started to think of maybe putting our story on the paper.

So Ben would always live in it as if for real.

 

###

 

Pumpkin Day

 

1 – Agie

 

It must have been the Chinese. Who else could it be? With so much manpower required for digging out that hole right in the centre of overpopulated Slown … And what about the secrecy? You’d think it would be impossible to conceal something like that under everyone’s nose, or feet to be more precise. Yet, somehow it has been done.

Fourteen days before the shocking discovery was made I was on the Tube, on my way home from work. It was an average day in terms of being typically hectic. I brightened it up by wearing lip-gloss and listening to The Smashing Pumpkins, both freshly purchased the weekend before.

Slightly bored due to the absence of interesting human specimens to observe, I was entertaining myself by studying the posters.

One of them announced that Pumpkin Day would be taking place in Slown in two weeks’ time. The idea was to drop a pumpkin from the top of the Slown Sky tower. Our Mayor was supposed to kick the giant squash himself. But not just for fun.

The whole thing intrigued me and I was interested to find out more. Naturally, when I got back home it slipped from my mind. However, the following morning the story was in the eight o’clock news. As you would expect, upon contact with Mother Earth any well-accelerated pumpkin will shatter into millions of pieces. And now the interesting part. The person who found the most distant fragment of the wretched vegetable would receive a huge cash prize. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Still, no one seemed to ridicule the idea since it promised easy money and potentially great fun.

The Mayor also announced a charity music concert, which along with the plant explosion promised to make the day truly unforgettable.

Within a few days, Pumpkin Day turned into a city’s obsession: everyone talked, Tweeted and presumably even tossed about it.

I think it was a week before the memorable occasion that I came to work wearing a deep plunge lilac dress. Two of my colleagues, Jess and Gill, quickly approached me as I entered the lab. I took a deep breath preparing to withstand their criticism. Imagine my utter disappointment when they totally ignored my scandalous outfit and instead eagerly started gossiping.

“Oh Agie! You’ve got to see this!” Jess said after briefing me with some fresh muckraking. Gill handed me the morning issue of The Moon.

The front page bore the headline “Squash-Napping Gang Arrested!” Below it there was a photograph that showed a police squad handcuffing a foursome of Asian youths. The article enlightened the reader about the gang’s plan to steal the mighty vegetable. The criminals had set up a secret base in a hotel room in Slown Sky; the police had found nylon net stashed away in the closet and also a book called How to Steal Stuff and Get Away with it for Dummies with the chapter ‘How to Intercept Someone’s Satellite with a Fishing Net’ bookmarked. The objects were incriminating enough.

I couldn’t bother reading any more of that nonsense and put the paper down. Disregarding Jess’s enthusiastic and overly detailed commentary, I went to the coffee machine thinking that the world must have gone insane if my new lilac dress failed to divert attention from a handful of pumpkin thieves.

The same morning I got an e-mail from my boss informing me that he would be off-site in the afternoon, since he was to give a lecture elsewhere on the anti-tumour effects of squash and related plants. I simply stared at the screen for some time before finally coming to a decision that if this madness was so inevitable then I had to take it as stoically as if it were my chemical peel session.

 

I’m an awfully pensive creature. I always look for reasons. Everything has its reasons, even though sometimes they are not real but imagined. One question that currently bothered me was about the pumpkin. Had someone chosen such an extraordinary object on purpose or was it mere coincidence?

It’s time to tell you about the events of Pumpkin Day. The scale of preparations was enormous. Thousands of media workers flooded Slown City. The very ceremony of the pumpkin’s rapid descent was set to be broadcast to many countries with over a billion people watching it.

After the Asian gang fright, security measures were unprecedented. The colossal squash, weighing over three hundred pounds according to the official press release, was delivered to Slown Sky in a horse-drawn vehicle with transparent bulletproof glass walls. The police took no chances this time.

Slown physicists, in my opinion, miscalculated the radius of the area that would contain 99% of the pumpkin pulp after smashing: sixty yards. Based on that figure the organisers built the metal fence, encompassing the sixty-yard area, to prevent people in the crowd being killed or injured by large chunks of the exploding pumpkin.

However, the remaining surrounding area was left accessible to the public.

Finally, when all the preparations were finished, the pumpkin was placed on a platform sticking out several yards from the Slown Sky roof edge. Then the Mayor approached the gigantic ellipsoid fruit and swiftly shoved it with his foot in one impressive effort.

The very instant the pumpkin began its long-anticipated fall, a fishing net appeared from a window several floors below the roof; the net was attached to a loop-like metal frame. But the watching crowd had no time to gasp in shock at such insolence. Not only did the falling squash pass right through the catching device, leaving a hole in the net as if it were merely a cobweb, upon landing it also managed to break through the ground with a shudder.

I was watching it on TV at home and could not believe it. Instead of smashing itself to pieces, the super fruit simply disappeared into what one could most accurately describe as a very deep well.

Almost an hour later, a TV camera attached to a rope was lowered down the well. The tunnel was obviously of artificial origin and had a pencil-like shape; two yards in diameter and over a hundred yards deep. It seemed bottomless for it expanded into a cave, continuing down for another fifty yards. At last, the camera reached solid ground. And there was no sign of the pumpkin anywhere …

What happened in the next couple of days was equally weird. A group of Marines was dispatched down into the cave to explore its size, contents, etc. When they got inside and reported on the vast dimensions of the cavern, it came as no big surprise compared to the situation a few minutes later when all contact with the group was lost. Another squad of Marines was sent down several hours after the first one. They disappeared too.

The next day it was decided to fill up the cavern with water despite public protests. It took millions of gallons of water to accomplish the job. After that the tunnel was sealed off at its surface.

Within forty-eight hours all the major state security forces gathered in the city centre. The media people were ecstatic. They interviewed various officials on the progress of the investigation. No one could rationally explain the origins of the tunnel and the cave. It was universally agreed that they must have been artificially created quite recently, since the whole thing was not on the latest maps of Slown’s network of underground tunnels.

Two days after flooding the tunnel, it was decided to pump the water out and continue the cave exploration. But when the seal was removed there was found to be no water in the well. Where could it all have vanished to? Was the cave then connected to the sewers and other known tunnels? But there were no reports of floods anywhere else beneath the city.

Meanwhile, on the very day the pumpkin disappeared, the police interrogated the guys who had tried snatching the pumpkin with the net on the loop-scoop. They turned out to be members of the same Chinese gang that had been discovered several days before. Those guys were hard to crack, even with the help of a superb Mandarin interpreter. So they knew something. Therefore, it must have been the Chinese. Who else could do something like that? Maybe they did not want the tunnel to be revealed, hence the attempts to steal the pumpkin. But what were they preparing for? And did someone know about that plot and decide to warn everyone by throwing in the Pumpkin Day idea?

I honestly think that some secrets are there for a reason and need not to be disturbed. Still, I doubted the pumpkin case was one of them. And even if it was, it did not prevent me from starting my own investigation …

2 – Jake

 

He turned the page and faced the blankness. He went through the rest of the pages to no avail. The story was unfinished.

Jake had found the notebook in the park earlier that morning during his daily run. The Moleskine was on the ground underneath a bench.

He liked finding things and he now had quite a collection. Once he found an ivory netsuke in a pond when he was admiring goldfish. On another occasion, in the botanical gardens, he came across an unusual pine cone that looked like it was Siamese twins. A natural mutant, he thought.

The notebook would have been a nice addition to Jake’s collection. However, he wanted to know what happened to the pumpkin and Agie’s investigation. Since he didn’t have a clue about the owner’s identity, he put an advert in the local newspaper about his priceless find and waited.

At last he got the phone call.

“Hello!”

“Hello! I would like to talk to Jake.” It was a woman’s voice with a rich, mezzo texture.

“That’s me,” he replied.

“Hi! I noticed your ad in the newspaper. Is my scribble book in safe hands?”

“It is. But I have to make sure the notebook belongs to you.”

“Well, that’s easy. My name is Agie.”

“So?”

“So only I know how my story ends,” she replied.

They agreed to meet.

That night Jake couldn’t sleep, not because he wasn’t tired but because he felt rather unfocused. Next morning he burned the tip of his tongue with his first gulp of morning coffee; several times he started reading a newspaper article on this year’s antiques auctions, but his mind slipped off into a fuzzy dreaminess after a paragraph or two.

He called his shop to tell them he’d be staying home for the day. He felt too excited to deal with customers, who required attention and patience. A woman he’d never met before was on Jake’s mind.

There was something special about her voice. As if she’d lived a long life. Yet it was a young voice, and foreign too. It’d be too impolite to ask her about her nationality straight away. He could guess it when they met. Why was he so anxious and excited about it?

It is true that his secluded lifestyle was a consequence of a natural trait of his character to avoid people, rather than due to some personal inadequacy that could be seen as a social repellent. On the other hand, the very few friends who occasionally visited the family mansion Jake occupied on his own found him very pleasant if somewhat quiet company.

The evening was still far distant, so he reasoned that gardening would occupy him better than meditation. Jake was used to living alone since his parents died. He did not feel the need for a housekeeper though he could easily afford more than one.

Although the sun hid itself behind a milky white curtain of clouds, clearly preparing for a dazzling afternoon performance, if the weatherman could be trusted at all, Jake found the conditions ideal for weeding, trimming and ‘repotting’.

The aukuba had lost its rotund shape and was favouring the hippie style of randomly protruding new shoots. The amaryllis was too late to separate - the flower buds were already glowing red.

Jake spent most of the hour fighting the curious vines, ivy and thorny bramble, that were insolently invading his Eden from outside. The neighbour’s brownish cat from across the road paid a brief visit, most likely to inspect the garden for possible bird or rodent infestation, but departed empty-clawed in silence, refusing Jake’s kind offer of milk.

Then it was time for lunch. Jake was grazing on freshly-picked lettuce, then on an onion arrow, absent-mindedly, wrapped in serenity. He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a jar: the butternut squash soup he now looked at induced an image of a giant pumpkin in his mind. He smiled.

It began to dawn on him that, being single for too long, he missed a woman’s warmth, liveliness and laughter. And Agie seemed to be uniquely humorous. This agitation that made him restless last night was connected, as he now figured it out, to an uncertainly. What if he didn't like her? What if she didn’t like him?

The concept of a blind date wouldn’t have made him so flustered if it had not been for the personal connection Jake has already made with Agie through her story. Her appealing ironic self-awareness and lucidity of thought were rare. It was as if she didn’t expect any gifts from life anymore, yet she saw everything as a gift.

Jake didn’t ask himself quite where this portrayal of Agie was coming from; the pumpkin story was too speculative and therefore too misleading to serve as a basis for a bona fide analysis of the author’s personality. He would see when they met.

The grooming procedures he underwent were as elaborate as they could be with someone who collected antiques. After taking a shower, Jake shaved and then scrutinised his oval face in the mirror, looking for bristles that had managed to hide from the razor. Finding none, Jake beamed a test smile and sighed. It looked charming to him, but that was what a man’s smile should never be. It should be virile, to use his mother’s word.

As the evening approached Jake grew nervous again so he decided not to drive. It was a long way from here to the centre of Slown, so he called a taxi. He alighted a short distance away from the restaurant at a flower shop to buy a bunch. He walked out with red roses, but stopped after several seconds realising that he didn’t know if Agie even liked flowers in general or roses in particular. Besides, why did he assume she considered this a date at all?

He blushed when he thought about that; he gave the flowers to a passing by old lady, and quickly turned into an alley like a runaway criminal.

Jake arrived at his destination a little bit early and checked the state of the place. It was satisfactory. The restaurant was a generic chain eatery: food was clearly not a priority to Agie. He was looking around to locate the toilets when a familiar voice called his name from behind.

“You must be Jacob?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

Agie looked him in the eyes during their handshake. They sat down and, while making brief introductions, studied the menu.

“I find your pumpkin story unique and very engaging.” Jake thought it would be proper to start with a compliment. “Though I’m completely dissatisfied with the pumpkin vanishing like that.”

“Me too,” she replied.

“It seems to me you have done a lot of research for the story.”

“Not really, I’ve made it all up!”

“Isn’t that literary swindling?” he asked.

“Come on, all writers are cheats.”

“That’s not a good excuse.”

“Why not? ... Anyway, what do you do?” She started her own interrogation to his relief.

“I’m an art dealer.”

“What kind of art?”

“Old.”

“Why do you do it?” she pressed.

“I like it.”

“I mean, what is your ambition?”

“Is it necessary to have one?” he asked.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Okay, I want to open a private art museum one day.”

“There you go,” she said. “A good one. I’m only concerned that with the way the world and media are changing now, your project may become an extinct dinosaur before it even hatches.”

“I don’t need to make money out of it. It’s my passion.”

“Are you ready to order?” The sudden voice on his left startled Jake.

“We are,” Agie said and named a wine in French with a funny pronunciation.

“So, what do you think?” she asked him when the waiter had taken the orders and departed.

Jake didn’t know what she meant. Was it about this place? He wouldn’t make his judgement until he finished eating. Was it about her? Agie looked beautiful, not on the stunning or sexy side that would have made him behave awkwardly, but in a charismatic way. He thought a part of her beauty came from the look of confidence and intelligence in her eyes.

“About the story?” he finally asked.

“No, about me.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But do you like the way I look?” she laughed. It was a game for her. Thank God he hadn’t brought the flowers; that would have definitely given away his intentions.

“Let me tell you later, okay?” He leaned down and took out the notebook from his bag. “I guess this is yours.”

Agie smiled, drinking her wine, and thanked him for saving her masterpiece. She said she didn’t have another copy, only a blueprint in her brain. Alas, her memory was like a sieve. She said it like a coquette, so he didn’t believe a word of it. He felt she was interested in him, but he could not work out in what way. She seemed fearlessly straightforward in her social conduct, but that could also be her foreign mentality. She had a trace of a Central European accent.

 The food arrived. Agie was having fish to match her white wine, the fish with a South American name, or was it Latin (could she be Argentinian?), and he got a steak to match his red. Along with his appetite, a fresh idea about how to find out Agie’s ethnic roots struck him.

“You seem to have an ironic and conversational writing style,” he said. “What books have you been influenced by?”

“All of them. You can tell which books you liked the most, which thrilled you the most, or made you cry. You can forget some books, but it’s hard to say what leaves a mark on you and how big that mark is. You can make assumptions though. I guess you need some examples. Well, Roald Dahl and Mark Twain, then. I like their stories for the relentless humour in dissecting us and showing us our true nature better than any psychoanalysis. You see, the latter tends to overcomplicate and gives us false threads to follow until we are lost.  Psychological prose is misleading through its vague definitions, and it relies too much on interpreting emotions, which can’t serve us any good.”

“Maybe it’s not misleading, just lengthy,” he suggested.

“Brevity helps clarity,” she replied and went on. “I like the simplicity of prose, even elaborate simplicity. I leave the page-long sentences for my dinner parties with bohemia. They mix well with alcohol and seduction. What do you think?”

“It makes sense.” Jake pretended he was busy with steak, but meanwhile he thought about the next thing to ask her.

After consuming a few pieces, Agie lost interest in the fish and focused on her wine. She appeared to be as much of a drinker as a talker. She took out a small mirror and a palette of eye shadows from the organic-looking cotton shoulder bag to correct her make-up, not that he’d noticed she was wearing any.

“And what did you read as a child?” he probed her again.

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes as if having guessed his motive.

“You know Jake, you’re very inquisitive about books. But surely you don’t want me to keep talking all evening. Tell me something about yourself. Pretend I’m a writer gathering some info. Who was your first love?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise to tell me about your favourite children’s book.”

“Okay. Cippollino,” she said.

“Sorry, what?”

“It’s an Italian children’s book.”

“Never heard of it,” he admitted. “Are you Italian?”

“No,” she replied. “And you promised to answer my question.”

Agie definitely knew how to converse. As a man of his word, Jake confessed to her his juvenile infatuation with a girl from the parallel class at school.

“Hmm, what a bitch, if I may be a judge,” Agie commented on his story. “I never fell in love until I became a woman.”

“I see.”

“Jacob. You can ask me anything you want. Don’t be shy.”

“Okay. What would you like for dessert?” He reasoned that a sweet and a cup of coffee should benefit Agie, though she did not seem at all drunk yet.

“Should I reply honestly?” she said and giggled. Maybe she was a little drunk after all, he thought.

“Of course, but please take your time. I need to go to the gents first, if it’s okay.”

Not that he needed to. He was afraid to be disappointed. It had happened to him before, when women tried to speed things up. He suspected Agie, considering the amount of wine she consumed, was going down the same route. Jake knew he was weak. He’d been on his own for a while now; he wouldn’t resist her. They’d end up having sex and in the morning he’d wake up indifferent and embarrassed about that. He didn’t want to insult her prosaically like that. He needed a soul mate at his age, having now outlived Byron. He relied on Agie’s tact, even if she had an alternative objective from his. A dessert wouldn’t do any harm.

He splashed some water over his face and mentally ridiculed himself for overanalysing a simple date. When he got back, Agie was drinking coffee. This woman had a fantastic bladder. Jake decided to be basic from now on.

“I haven’t asked you where you are from originally. Your accent is intriguing.”

“I’m Russian,” she replied.

“Oh, that’s a surprise,” he said.

“Why?”

“You haven’t mentioned a Russian book once, and I know your countrymen are very proud of their literature.”

“I’m proud too. But, like you, I try to come across as less obvious. Just a pose; I need to work on it,” she gave a laugh and removed her cappuccino moustache with her index finger.

“I guess regardless of upbringing or nationality, bookish people are similar.”

“Always in character,” she added. “Up to a degree when it becomes boring.”

“No, you’re very interesting.”

“Now you sound boring,” Agie said and leaned back as if provoking him.

“So you don’t like me?” he said and made a theatrical grimace of taking offence.

“On the contrary, Jacob, you’re ridiculously attractive and intelligent, and that’s why I have to be hard on you.”

She put her elbows on the table and pressed her palms together like a meditating monk. “Before I go home, you have to tell me the most shocking thing you know about yourself.”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“I’ll tell you about mine.”

“Okay.” He recalled a couple of embarrassing moments in his life, but they weren’t that shocking. Was ‘shocking’ good or bad?

“Oh, come on, spit it out,” Agie insisted. She looked like she was having fun.

“I’m filthy rich.”

“Oh yeah? I guess the old art sells well. How filthy though?”

“Very.”

“You cheat. That’s nice actually. No shock here, apart from the fact that I won’t have to pay for a cab, heh?” she said and giggled.

“Your turn,” he said. He hoped she would make a joke because he didn’t want to hear something bad about her.

“I’ll write it down,” Agie told him, “then I’ll dash to the restroom. You may need some privacy.”

Jake wondered what she meant. She ripped out a sheet from her notebook, scribbled a couple of words on it and folded it in two. He didn’t know what this whole ceremony was required for. When Agie disappeared, he unfolded the paper and saw five letters:

I AM XY.

The moment Jake understood it, blood rushed to his head and he uttered a swearword. He took cash out from his wallet and put it on the table. Then he grabbed his bag and walked out of the restaurant. It was already dark so no one would care if he started crying to soothe his embarrassment. It was so stupid. And unfair.

The bitter irony was that he no longer needed to worry about getting a taxi straight back to his place, alone. He swore again out loud.

 

Next morning, Jake was going through his bag and found a printout, with a title on the cover sheet: Pumpkin Day Continues. He stared at it indecisively feeling the urge to throw it away, but his curious nature was stronger than his masculine pride.

 

3 – Agie

 

I’m seriously considering killing Jess right now. I mean she’s a nice girl and all, but the kind of guys she hangs around with. Scum!

She said that she had a friend who knows this stuff. Oh yeah, in theory. Pablo introduced himself as an expert ’digger’. He said he ‘digs it’ well. He surely does when it comes to dungeon-themed computer games. He gave me what I now realise was a clearly fictional map of Slown’s underground tunnel network.

I wrote down a list of required equipment and gadgets and he told me he was going to show me how to orienteer through the tunnels.

Who knew this Pablo just wanted a piece of me?

The bugger ran away when I told him that my boobs were only done last year and that I used to have a dick. Oops! I call things their names; and that’s it, no offence meant, but it disagreed with him all the same.

So to prove my own point once again on how unreliable people are, I’m here, lost in total darkness, ankle-deep in shit. Well, at least I’m dressed appropriately. This waterproof onesie makes me look like a cosmonaut, but it does its job.

I’ve bought this hand-press torch. It’s not very bright and it’s noisy, but at least I’m not moving like a mole and I might soon acquire a very useful skill for a bartender. I’ve got another torch, a proper one, which I’m saving for later.

I haven’t used the rope yet. I dread to even think about having to choose which level to go for when the tunnels start branching out vertically. So far, it’s been flat, but I don’t know how far below the surface I am. I have a compass and a pedometer and I have been sketching my own map, which is slowing me down. You try fiddling with a pencil, a notebook and a torch at the same time. Still, I’m glad that my scientific background has finally found its use.

I think I sound whiny dictating this adventure memoir-noir for those who may discover my remains here one day. But not before I figure out where the bloody pumpkin has gone.

Yes, I am aware this bitching is just a way to conceal my excitement. Here I am, underground. The maps are bollocks of course, and that I should have anticipated too. I don’t think I’m Slown’s first amateur digger; its first explorer of the forbidden subterranean world. I haven’t seen much here so far, no rats. Even though I’m documenting everything on my pendant voice recorder, it’s a shame I can’t film anything in this darkness. An infrared camcorder would be superb, but I’d need to rob a secret services lab to get it.

It’s been nearly three and a half hours since I got here and parted with Pablo. By now I should be right below the pumpkin-swallowing hole according to my calculations, but it’s not that straightforward. The error in my measurements is quite substantial; it wouldn’t be the case if I cared to get a digital compass. At least I’m not as dump (sic!) as Pablo who brought me a GPS tracker and said that it could update the location whenever we saw the next utility hole. To my justification I shall add that he only told me that when we were already on our way down. Still, I stashed the device into my bag, just in case.

One problem is that even if I’m exactly where I should be, I’m probably not deep enough. The cavern under the pumpkin tunnel should start around a hundred yards below the pavement, and I’m at around twenty to thirty yards, I think. There must be a way to go down.

Okay, here’s another fork, which I wall-mark with a piece of chalk.  It’s beginning to smell different here, something chemical, and the sewage water looks foamy. But it doesn’t look like a biological dump. I think it’s still a storm water runoff, maybe combined with treated sewage.

I’m really sleepy by now. I glance at my watch and it’s 8.20 am. I consider making a stop to have a drink (I brought a bottle of water with me), but the place isn’t inspiring. I keep moving on in a zombie-like state until I’m rewarded for my persistence: I can hear a noise of running sewage, which boosts my vigour, so I walk towards the source of the sound and stumble upon a water slide. Well, not quite the sort in a holiday park.

The tunnel expands into a small hall. There’s a pair of drainpipes above my head with their ends open and the sewage is coming out from there into a brick-laden gutter, which goes down at a scary angle of about sixty degrees. Clearly the whole thing is ancient, probably from the time of the Industrial Revolution. I don’t know where the gutter leads to, but I assume that there should be enough air down there for the water to stream through like that. There’s probably a collection pool and then more pipes throwing the effluent into the river. That’s how I assume they did it in the nineteenth century.

I stuff everything into my backpack, apart from the torch, put on my snorkeling mask and slide down on my ass.

I think I may have just shit myself, but luckily there are no witnesses around if I did. After about twenty seconds of what can only be described as an adrenaline rush free-fall moment, I end up in a pool, which is disappointingly shallow, just above my knees when I stand up, but I’ve made a mental note to exaggerate its depth in my memoirs.

So, now I am facing a round concrete tunnel. It appears to be modern, with a diameter well exceeding my height, and I can see light at its end. I run like crazy, splashing the water, and after a few hundred yards I reach the opening. There’s no river here. It’s a construction site.

I must be looking like a nutcase-living-in-the-dumpster at the moment. I take off my mask completely and breathe in full lungs of air. Forget about the sexually attractive woman you were yesterday, Agie. That will make it bearable.

It is just past 9 am, and the sunshine is amazing. I descend to the dried clay ground in order to wash myself somewhere. At least my hands. The site is desolate, probably because it’s Saturday. I barge into the nearest cabin on which it says Adajing Build Ltd. I look around me: no filing cabinets, no safety posters, no water cooler, just a small sink, plastic chairs and a bare table. It’s too clean and tidy inside, like no one ever used it. But then, what do I know about building work? The tap is operational though, to my luck, so I can wash off the stink. I kill my water bottle in five seconds and refill it twice.

Life seems good once again. I take out bags of crisps and nuts from my backpack and polish them off. Life is even better now. I go out into the sun and lay on the giant mound of sand pretending I’m on a beach holiday.

The whole night has been wasted: no pumpkin found. Not even that cavern underneath the Hole. What do I do now?

I first identify where I am using Pablo’s GPS tracker. It dawns on me that I’m at the construction site of the new Adajing embassy. The Hole should be slightly less than a mile north of me. So, the concrete tunnel I came out from should lead towards the cave I’m looking for. I check my scribbly map to locate the brick gutter; it’s somewhere close to the Hole but I don’t know how deep it is.

I use the altitude function on the tracker. I’m eight yards below sea level now, so here the tunnel starts about two yards below. I check the altitude at the site of the Hole spot in the city centre, which is on the hill, and that is about a hundred and eight yards above sea level. That should be about right.

Though it’s nice sun bathing, the sooner I’m done with my little affair the better. So, I reluctantly climb back into the tunnel and vanish into the darkness. Yep, as I expected after thirteen hundred yards I reach the end of it. Bizarrely, a round metal door, like that of a bank vault, is protecting the exit. I swing it open.

I walk into a cave, hopefully the right one. It’s massive; I can’t see the other end of it, even when I use my proper torch. It’s flooded, almost up to my knees, and the floor is uneven so I tread carefully. There are big wooden boxes, dozens of them in several piles. I start to try and open one of them but then I hear voices. I freeze on the spot to avoid any further splashing of water, switch off the torch and wait. The voices are talking in a language I have never heard before, but they sound a bit angry. I wait. I see a light scanning the cave and I spot the Hole’s tunnel in the middle of the cave now. Bingo! I can’t see their faces, but it appears there are only two people. I wait till they disappear and decide to find out where they came from.

I slowly move around the boxes, trying not to make any noise. I can’t see anything so I take every step with caution. I can’t betray myself with the light. Finally, I touch the uneven stony surface on my left and keep moving forward. I can now see a dimly lit tunnel ahead of me, so I stop and think what to do next. Suddenly I’m struck with a jolt of pain at the back of my head (caused by a blunt, solid object rather than a rush of ideas) and I slip into unconsciousness.

4 – Jake

 

Shame is a strange feeling, especially when it’s not a result of public embarrassment but rather of failure to follow one’s own moral standards. This type of shame is an indicator of good character: of a person seeking self-improvement. Yet simply feeling shame doesn’t always lead to improving one’s behaviour. The latter requires strength, and strength had never been his forte.

Jake didn’t know what to make of the situation. It was almost a certainty now that Agie was a male-to-female transsexual. Jake knew he wouldn’t have found out so soon if she hadn’t confessed it herself. He hated to admit it but he was attracted to her. However, there was prejudice, which fed his fear of liking someone who was a transsexual.

It wasn’t Agie’s fault he reacted like that. They met because of the notebook. It wasn’t a date although it’s true she flirted with him. It was a normal thing for a woman. And she was honest about who she was.

He should apologize. He was no sexist after all. But how? And what to say? And what is the meaning of her secretly leaving the pumpkin story in his bag? Did she anticipate his reaction?

Jake tried calling her repeatedly, but each time he would only hear the answering machine. Maybe she was out of town. At last he gave up and left her a message apologizing for his impulsive behaviour and asking if it would be possible for them to meet again so he could give back the new part of the story and also explain himself better.

After the call he felt content. There was a sudden surge of energy inside him, breaking out from his calm composure. He changed into his jogging kit and went for his daily run. The plan was the usual: he would cross the residential areas and get to the park, where he could do squats, sit-ups and crunches and then rest on the grass.

On the way he thought of Agie. What future would he have with her? Would this end the same way as it did with his ex-partner Pam, who left Jake because she was “bored to depression” with him. Was he boring in her eyes only or in general?

If someone wasn’t interested in the buzzing world of tabloids, but rather in contemplation and serenity, nature and good old books - was that boring?

Maybe he seemed boring because he liked to listen to people more than talk himself. That quality could irritate them, for they would feel egocentric and superficial in their blabbering in front of such an attentive and silent audience.

Although he was frustrated with Pam leaving, he knew it was for the best. Time passed and passed and Jake was ready for someone else. And, however banal it may sound, his shyness that caused his lack of initiative was a major impediment to his happiness.

Jake had almost reached the park when, to his displeasure, it started raining. He stopped at the pedestrian crossing to get to the park corner on the other side of the road. Looking at the cars passing by, he saw Agie. She was across the road, standing still and holding an open umbrella. Their eyes met. Her face looked pale and serious, so Jake smiled reassuringly. She smiled back. He didn’t mind getting drenched now.

The traffic lights turned green.

 

5 – Agie

 

“One sin! One sin!” That’s what I hear and it’s loud. Or maybe it’s more like “Juan thing”.

I open my eyes slowly, because I feel like someone who has been drinking non-stop for a whole week while being chained to a high-end speaker emitting hard rock music at top volume. Sorry for the cheap metaphor; I’ll edit it out later. Now I’m really nauseous and my headache is colossal.

I see a bunch of curious Asian faces in front of me.

“Please, someone, give me a painkiller.”

“You’ve got a good skull, lady,” one of them says.

“That’s no reason to shout that ‘Juan thing’ at my ear,” I reply. I still don’t realise where I am. I’m too busy dealing with my wretched state.

Someone shouts again, an order presumably, in a high-pitched voice.

“Please, accept my apologies. The guard just let me know that you’ve regained consciousness. He didn’t mean to shout.”

“I forgive you. Now give me some aspirin.”

“That is a stomach poison, lady. We have something better.” I can see hands moving towards me, and ... a wet cloth smelling of mint is now covering my head.

“What is this?” I enquire.

“It’s traditional medicine. It’s a plant extract containing herbs similar to sage.”

“I see. Thanks.” I breathe out feebly. In reality I’m not that destroyed, but it won’t hurt if I pretend being weaker than I actually am. I don’t know if it’s a cool liquid or a drug but it works. I make a mental note to get a menthol stick for migraines next time I stop by at a pharmacy.

“Feeling better?” the same guy has a nerve to ask me. He must be the chief.

I nod and say, “A little, but don’t expect me to run a mile now.”

He laughs. “I’d like to see that.”

Speaking of being chained to a sound system, it turns out the bastards have handcuffed and even anklecuffed me, if there’s such a word. Seriously, like it wasn’t enough to hit me on the head?

“Who are you?” I ask.

“No, ladies first. Please tell us what you were looking for in here,” the chief says.

“I was doing research.”

“Oh yeah? What is it about?”

It takes me a couple of moments to make up a bogus answer. “Sub-terrestrial annelids. They’re a type of worm.”

“Found any?”

“Yes, but nothing new so far.”

“And do you keep records?”

I bite my lip. They must have searched my bag and found the notebook.

“Sometimes.”

“I hope your research is better than your drawings,” he comments, and shows me my map with the Hole clearly designated on it.

“I hope so too,” I reply. “Can you uncuff me? Please?”

“No.” He looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and doubt, as if deciding what to do with me.

“That’s not the way to treat a lady,” I say.

“Sorry, but I can’t risk doing that now. I promise I’ll release you at some point provided you don’t behave foolishly.”

I think he’s showing me he’s not a monster yet he’s warning me he’s not a pansy either. His politeness may be a cultural code. I should tread carefully.

“What is your name?”

“Agie.” I decide that telling him my real name is okay.

“Lovely name. Listen, Agie, I don’t have a lot of time, so tell me honestly what you are doing here.”

“Looking for the pumpkin.”

“What for?”

“The Mayor’s prize. And what about you, Adajing?” I bite my lip. Agie! I curse myself in my mind. That’s not what you would call treading carefully.

“So you know who we are?”

“Yes, I saw the building site. How did you manage to get all the permissions? Did you build the tunnels and dig out this cave too?”

“No, the cave is natural.”

“Where is the pumpkin?” I ask.

“We ate it,” he says, to my surprise. “But you’re not really looking for it, are you copper?”

“Excuse me! I’m not from the police,” I say, sounding offended. “I told you, I’m a bounty hunter. And a researcher. Haven’t you found my university staff card in the bag?”

“How do I know it’s real?”

“Check my bloody publications.”

“They could be a cover-up.”

“Come on, the police aren’t that complicated. And they’d be a lot more resourceful had they decided to sniff around here, don’t you think?” I have forgotten that I was supposed to pretend to be a weak ewe. Damn. On the good side, the mint compress has done wonders.

I assume only the chief speaks English, that’s why the others remain silent, apart from that weird “Juan thing”. The chief looks at me with the same neutral smile. I reckon that asking questions won’t get me far, so I decide to make some bold assumptions and maybe even throw in some offensive generalisations. Agent provocateur.

“I’m curious,” I say thoughtfully.

“Indeed, you are, lady.”

“No, I mean you’ve clearly invested a lot of money into your venture. The whole thing doesn’t look to me like a terrorist plot. Those guys aren’t this creative. Besides, you are from Eastern Asia and not into religious disputes. You’re quite materialistic. Money, prosperity. You’re after something valuable.”

“Go on,” he says and smiles wider, which I think means I’m on the right track.

“You may have knowledge of bank vault security systems, considering that door you’ve installed on this end of the tunnel. So, your prize is in a vault. But it can’t be cash because that can be tracked. So, could it be radioactive or precious metals or ... stones?”

“You’re not very smart, Agie. Knowing too much makes you dangerous to me, so I can’t let you go.”

“I know. I’m not smart enough to crack your plot either. I’m missing information. The city is full of police now, so sooner or later they’re going to deal with the Hole and they’ll find you, even if the previous teams failed. What happened to them?”

“You drowned them with all that water.”

“That’s a shame,” I say calmly though my heart starts beating crazily. “How did you manage to escape?”

“We closed the door behind us. And then, a day after, we opened it again. It’s remotely controlled. It took us that long to build a diverting aqueduct. If we hadn’t, the incoming water would have flooded the construction site.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” he replies.

“What are you going to do with the money?” I keep asking questions.

“Diamonds, you mean? The De Vjers’ headquarters are next to Slown Sky. They have a major depository of rough stones inside that building.”

“You’ve spent millions to prepare and implement this plan merely to get some diamonds? Is it going to pay off? Or it’s just a rich man’s caprice?”

“You don’t understand. I’ve invested a lot of money into it but the diamonds are worth almost a hundred times that.”

“So greedy!” I say with as much contempt in my voice as an arts school drop-out could ever master. “Another Asian tycoon who wants to elevate himself even further above his poor compatriots. That’s pathetic.”

“You talk too much, lady,” he says coldly and his eyes are glistening with menace now. “I work for the Adajing government, not for myself. You Europeans robbed our lands for too long. You think about other people in a similar vein. You invented greed. In Asia many people still believe in the communal good, but in Europe it is all about being selfish. It’s the me, me, me culture. This has nothing to do with me, or greed. Adajing needs money to modernise. But investors are not too keen. They say we’re not competitive enough with our technologies.”

“But you still plan to rob De Vjers?” I ask, seeing a flaw in his logic.

“Yes, but is it their money? I guess I can tell you this. The depository I’m talking about is doing some dirty dealing. Yes, don’t look at me like that. I can assure you those stones are not on the company’s official records. They smuggle them in and then distribute them on the black market. Now tell me who’s greedy?”

“Okay, fair enough. I’m Russian by origin, so I can relate to that. Russian governments together with western firms and banks have been robbing my people for decades. You’ve got a good cause. Sorry I was rude to you.”

“I’m glad you understand now,” he nods.

“Still, I wouldn’t recommend doing it. The city is full of coppers, as you call them.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan. Going to make some big noise.”

“You already have. Think about the dead special forces.”

“Not my doing.”

“So you’re not going to kill more people?” I ask.

“Time is up,” he says looking at his watch.

He snaps repeatedly at his team in Adajing and they start filing out from the dungeon space we are in.

“I need to go now. Be patient. I’m leaving Xiao with you; he doesn’t speak English but understands basic words. And don’t worry, death is inevitable. Still, I’ll try my best. Do svidaniya, tovarishch!” he adds in Russian and goes away.

I cringe at such a bad spy movie moment. Despite this, I must admit I’ve started liking this man, even though I disagree with his methods. The rogue company must be dragged to court, not robbed.

My guard looks younger than the chief, probably in his early twenties. His big eyes that blink all the time start annoying me. So, I look elsewhere. Oil lamps light the cavern space and I can see there are more boxes here. They’re the same kind I saw in the big cave under the Hole. I wonder what’s in them.

There is almost no sign of flooding here, apart from several small puddles.

At the moment, I’m sitting on the cold, wet ground. My arse is already half-frozen, and the onesie’s fabric is not protecting me anymore. Great! One more thing to worry about on top of all the others.

The guard walks out suddenly (probably he needs the toilet) and I evaluate my restraints. There’s a cold rock behind me, and my hands, locked together and covering the small of my back, start probing its surface for a sharp ridge to grind against. I try to think of a plan of escape, but I’m distracted by the guard who brings me some water. I down the whole metal jug in just few power gulps, look at the Adajing and thank him. How am I supposed to run away if I’m being treated so nicely?

As if answering my question Mother Nature comes to my rescue in a rather inelegant way. There is a noise close by; probably a mouse is doing its shopping in the garbage. The Adajing takes the lamp and walks towards the source. Next thing I see is his dark figure suddenly slipping on the ground, falling and dropping the lamp, which shatters. The kerosene leaks out and bursts into flames. A curse leaves my mouth while I glance at the wooden boxes next to the flames.

Xiao doesn’t look like he’ll be moving any time soon. Could that be it? A sharp sensation of joy overwhelms me. I can’t help it even though I know it’s immoral to rejoice at someone else’s misfortune.

I lift my arse up slightly to drag my cuffed hands forward. Once they are under my legs, I draw my knees up to my chin and then put my feet through the locked arm ring. I can stand up now, so I trot quickly like a geisha towards the flames. I don’t see anything around that will help me to extinguish the fire.

I remember there is a bobby pin in my hair. I take it out and start fiddling with the handcuffs. Seconds seem to last an eternity. Finally I unlock my hands and then unchain my ankles. I slip off my onesie, which is still wet, and use it as a fire-fighting blanket.

Needless to say, I win the fight. I’m exhausted but relieved. And now I have nothing to wear apart from my top and my black lycra leggings. Reluctantly I put the onesie back on; it smells terrific.

I grab another lamp to inspect the Adajing’s body. There’s no traceable pulse. He’s dead.

What a shame; he was so young and polite. I look at him and memories of the past suddenly flood in. Why can’t men simply look where they step?

I shrug it off and get busy with one of the boxes. When the cover comes off with a crackling sound, I see tightly packed bags inside. I take out one of them. It weighs about two pounds and is filled with a greyish powder, as far as I can judge under this illumination. I go through several other boxes and it’s all the same. The powder. I wonder what it is? I place one of the packets in my rucksack, which I found next to my captivity spot. I’ll analyze the powder in the lab if I manage to escape from here. I take a lamp to find my way out when I spot the strangest thing that killed the man.

 

6 – Jake

 

“… and after my parents’ funeral, when all the guests had gone, and close family friends made me promise that I was going to be all right and then left too, I stayed alone in the house for days. I was crushed by apathy, thinking that I would have been happy on my own a few years earlier, in my teens, and feeling guilty about that and hating the damned accident which took them away.”

Jake had been talking for several minutes now and was unable to stop because he feared what Agie had to say. He couldn’t remember the last time he gave such a lengthy monologue, and while he was speaking he kept wondering at his own verbal accomplishment. It was an impromptu confession; an instinctive urge to tell his story to someone he believed he could trust. In return he secretly hoped to deserve her trust and forgiveness.

It had all started well. When he met Agie at the traffic lights, she didn’t walk away. She expressed her concern over the possibility of him getting a chill and suggested they go to a bistro nearby, where they could talk and he could dry out a bit. She mentioned receiving his voicemail and assured him she held no grudge. She said it with such a neutral tone that it was unclear to him if she meant it or not.

Agie was now looking at him with a strange expression, showing with slight nods that she’d been listening. There was also this barely visible smile on her face that he couldn’t comprehend. It was hard to say whether she was indifferent, upset or that she’d forgiven him. He knew she could be extroverted and openly passionate, but now she was impenetrable, in full control of her emotions. Only this little smile.

 “Are you smiling, Agie?” he finally asked.

“Sorry, Jake, I didn’t mean to be impolite. It’s just you are like a book narrator. It’s extremely funny. People don’t talk like this nowadays, you know, in long sentences with participles. You must be reading lots of old books.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered conspiratorially.

“Why not? I may sell your secret to someone.” She made a money gesture with her fingers.

Jake realised that the ice had been broken.

“I’m so eager to learn about the things you encountered in the dungeon,” he said, speaking of the pumpkin story.

“Eager. Encountered,” she giggled with joy. “That’s what I’ve been talking about.”

 

7 – Agie

 

Something disgusting that looks like a snake is smudged over the ground. I lean closer and see a piece of a giant worm. Xiao must have stepped and slipped on it like banana peel. I look at the animal’s head and reconsider. It has a pair of external gills the size of a penny protruding from the sides. The head and neck are about an inch and a half in diameter. I go through my zoology course memory file in my mind and decide that the creature is a caecilian species: a snake-like limbless relative of frogs and salamanders. I have no idea what the heck it is doing in this part of the world.

Next I inspect the garbage: it is full of the remains of a squash. It could be the pumpkin I was looking for. Then I see the slimy body of another caecilian, which is eating something. Could it be a cockroach? Eeuwww! I carefully lift some of the pumpkin remains and stumble upon two more gilled amphibians. There must be a whole population here. Really weird.

My captors could return any time now. I pick up the remains of the squished caecilian, place it into a mug I find nearby and take it with me.

Where should I go? I switch on my proper torch to make my prison break easier. On my way, as excited as I am, I think about what to do next. Should I contact the police? Would they think I’m crazy?

After passing through the flooded cave, I reach the tunnel. The vault door guarding its entrance is still open and I run outside as fast as I can. Luckily the construction site is still desolate. It’s late afternoon. Still sunny.

A crazy idea pops into my head when I see the excavator. I get inside the cab and turn the ignition key. I never operated anything like it before, but it’s not rocket science or molecular biology for that matter. I crush the ground, which looks like a mix of clay and sand, with the bucket then move it towards the tunnel’s opening and drop the scoopful there. I repeat the process several times until the entrance is properly buried. This should delay, if not stop, the Adajings.

I climb over the fence that surrounds the site and rush to the nearest phone box to inform the police.

The dispatcher is dumb; when I finish describing where I am and what happened she says the police have no time for jokes.

I press that it’s not a joke.

“I’m sorry, but can’t you understand that right now we are busy with the explosions?”

“What explosions?”

“Don’t you watch television?” she replies. “The central market...”

The line goes dead. I have run out of money.

Damn!

I manage to stop a taxi, and that wasn’t an easy feat considering my look and smell. The driver looks hesitant, but I show him the money straightaway and tell him to get me to the police immediately. And that’s how I almost end up being imprisoned again. Shouldn’t I have been more sensible?

Imagine a woman bursting into the police station looking like a caffeine-addicted racecar mechanic, smelling like a fart, and demanding to see a chief inspector. How would you react to that? It didn’t help me that I couldn’t tell my story chronologically and cohesively, since I was in a hurry, and that I also showed the amphibian head to the policeman at the reception desk. The guy looked at it like a bewildered toddler; he was clearly fresh from the academy.

He was already unhappy with me for banging with my fists on the glass door while he was on the phone. His patience ran out when I showed him my trophy bag with the powder. The bastard invited me to the waiting room, his euphemism for detention cell, I suspect. I declined and stormed off from there as a precaution, cursing.

What do I do now? Think, Agie!

I decide to go home. What would you do? I need a shower and a change of clothes at least. I’ve informed the police. It’s not my fault they’re deaf.

I try to minimise touching things in the flat when I’m in. I go straight to the kitchen and put the caecilian remains in the freezer. Then I run to the bathroom and start a thorough self-disinfection. Hygiene is the first step towards contentment.

My thoughts are busy working on a plan of action. How do I stop the Adajings? Is it too late? Do I even need to stop them?

After a quick bath, I relax on the sofa in the living room and fall asleep. While recovering from my exhausting adventures I miss all the action.

A phone call wakes me up. It’s my lab assistant, Gill; she speaks with the speed and persistence of a jammed machine gun. Apparently, I was just on the news. Someone in the police leaked the footage of me verbally assaulting the policeman, though I’m more worried about my dreadful look going out on TV. Gill is not joking – I know she takes fame and television far too seriously.

 I pinch my cheek as a reality check. It doesn’t help. Gill keeps buzzing. She tells me amongst other things that most of the gang members have been caught. The police actually listened to my story and sent out some forces to the tunnel. There’s also something about the explosions linked to the Adajings, but my mind is not recovered enough yet to follow someone crackling like a gamma counter dropped inside a nuclear reactor. But Gill goes on mercilessly, now about a huge fire underground they are trying to put out.

“Oh no! The caecilians!” I exclaim when she mentions that.

She says, “What? No, Agie, they’re not Sicilians, they’re Adajings.”

“Gill, I need to go now,” I say and hang up.

What a mess I’ve made! The drowsiness is gone now and I realise my situation requires prompt action. I start scribbling down things in my notebook to build a plan. Firstly, I may be accused of murdering that poor guy Xiao. Secondly, De Vjers won’t be happy if they find out I know about their secret stash of diamonds. Thirdly, there might be a threat from the Adajings who haven’t been caught yet. I can’t go back to the police as they will probably lock me up. I need to make sure everyone knows about the evidence so they can’t hide or destroy it.

But what kind of evidence do I have apart from the amphibian’s head and the powder? I recall now that the chief scrutinized my university card; his fingerprints must be all over it. I spill the contents out of my backpack and find the card, which I carefully put back in. I take my pendant voice recorder to copy the files to my computer, just in case it is confiscated as evidence. The last file is enormous: I click on it and it looks like it has recorded for four and half hours. I rewind it and press play. It’s a gift from above. Apparently, the recorder had been working non-stop until it ran out of batteries. My conversation with the Adajing chief was recorded and so was Xiao’s fall and my escape, right up until the moment of me running across the tunnel. Now that is evidence aching for publicity!

I think about Leticia who interviewed me on TV three years ago. I figure if she was so keen on my specific medical case then, she will be interested in the current state of things. But her card, like many others, is Agie-typically-lost. I reproach myself while searching for Leticia on the Internet.

Got it. I copy her e-mail and go to my mailbox.

It’s clogged with new messages. Most of them are from Jess and Gill, one is from my boss and a surprising bundle of them from Leticia all sent out a few minutes ago.

*

Dear Agie,

Perhaps you remember me. I did a programme on your ushpin-based gene therapy and your relationship with Ben. I just saw you on the news. May I chat with you in the studio about the latest events? Please. It’d be so great.

E-mail me.

Leticia

*

Agie, I found your number and tried calling you but no luck so far. I hope you’re all right.

L

*

Agie, I’m on my way to your place. I called your lab and your colleague Gillian was kind enough to give me your address. Hope that’s okay. She said she talked to you a few moments ago and told me you were about to leave. Please, don’t leave the house yet and wait for me, I’ll keep ringing you. I hope you’re all right. I’m bringing the cameraman with me.

 

I frown and go to check my phone: it’s beeping intermittently. I didn’t hang it up properly after talking to Gill, so Leticia couldn’t reach me.

The door buzzer makes me jump. It must be her. The phone starts ringing at exactly the same time as I open the door – and face the chief of the Adajing gang holding a knife.

“Crap” is the only word that comes into my mind before he attacks me. After that, instinct takes over. I bash the door at him as he tries to burst in and stab me. I give up and run inside the living room, grab a chair and take a defensive stance. He stops for a moment, preparing for a new strike, so I shout, “What do you want from me?”

He smiles but remains silent. I then try some clumsy fencing moves, which he deflects easily while keeping a short distance from me. I throw the chair at him, but I miss and it smashes the window. I run to the bathroom and try to lock myself in. He kicks the door, preventing me from latching it, and gets his body halfway through before I can throw a towel on him and grab and twist his wrist with my both hands. He shouts something in pain and the knife drops to the floor. He forces me in and slaps my face with a free hand. I jerk backwards and lose my balance and we both fall in the bathtub. I hurt my left knee aiming at his balls but clearly hitting his belt buckle instead. He tries to strangle me, but I stop his hands with mine and punch him in the face with my left elbow. Then we arm-wrestle in that awkward position for what seems like hours.

“You will die for Xiao,” he hisses.

My strength is fading fast when I hear another voice. “What’s going on here?”

The Adajing turns away from me, jumps out  of the bath and races from the bathroom. I hear a weirdly synthetic sound followed by the thud of a falling body. I take a peek from the tub and see Leticia holding a Taser and looking unblinkingly at the body. She then turns to me.

“Are you all right, Agie?”

“Yes,” I exhale. “I am now.”

She hides the Taser in her handbag.

“You know, honey, you should pick up your phone sometimes.”

”You don’t say,” I reply and we both burst out laughing.

 

***

 

This week seems like the longest one in my life. Endless chats with the media and the police. Me, Adajing and De Vjers in the news. What is most annoying is that I failed to uncover the origin of the Pumpkin Day idea. It could only have come from an insider amongst the Adajings. But whom?

As for other puzzles, the powder I found in the cave was a pyrogenic mix based on potassium nitrate. But the water flood made it impossible for the Adajings to use it. The fire they started with it didn’t last for long.

The caecilians were also found in other parts of the sewers and are now a big attraction in Slown Zoo. No one has any idea where these creatures came from. At least kids can now be taught about evolutionary convergence and not just with the overused parallels between sharks and dolphins …

Considering all these events I find it strange that the biggest thing on my mind remains the sight of Xiao’s body.

Of Ben’s dead body.

It’s been over three years since the accident happened and Ben died. I have lost Ben but I’ve grown in confidence. I have breasts now. I thought I’d recovered. But it could simply be that I buried my anguish deep inside me.

As if love could be buried.

I look at Ben’s photograph on the dresser table. His face stays youthful; mine is decaying. Yet I imagine myself unchanged next to him.

Illusions of the mind …

The new Moleskine I open now is like a new chapter of my life.

No, it’s the way to close the last one with a new story.

I write down the title – Pumpkin Day.

Hopefully it will be different, merry and absurd, like me.

My flat lacks the right mood for writing, so I go to the park and find a bench to sit on. The greenery around me is thriving. No matter what’s happening in the world, it’s flourishing because it’s summer time.

I inhale a lungful of air filled with plant aromas and let it out slowly, then repeat it again and again ... until my head starts buzzing slightly. Then I turn my eyes to the blank checkered page, metaphorically detach an ostrich quill from my pink boa, dip the sharp tip into the mascara tube of my thoughts, and, magically, the story begins ...

 

8 – Jake

 

They were at her apartment. Jake lay comfortably on the sofa, while Agie was busy frying steak in the kitchen.

He finished reading and wondered about that fellow Ben. He resolved not to ask about him for it seemed that her recollection of Ben was a delicate topic. She hadn't touched on it once in their conversations.

”Agie, I think there’s a hole in the plot of your story,” he shouted.

”What?”

She approached him wearing an apron. “A plot hole?” she asked accusingly and pointed the spatula she was holding at him like a dagger. “How dare you! I don’t have any plot holes, thank you very much!”

“What about the fact that we never learn where the Pumpkin Day concept came from?”

“Ah that,” she replied in a dismissing tone. “That is not a plot hole; that is an unresolved mystery. Speaking poetically. It’s a matter of speculation as to how Slown City Council came up with the pumpkin idea. Maybe someone prominent in the Adajing ruling circle opposed the diamond plan and devised a counter-measure. I just can’t imagine this to have been a coincidence.”

“You talk about it like it actually happened,” Jake commented.

“But what is reality if it’s not another illusion? The rules and values of our civilisation don’t preclude alternative interpretations. So one is free to take any illusion for reality and vice versa,” she said.

“Am I under an illusion or is something really burning in the kitchen?” Jake smiled.

“Damn!” she swore and hurried back to the kitchen where she promptly emitted stronger expletives. And Jake reflected that, at last, he wasn’t feeling lonely anymore.

 

 

 

 

***

About the Author

 

Grigory Ryzhakov is a Russian molecular biologist and speculative fiction writer living in the UK.

To connect with Grigory, please visit his blog at http://www.ryzhakov.co.uk

Twitter: @GrigoryRyzhakov

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/GrigoryRyzhakov

 

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