Atom (10 page)

 

‘You want order in this world,' muttered Maddy, surveying the roomful of milling detainees, ‘there's the refrigerator.'

‘Think Atom'll come for you?' asked Kitty on the couch next to her. She was retouching her lipstick with a spraycan.

Madison concealed her surprise - she hadn't known Kitty was here. ‘There's no evil in Atom for long,' she said. ‘What is it with you and Fiasco?'

‘Kinda love-hate thing - he loves me and I hate him. Honey's harder'n Harry's heart.'

‘Eh?'

‘I said softer'n a boiled smurf. He's a dreamer but don't know it. When you're dreaming you don't know you're dreaming, right? He's a kinda hayseed?'

‘How does he see you?'

‘As somethin' I aint.'

‘That's not what I meant, honey.'

‘Uh? Oh, yuh mean how people pretend I aint there sometimes? Yeah I guess he aint so superior that way.'

‘So where'd you choose your face?'

‘This here newspaper clippin',' said Kitty, taking a frail bit of parchment from her handbag. ‘I don't recall the story but aint she classic glam?'

‘Mother!' shouted Thermidor, spotting the photo. ‘When she was young - it's the picture they printed with the obits at the end of her life!' And he exploded into sobs.

At last, about ten o'clock at night, Atom came to the door of the hotel room and was let in carrying the fishtank with the K man, Doctor DeCrow entering ahead of them.

‘So the gang's all here,' Thermidor declared, pouring a Jacad Splash at the drinks counter. ‘Don't be a stranger, Atom.'

‘Can't help that. I'm glad you're making new friends, Thermidor.' Atom saw Turow sitting morose in a corner. ‘Goin' back over, eh?'

Turow squirmed. ‘No, it was getting quite late, and ...' Then he saw DeCrow. ‘What is he doing here? Do not trust him, Mr Candyman, don't listen to anyone.'

DeCrow sneered. ‘This isn't the Candyman, you dolt. Your master left you to the birds when I popped the hood and pulled his brain - two hours after Fiasco returned from the Facility. The brain in this candy-coloured clown is Kafka's.'

‘He lied,' Turow seethed. ‘He lied to me! Even as he opened that accursed icebox!'

‘Guys, guys!' Thermidor laughed. ‘Stow it - I'm gettin' chafed in the crossfire here! I been growin' tusks gettin' us all together in one place so don't be gettin' your asses in an uproar eh? You all know me. This is the wrecking crew for tonight - Cortez the Killer.'

‘Yo,' said Cortez.

‘Sam “Sam” Bleaker.'

I am the one who is being introduced by the boss, thought Sam.

‘And Silencer.'

Silencer moved his lips without a sound.

‘If you look real hard you may detect Miss Invisible World, Kitty Stickler. Sadly a doll is warm by association only.'

‘If I weren't a lady I'd kick your teeth in.'

‘Yeah but you'd look pretty dumb in that dress. Then shivering in the corner we got Mr Turow, a gripewater. Squirtgun scared but functional.'

Turow looked wretched.

‘Joanna, a strongarm grown in a polythene tunnel.'

‘Naughty naughty,' Joanna chuckled.

‘The guy without no clothes is Taffy Atom, a joker.'

‘Boy, you know right where to pour the vinegar.'

‘The mutant fish is a bit player.'

‘Any port in a storm,' bubbled Jed.

‘The wildcat's Madison Drowner, and she's an interesting case. All I know for sure is she aint askin' anyone's approval. Take my advice you'll seek mine.'

‘You can store your advice in a cool, dry place.'

‘The lurching corpse over there, old sparrow hands, I aint sure what that is. Seen somethin' like it in old movies with test tubes and electrical storms. And its fat friend's got the look of a guy who owes somebody. That turbulence behind the eyes.'

Fat Kafka was sat on a wooden chair by the fishtank. He looked up startled, defensive. ‘To my best knowledge, I owe nothing. Alright so I took bribes from the legal profession to go easy on them in The Trial, and a deal's a deal isn't it? I held up my half. Did I hurt anybody? Why are you staring at me? Do I seem such a suspicious character? Do you think I wished to fetch up in this place? It is not what I imagined! Where are the singing voices? The unity? This is the black burden of truth! Time is longer than hope! Time is longer than hope!' He gripped his head. ‘The cool knife through the paper-thin integument of the working brain!' And he twisted to the floor, convulsing.

‘I like this guy!' gasped Turow.

 

‘Near time to make our move, Benny - let whatever's developin' up there stew into full flavour. Remember the Cliche Murders, Benny? Put 'em in reality, see how they stood up? Reminds you folk in this town care more about the quality o' crime than the quantity. Only time I found a serial interestin'.'

‘About a year ago, right Chief?' said Benny, at the wheel. ‘Guy locked in a basement, only way to haul himself up to the window was with a couple o' bootstraps.'

‘Sure. Flies and stench alerted the authorities. Found rattle-eyed and flesh all gone to custard.'

‘Then there was the guy staked down in that field during a storm, lightning conductor in his back, struck over and over.'

‘And the guy who lost his life on the swings, near a roundabout. But the one that pecks at my pulsin' brain is the smoke without fire setup. Guy in a locked house, dry ice machine on, sprinklers on, house fillin' with water. If the smoke was caused by fire the sprinklers would put it out and shut off, right? But the smoke detectors wouldn't even start out on ice smoke, Benny.'

‘Right again, Chief - them sprinklers were jammed on manually.'

‘Killer shoulda used an off-beam friction motor.'

‘Yep, he faked it.'

‘But you know, Benny, it occurs to me the cliche was disproved when we volted that guy in the chair.'

‘Why? Cos o' that whisp o' smoke off his head or the fact he was the wrong guy?'

‘Both, Benny, that's the beauty o' the thing. Okay, I reckon it's time.'

‘Don't know which room they're in, Chief.'

‘Let's simplify matters - call for backup, Benny.' Blince opened the car door - a clogging avalanche of doughnuts tumbled into the street. He gazed up at the Bird Street Hotel through the smoke of his cigar. It was a good night for containment. Anticipation sent ripples across his star-spangled heart. He raised the bullhorn. ‘Listen up in the Bird Hotel. You're all under false arrest. File yourselves out in an orderly fashion.'

There were eighty rooms in the Bird Street Hotel. Within each a tableau froze in surprise - grocers laminating the ears of a shuffling baby elephant, a clown tearing a crucifix from the neck of a doubting priest, a sales demonstration of a cop-issue garrotting bar, a rifle-point pie-eating contest, a faceless man manufacturing codeine ice cream in a thundering drum, a dour meeting of a gun quitters' support group, a porcelain dog screaming muted and inarticulate, lovers acting out an alien abduction, the execution of a dirtbiker by firing squad, grans sat laughing before a wind turbine, a rabbi punching through a man's hat, a kelp fisherman branding a crosshair bullseye in the centre of his forehead, a rickety old man snogging a lion made of sponge, sniggering spaniels concocting ever more lurid parasol drinks, a historian listening to Zapata's death screams on a wax drum, a cleaner unknowingly sucking her guardian angel into the dustbag, galloshered senators filling their pants with high pressure wall cavity foam - all halted and stared aside at Blince's blared announcement. Then as one they burst from the hotel, guns blazing. First through the door were the gun quitters' support group. The cop car was tearing to tin streamers. Blince and Benny crouched behind it counting their ammo like small change. ‘How many gunners, Benny?'

‘Sixty-four. And an old lady throwing stones.'

‘Bless her. Right handed or left?'

‘Both, Chief.'

‘That's community spirit.' The roofsparker was blasted away by a volley which Blince didn't dignify with a return shot. ‘Gets me thinkin' how people get confused. Maybe the word “left” belongs with the right hand.'

‘Howdya mean, Chief?' yelled Benny over the commotion.

‘Everyone knows left and right are wrong. Right should actually be called left, and what we call left is another word altogether. Howdya like them apples?'

‘Ready, Chief?'

‘Ready.' Blince cycled his snub. ‘I'll take the left, you take the right.'

They stood from behind the wreck and fired to the right, killing the old woman. A window went up on the third floor and Eddie Thermidor stuck his head out. ‘Keep the noise down - some of us are tryin' to live our lives up here!'

‘Eddie Thermidor!' called Blince. ‘Sawyer up there?'

‘I guess you did.'

‘Chief Blince,' said Atom, appearing naked at the window. ‘They're setting jello in the shape of a sailor - help me.'

‘The rest o' you can go your sweet way,' hailed Blince at the shooters. The firing petered out and the crowd, muttering, began straggling back into the hotel. ‘I want all you up in that room - front and centre.'

 

 

Cop cars were tearing up and howling like loons. ‘Hear that?' said Atom. ‘Blince is a cop flushed down the pan and grown huge in the sewers. His insanity's a matter of public record. We got only minutes to get set for the yelling cells.'

‘What are you drivin' at, shamus?' snapped Thermidor. ‘What are you drivin' at? What gives you the credentials to take the wheel?'

‘I told you, we're sitting on dynamite. The one time Blince got near a fact his hair caught fire. Now these fashionable events can be explained in a way which could work in our favour and I believe I can perform the deep stitching required. We can bolster the credence later. You see, it's the details that lodge in the discriminating mind. It's true, isn't it? The easiest way to start out is to make use of a wrong. And don't go for something lame. Look at your gatman Cortez, flaw drawn, eyes like a surlyguy bust, stubble like a sticklebrick. In four to six years he'll head the mob, in seven he'll be crazier than a shithouse rat and the leftovers'll go to Betty. We can use that. Young blood on the ascendant, lotta stiffs, we need a fall guy.'

‘I don't like that,' said Cortez tightly.

‘Neither do I,' muttered Thermidor slowly, squinting at Cortez. 'Atom, how d'you survive more than a minute crackin' this wise?'

‘I don't know,' Atom conceded. ‘It worries me, actually.'

‘You oughta worry.'

‘Okay, okay. So Cortez doesn't step off. How 'bout Joanna here?'

‘The lummox? This cornfed waterhead?'

‘Why not? Sure he's in a biological no-man's-land but that makes him the perfect blank for the cops' impression. Look at him. He's the one for that. Dumb and visible, shaves with a sandblaster - can't say fairer than that can we? We'll tell them over and over that he masterminded the whole thing. Then we let the tide come in on him.'

‘Yuh really think this all-terrain moron's our ticket outta here?' asked Thermidor. ‘What's the motive?'

‘Well, let's see.'

‘I like bunny rabbits,' offered Joanna.

‘There you go - Joanna wanted to quit the loop to start a rabbit home in the country, and for that he needed money. He attached a limpet mine to his ass and entered the stronghold demanding a substantial sum in return for your survival. You mocked him, called him a clown, threw a sprout at him, even. Joanna pulled the ripcord but the mine flubbed and the entire mob erupted into mocking laughter. Joanna said - remember this, Joanna - “You'll pay for this”, and fled weeping into the night.'

‘“You'll pay for this,”' frowned Joanna. ‘For the rabbits?'

‘Stow it, cracker,' snapped Thermidor.

‘Let him alone,' muttered Kafka, then repeated it at a yell.

‘As he passed the Brain Facility the mine went off,' Atom continued, ‘knocking the building flat but leaving Pro-Magnon Hitman here standing. And who ran by at that moment but Harry Fiasco. Knowing he was a mob boy, Joanna brought him into a scheme to draw the cops down on Thermidor, the man who'd mocked him.'

‘Oh, it's ridiculous,' muttered Mr Turow vaguely. ‘Why ever would Fiasco do that?'

‘Because Joanna saw him wearin' spandex. Spandex which you forced upon him, Turow, having trapped him in a steel corral on the outskirts of the city. With a dozen other unfortunates. Only he escaped, and you couldn't take that. You chased him in a serrated armoured car like a giant grater. And you kept on pursuing him as Joanna's plot proceeded. The assigning of value to a random object, something he found on the ground, a brain. Stir a fuss around it - get Thermidor to think it's the true and only spice. Get Harry sent up with his story, pointing to the mob. And meanwhile folk are goin' oblong all over town. That was you too, eh Joanna? And you let every tell tale ingredient simmer, till any killing initiated naturally garnered the hell experienced policemen invariably store snug amid their sadness for just such a time.'

‘So what was I doin' through all this?' asked Thermidor.

‘Carving tiny little firearms for doll houses. With your one eye you're a dab hand at that kinda close work. You were seeking a patent for the notion when Fiasco was arrested, breaking your flow. Sam “Sam” Bleaker can attest to the night you dressed up as Santa Claus and wept till your beard dropped away like heated snow, berating aloud the tender complexity of the human heart.'

Sitting on the edge of an armchair, Sam ‘Sam' Bleaker baby-dandled a gun on his knee. He frowned. ‘Then what did I do?'

‘You gave him a marshmallow. Then you went to Silencer over here and said, “That'll keep him busy for a while”, and you both went sniggering for a naked midnight swim. That was the real start of your love for eachother. The next day you were married in secret. As the priest mumbled words misleading and sacred, you saw yourselves as dryads of combat, heroes abandoned by moral hurry. Your death-hemmed, bloodshot eyes closed upon eachother that evening in the beauty of dumb luck and exhaustion. You're closer than heaven and hell, and you'd go to the mat for eachother.'

Sam ‘Sam' Bleaker looked at Silencer, who moved his mouth silently. Sam turned to Atom. ‘He says he can't swim.'

‘Let that slide.'

‘What I do after eatin' the mallow?' asked Thermidor.

‘You fell into a deep sleep,' Atom explained. ‘And you dreamt you were being crowned King in some ancient ceremony. Even as the crown descended, a rainbow butterfly flittered across the scene and was trapped between the crown and your undead hair. To remove it would disturb the routine and so the beauty was ignored amid the grey blare to its expiry. Deeply affected, you woke with a plan to have yourself declared an official currency and read your worth every day in the rags. You entered an elevator and told a man reading such a rag that over and above everything, charm was out. “Indeed,” said this guy urbanely, turning a page. “I run a dog pound.” Your stomach turned over as the elevator slowed to a stop, the lights dimming briefly. “Hello,” says the man, “must be pumping out a dungeon.” The man's taking a watermask and breathing apparatus from his briefcase and strapping it on, adjusting the mouthpiece and bracing himself. “What's going on,” you shout. The man looks round at you and, surprised, says something incomprehensible, pointing at his aqualung. He's shaking you by the shoulders when water starts trickling from the doorcrack and dripping from the ceiling. The man points at the door in explanation as the trickle becomes a spray which fans and widens. The man picks up his briefcase and stands in the deepening water. You stand in the corner, sobbing. The newspaper frills and drifts in the tide. The lights go out and the man says something through his mouthpiece. The water's up to your knees and you wade to another corner, feeling the wall in pitch blackness. You reach up and the ceiling moves easily at your touch - you hear a hatch rattle and bang like the lid of a cookie tin. Punching it open, you jump and clasp onto the edges, hoisting yourself up and gasping with your exertions. The man begins protesting through his mouthpiece and pulling at your legs. Kicking downward and struggling through, you stand and look about you. A dazzling light's shining in your eyes, and you hear gasps of laughter from somewhere in front of you. You stumble forward and shield your eyes, finding with dismay that you're standing on a theatre stage before a large audience. Sensing your embarrassment they grow silent and apprehensive - some snigger cruelly. You shuffle forward, your pants sopping wet. “Where's the hotel?” you demand. To your surprise, the audience roars with laughter, and some of them even applaud. You squint down at the prompter's box - tears of hilarity stream down the prompter's face. You look out once again at the auditorium. “I have lost my way,” you state. Shrieks of mirth echo about the theatre - you peer about for the exit as the laughter subsides, and bang on the backdrop with your fists. “Let me out of here,” you shout, furious. The audience roar, and when you go over and kick the prompter in the mug, you get 'em rolling in the aisles. Some are bent into impossible contortions across the backs of chairs, shuddering with hysteria. “What kinda place is this?” you demand. You leap from the stage and grab someone in the audience by the scruff of the shirt, but lower your fist on seeing the man's so helpless with laughter he couldn't answer you if he wanted to. You dash up the centre aisle, and a few people try to touch you as you pass - even the doorman chuckles tearfully, expressing his gratitude between gasps. Everyone seems to have nothing but admiration for you. Outside the theatre house there's posters of you everywhere, grinning and wearing a top hat. It's night, raining, and you hail a cab. When you're off and you mention where you wanna go, the driver tells you the hotel was destroyed twenty years ago by Chinamen. “Pardon me?” you ask, leaning forward. The driver tilts around - he's got the rotten head of a goat. White foam's about its teeth and its eyes are turned upward in its head. Tires begin squealing and the driver wobbles lifelessly as the car mounts the sidewalk and plunges into a storefront. A burglar alarm's ringing and distant dogs bark as you stumble out of the wreckage and through a shower of water geysering from a hydrant. Detail, Thermidor, you see what I'm saying?'

‘Wait a minute this is my life we're talkin' about here,' Thermidor protested. ‘I'm awake and what happens?'

Atom ignored him. ‘In all fairness to Joanna he bolstered his hand with Kitty over there, telling her if she gave false data on Harry he'd tell her a foolproof way ahead in life, a way to use the gifts she's got instead of the gifts she thinks she's got. Deal's a deal, as the K-man says.'

‘You sayin' I got the cops onto Harry?'

‘I'm giving you an out.'

Kitty snorted. ‘Listen buster, I never told a thing, not one thing.'

‘Sure, angel. But what's more he said if you didn't shoot your mouth off he'd tear you down like a curtain and leave you face-down in regret. You felt ... how would you feel?'

‘So I'd feel ... I guess I ... felt trapped?'

‘Trapped, sure. Like candy in a store window. Ofcourse you spouted, and got your reward.'

‘Well what kinda big wisdom did this guy give me?' Kitty challenged him, interested now. Atom came over and leant to her ear, whispered, and moved away again. Kitty's laughter was cold and happy as a dawn.

‘So what about the fat guy?' demanded Thermidor.

Kafka, jealously admiring Kitty's ability to evade the eye, was startled when the mob boss pointed at him.

‘He's nothing,' Atom stated, ‘irrelevant - you could shoot a dozen like him in any corner drugstore. His only distinction is his former champion status in the noble art of British gut-barging, in which his ring name was “Bigbelly Head Charge” or “The Fender”. He came to prominence at the turn, and was known for the pre-match taunting of his opponent with the bellowed phrase “I consider that I am significantly better than you at gut-barging”. His victory swan-dives into the audience were legendary in the annals of personal injury litigation. He was network gold until he was kidnapped and placed on an enforced diet, then released slender and fit minutes before a fight. The appearance of this quailing reed in the ring was the beginning of the end in the media's eyes and now, despite pigging out for years, he's reduced to opening stores in his old glitter belts. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he found himself being embroiled in dismal conversation with Turow, who was by now hanging onto a frayed rope over a yawning chasm of personal failure. Attempting to escape he dressed up as a woman but just looked like a lamp on steroids. His photograph was taken and used on the cover of a specialist magazine, and for shame he cannot leave this small room. Thermidor forced entry with the crowbar of kindness, searing the sufferer with his charity. Sam “Sam” Bleaker and Silencer danced attendance while Cortez waited in the wings to strike, and Joanna and all his coerced crew descended like a hard rain on the innocent Eddie. Jed's here as food, Maddy's here as witness to our folly, and the ghost of George Washington lives in the thermostat. Something for everybody eh, K-man?'

‘So the galoot steps off. What do we do with Turow?' asked Thermidor.

‘Drown him in rosewater.'

‘Why you -' Turow tussled with himself, petulant and gasping. ‘You deserve to drown in your own mucus, you ...'

‘You're a sick little puppy aint you Turow?' barked Thermidor. ‘I'm kinda reluctant to admit you into my life. What about the polygraph, gumshoe? The third degree?'

‘I got the word on that,' said Atom, and related the replies for the Wittgenstein control questions. These responses were a valued secret:

‘Is there a rhino in the room?'

‘No.'

‘What evidence do you have?'

‘The evidence of my senses.' (This last reply was later modified to ‘Eyewitness testimony.')

The test was intended to establish the subject's interpretational clarity and eliminate postmodern fuzz. Once the correct responses were recited, the subject was free to spout whichever nonsense he favoured. ‘So there it is,' said Atom, and turned to DeCrow. ‘Ever seen the read-out needles on a polygraph, Doc? Like the legs of a crushed cranefly, flickering.'

DeCrow advanced from the shadow of a corner and faced Atom across the crowded room. ‘Enough,' he croaked. ‘Can't you see what he's done? He's brainwashed you all! His mouth is a Mecca for bullshit! How can we be cheerful with the devil among us?'

‘Some people are led by an evil destiny,' said Maddy.

‘Feeling left out, Doc?' Atom asked. ‘DeCrow here's the inventor of the bendy hearse, everyone. Though clearly in or perhaps beyond his declining years, he recently had a moral circuit breaker installed so that -'

‘Enough, I said - if you think you can bring me here at fishpoint to listen to this garbage, you're just perhaps as mad as you pretend.'