Beyond Belief Page 3

  “Oh, I don’t know, my mind is pretty big.” Pete considered his mind to be so big that it occasionally dribbled out his ears.

  “Big troof outlasts the individual. So nothing’s definitively real to the most important thing in all of reality, which is you. Only your ideas matter.” Joshua closed his eyes and took a mouthful from his empty glass and then looked to see why the ice was holding the liquid hostage. He waved his arms, motioning Pete to lean closer. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

  “No mind is big enough to accept the big troofs,” he said. He leaned back for a moment then lunged forward again into conversation. “Take, for example, a big bin,” he said, accidentally indicating the person next to him.

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where should I take a big bin?”

  “Nonononono. Jus’ lis’n. If I was to ask you to ’magine a big bin, you could do it, right?”

  Pete nodded his head in synchronization, even if his brain didn’t.

  “But if I wash to ask you to imagine a thousand, or a hundred thousand, or a million binzz your brain couldn’t do it.”

  Pete’s head shook blindly in synchronization with Joshua’s.

  “If you transfer these principles of metafizz-hics to things like the universe and God, you’ll see what I mean. It’s all causal.”

  Joshua sat back, grinning, pleased with his explanation. “Another way of looking at it is to question the universe. Is it infinite or not? If it is infinite can our minds deal with the fact that it goes on an’ on an’ on an’ on an’ so on or can our minds deal with the fact that it goes on an’ on an’ on an’ stops—thatsifitisn’tinfinite—an’ what’s on the other side? And who or what created it? See? It’s all in our mind. Our mind izz a trap and freedom all at the same time.”

  Joshua looked into Pete’s eyes and saw very little except that they were out of focus. He sighed. “If I have ’nother drink I could ’xplain it better.”

  “I think you’ve had enough.” Pete put away the drinking implements in the vague hope of giving a clue to Joshua that it was putting-things-away-and-going-home time.

  Joshua slouched across the bar, grabbing Pete by the swizzle sticks. “I don’t have to be drunk, you know.”

  “I know, Joshua, but it helps my business.” Pete tried to pry Joshua’s hands off his recently cleaned swizzling apparatus.

  “It’s only because I want to be,” Joshua said in a far more sober voice. He glared at a wall. “I don’t have to be drunk a’ all,” he cautioned it. The wall backed away out of focus. Color drained from his eyesight, and he collapsed forward onto the bar.

  Pete received a message. It made him feel sad, but he understood the reasoning. “I’ll miss you, old friend,” he said to the unconscious Joshua.

  3

  JOSHUA SLEPT AND DREAMT. Visions swam around his mind, it being too wet for them to walk. His dreams seemed to be based more on fantasy than reality. He dreamt of deep underground dungeons with people so powerful they could change and control the world, and he was always one of them, except he wore the magic hat. None of the others did. It was his and would always be his. He would talk and they would obediently listen because he wore the magic hat. Then they would all do as he asked unto the kingdom of little people, and he would go to his special room even deeper underground where wondrous things would happen. In his special room the magic hat would make his ideas come alive. He could think Let there be fire and rain and there would be fire and rain. He could think Let there be riches and happiness and there would be riches and happiness. Let there be light and … he would wake up.

  He dreamt of fanciful places, of times long gone and loves long lost wallowing in the darkness of his mind. Some dreams seemed real and some not. Some that could be, and ones that couldn’t be. A disturbing sense of detachment accompanied the dreams, as if they were borrowed from someone else. And as his memory of the past wasn’t the best, he never knew if they were his. Joshua had to admit his life didn’t seem the best and so dreaming of being someone else could be his way of dealing with it.

  In reality his dreams were a link to a past he could never remember, a furtive glimpse over the shoulder into the thickening mists. Within the dreams he found contentment—a feeling of completeness which, when echoed in his waking hours, would truly make him a happy individual. Of course, he could never remember them when he awoke in the morning, or afternoon.

  The morning light fell across a couch covered in paper and blankets. As the light made its cautious way through the room it uncovered more paper strewn around the floor. Unpaid bills, disconnection threats, and legal documents huddled together in the corner. Wood paneling covered the bottom half of the wall. The rest was covered in green felt. There was a small bar fridge that sat open, feeling a bit neglected. It had a rather empty feeling inside. Sagging under the strain of time, or possibly too many books, several shelves clung to the walls of the room. The old battered and ancient desk was also feeling overburdened and in desperate need of a break. The desk was populated by many pens that didn’t work and a telephone cord, which, presumably, ended with a telephone, although skeptics would say it ended in another pen liberated from a bank. The coffee mug had, surprisingly, been washed sometime in the last year if the latest caffeine-dating techniques were to be believed. The indoor plant was definitely feeling a bit seedy. In the far corner of the room was an old, tall lamp. The morning light climbed the lamp stand and revealed a Mickey Mouse lamp cover and a bulb that had been left on.

  The sunlight peered around the corner into the kitchen but dared not enter, which was all right as no one else did either. It continued across the room and discovered the front door. Due to an evolutionary problem, the sunlight hadn’t developed an opposing thumb and therefore could not open the door and escape. So here it stayed, trapped until nightfall. A shadow was silhouetted against the glass door pane, which read:

  SDRAHCIR AUHSOJ

  ROTAGITSEVNI ETAVIRP

  (HWHY)

  Joshua’s head throbbed underneath the newspaper and blankets on the couch. Where was he? Home, or on an unusually comfortable park bench? It must be home. That sickly gray light existed only in one place: his office cum home. Pete must have dropped him off. Pete was good like that, one of the few good souls in the city.

  Oh god, he felt terrible. It must have been a huge night. His eyes twitched behind his eyelids and he sighed. He turned beneath the blankets and tried to snuggle deeper, wishing away the cloudiness in his head.

  His restlessness grew until he gave up any idea of resting and removed the newspaper from his head. Water still coursed down the window, washing all in its way. Why couldn’t he find a maid that worked with similar efficiency? Oh yes, they cost money. The throbbing grew louder.

  He turned the paper over. His case was on the front page. The convoluted mystery he had solved was the number-one story. The paper had taken a few liberties with the facts, distilled them and blatantly misrepresented the truth, but he still felt proud of it. A disturbingly difficult case given away only by the smallest of clues that no one had the ability or desire to observe, or that procedures didn’t cover.

  He sat up and stretched, shaking off the stiffness of the night. He wondered where the paper had come from. Pete must have left it for him as a reminder of … something that he wasn’t meant to forget. The throbbing was irritating now. A furrow creased his forehead as he scratched his head. Slowly he realized the throbbing was not in his head but coming from the door to his office. Another client. He couldn’t believe his luck. Two in a month.

  He lunged quickly at the door in hope of next month’s rent.

  “Ah, good morning s …”

  His body was in turmoil. His voice went on strike. He dribbled out the side of his mouth. His brain was in neutral and indicated it would brook no noise louder or more cheerful than grass bending in the wind. All this was because of a lady standing in the doorway. Not the type found in detectiv
e-noir movies who were beautiful, rich widows wearing either red or black dresses and matching lip gloss, but a woman still the same. In his office. This was something of a rarity.

  She was a middle-aged woman, fairly slim, healthy, and dressed in a tasteful cream and fawn business suit. Her hair was smoothed back in a severe bun. She smoked a cigarette contained within a silver holder. She had a veil on her hat but was wearing no lip gloss, no red dress or anything else that screamed “I am a desperate woman in search of a real man.”

  Joshua made a mental note to get a life.

  She placed her dripping umbrella next to the door, turned to look at Joshua and then back over her shoulder to see what he was looking at. Surrendering, she returned her focus to the disheveled detective.

  “Mr. Richards, I presume? I am Ruth Friday.” She spoke in the short elegant tones of someone who knows who they are, where they are going, and what they have to do to get there. It was the voice of one who was totally together and in control. And it was at this point when everything went wrong.

  “Yes, madame, I am he,” Joshua said, doing a lot of pretending. Despite a decreased olfactory faculty due to the previous night’s dehydrating activities he could still make out her YSL scent. Tasteful, he thought. Parfum and not eau de toilette.

  “Drop the French accent, it’s ridiculous. Jude Kilby recommended you to me. Can we talk?” She looked hesitantly over his shoulder at the rambling mess behind him that got part-time work as his office.

  Joshua backed away from the door, allowing her access. He bowed and stretched his arm into the room. “Certainly, madame. Make yourself at home.”

  She strode into the room and began to tidy it. Moving from shelf to shelf to bin she recounted her story while Joshua stood uncertainly in the corner, not knowing what to make of this woman who, as far as he could remember, was not his mother.

  “Mr. Richards, I shall be brief as I’m a busy woman and cannot afford you much time. Yesterday I received a disturbing note from an unidentified source. That note said I was to bring five hundred thousand dollars in small, unmarked bills to a designated place. If I didn’t carry out this instruction I would be killed. I originally thought, as you probably do now, that it was a blackmail or kidnapping threat, but as nothing has been taken, and they have proffered no further information that could cause me distress when conveyed to the wrong people, I have eliminated this as a possible motive. As far as I can see, this is a straight down the line, bully-like threat.

  “Someone wants my lunch money, and will kill for it if necessary. I’m a woman who’s not used to being treated in this way, and I shall face these fools on their own terms. They’ve given me a rendezvous time and place where I’m to deliver the money. I shall be there. So shall you, as my protector.”

  She removed some papers from her executive briefcase. “I’ll leave you a copy of the blackmail note with the details of the place and time. This is my card with my phone number if you need me. I’m adding the number of a good maid, which, by the looks of it, you need.”

  She placed the papers on the now clear desktop and turned to face Joshua. “I wish to meet with you ten minutes before the appointed time at the said location where I shall give you further instructions regarding my safety. I’ve brought a swipe card with what I’m prepared to pay as your fee.”

  She dropped the card on top of the growing pile of paper. “Good day, Mr. Richards.” With that she took her umbrella and was gone.

  He opened the door and looked out the doorway into the hall. She had vanished with unexpected speed. If only he believed in teleportation.

  “Ah, there you are, Joshua.”

  Joshua spun around. Watching him was an old lady clad in a dressing gown with a distasteful floral pattern, her hair in curlers. She waved a book in front of him. He suppressed the urge to scream and run out the door with his arms waving above his head.

  “Hello, Mrs. Agatha.” He used the singsong tone that teachers around the world are used to hearing.

  “Eh?”

  Joshua sighed. It was bad enough that she continually came by with these stupid murder-mystery books to test his ability as a detective, but her deafness as well was nearly impossible to tolerate.

  “I SAID: HELLO, MRS. AGATHA,” he projected. His shoulders sagged.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Christine? Only Mr. Agatha, resthissoul, called me Mrs. Agatha. I got one for you to solve. It’s a real corker, too.” She cackled.

  “Yes?” he said, his voice full of dread.

  “Eh?”

  “I SAID: GO AHEAD.”

  “A rich old lady is stabbed to death on a train. Twelve stabs in all, each one different. Some heavy and some light. The passengers all have a motive for it and they’ve all got alibis as well. No one could get on or off the train. So it was one of the dozen passengers.” She cackled again. “Who did it?”

  “Sounds like they all did it.”

  “Eh?”

  “I SAID IT SOUNDS LIKE THEY ALL DID IT, MRS. AGATHA.”

  “I’m amazed. You always get them. Are you sure you haven’t read all these books?” She waved the book in front of his face.

  “I haven’t read any of them,” he said, shying away from the onslaught.

  “Eh?”

  “I SAID I HAVEN’T READ ANY OF THEM.”

  “Yes, well. I’ll get you one day.” She grinned, gave him one final shake of the book and tottered off down the corridor to her room with her usual shuffling gait.

  Joshua shook his head and returned to his office.

  He looked around at the devastation Ruth Friday hadn’t left in her wake. A client like her twice a month and he wouldn’t need a maid. He never knew he had a plaid chair beneath all those papers. He must remember to never sit in it.

  It was too early in the morning, or whatever time of day it was, for this kind of stress. What he needed was coffee. He hated the stuff but he needed it. He wondered if there was ever a time in his life when he hadn’t needed something.

  To need is to feel. This is a desire. You are not of this kind.

  He shook his head and walked to his desk to examine the items Ruth Friday had left behind. He looked at the swipe card, and pressed the little button on the face. The OLEDs displayed an amount that had Joshua performing a daytime soap double take. The letter was written on standard paper with a standard printer with standard fonts.

  He picked up his coffee mug and looked into it. Did he need coffee that much? He supposed he did but it meant drastic measures. The people who keep the calendars on track held their breath. It’s time to wash the mug, Joshua mused, but not in the kitchen. At this point things weren’t that desperate.

  He went to his little bathroom and rinsed the aging experiment, and the people who keep the calendars on track marked the turning of another year.

  He wandered back into his main room and sat at the desk. He rummaged through her papers and came up with a plain business card. It read:

  Jude Kilby

  DOMINION

  Head of Operations

  A very faint harmonic chimed in the back of his memory. Dominion. Why did that sound familiar? He was sure he had never heard of either Ruth Friday or Jude Kilby. Not recently, anyway.

  Head of operations. Why didn’t the card have a contact address or number? Not much use as a business card. Maybe it was from a get-to-know-you function the big corporations ran to make the small people feel wanted and allowed the big people to stock up their home fridges with the leftover orange juice, cheap wine and stale cheese.

  He found her card. Ruth Friday. He was certain he had never heard that name before. He conferred with his musical memory, which agreed with him. The card said she was from a courier company called Air Current. She was the director of this company. He hadn’t heard the company name before, but that was nothing new with courier companies. The only way to ever find out who was in the market was when they zoomed past you in the street.

  He needed to know a bi
t more about this case. Working with information given on a strictly need-to-know basis was not his idea of a good time, no matter how much she was paying. He reached for his business directory and flicked through the pages. He couldn’t find a listing. He looked under her name. Still nothing. Odd. It could be a new company that hadn’t been around when his ancient directory tomes had been chiseled. Possibly.

  He kept his tomes hidden through all the years of information collection. People had come to his house and searched from top to bottom to find any paper-based information that was “unable to keep pace with today’s rapidly changing world,” as the people stated. If you wanted information now there was only one place to find it.

  He picked up the phone and rang directory inquiries. He hated dealing with The Phone Company. They knew so much about everyone: where they lived, who they called, who called them, but try and get anything out of them, like why they charged for inquiring why the bill was so high and see how far you got. It was enough to reduce a grown man to a pool of tears.

  After the under-two-minute-customer-service-with-a-smile music had droned on for half an hour and Joshua’s brain was in imminent danger of imploding, a voice answered.

  “Hello. Can I help?” said the curt voice.

  Help? Help? Since when have any of you ever helped? It’s not like any of you want to. You sit there in your smug little world safe in the fact that you know everything about me, and feel you have the authority to tell me nothing. Arrrgh.

  That was what he felt like saying. Fortunately, it came out as, “Do you have a listing for Air Current?”