Young Writers Society

Tapping Sounds

and

Strange reading

Part three

If not for the stunned apprehension he was feeling, he may have noticed the Fly float unerringly in front of the door. The open door. The rain spat through like magic straws. Bill Hands noticed the fly. The same fly that looked very much so, as if he was welcoming somebody.

Standing tall, huge, the door frame filled with an angry presence. A figure filled with a deathly heat. Timmy remained focused on its face. Or what he could see of it. It was a man. A very large man. Length over width. Shaggy hair clawed around his face, concealing his features. He appeared an abandoned dog left out in the rain, drenched and dripping.

He stepped forward. One foot. The door slammed shut. The wind? He moved forward again. His approach was more of an eager lunge than a walk.

Timmy didn't like this. Timmy didn't like this one bit. He was a kid again. A horror film was screening. He had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to look. Nobody to cling to. He was alone. Just another shit corridor, Timmy boy.

The man’s clothes stuck to his skeletal figure with rips poking holes throughout, the white fabric gashed with dark holes. Timmy’s eyes dropped recently to the man’s legs, ordinary cargo trousers, brown and boring...and bad. Something was really bad. It felt Timmy up. He cringed. He stared again. The observations continued. The reluctant underage viewing proceeded. The man was bare-foot. A clap of thunder reminded Timmy that this, too, was far from okay. Nothing about this was okay. Bill Hands had gone silent. Had he hid? The room stood attentive. Only the storm outside held voice. Very bad, Timmy, this is very bad. The man’s toe nails zoomed to the boy’s lens, they hooked like dirty, off-coloured talons. Another lunge, another step closer.

Snapping out of trance, instinct perhaps grabbing him by the collar, Timmy started right. But he never got there. He never even moved. In a flash, like the very lightning striking outside, the man was at the desk. Leaning, hands clamped on the wooden surface, he goggled the little boy. His eyes glared in-between strands of hair with a frightful craze. Not the sort of controlled craze a killer might have, a killer who had planned it from the start, a killer who knew what wanted to do. This craze was loose, one loop shoe lace crazy. Timmy backed into the wall behind him, hoping it would suck him in. It didn't and he hit it with a rejected thud. Alarm bells should’ve begun ringing by now, but Timmy for whatever ever reason didn't listen. Not yet.

The figure flung a hand deep into his pockets and withdrew a small piece of paper, business card-size. Like Timmy’s father’s card. What was the company name? That doesn't matter now. It was an untidy thought. That was all. That’s a strange thought to be having, Timmy. He ignored the sounds of his own voice. He needed to concentrate. Or do whatever the hell he needed to do. Timmy’s eyes rolled over the numbers written.

01-13-21.

A further extension of a growing mystery. Returning the stranger with a blank stare, he wished he hadn’t. Angered, the man slammed his hand down and pointed violently to the numbers, stabbing them. As the man leaned further over the table, half climbing on it, it was then that Timmy noticed it. It all came together in blaring noise. The alarm bells had broken through and they screamed with desperation. The man had no tongue. His mouth was a cave filled with stalactites. Nothing sliding around in the middle. He talks with his movement. That wasn’t the worst of it. Most alarming of all was the stench. The sheer whiff of something bad, something really not okay. It was the very antagonist of okay. Are you the devil? The man’s breath was bad. And Timmy was very sure he wasn’t mistaking the nightmarish odour drifting out in clumps. The tongue-less mouth reeked of sizzled fur. It was the most harmful and sheer revolting thing Timmy had ever smelt. Thick and heavy, it was unrelenting. It stuck. It stained. It was evil. Desperate to cut off the stench flying up his nose, Timmy tried to inhale only through his mouth. His clean mouth, fresh, normal, and nice. “I don’t know…understand what you mean. What you want —”

Another slam, another stab. Any harder and Timmy was sure the man’s bony finger would pierce the paper and the wood supporting it.

“I don’t know…” Then with grateful deflection, or even relief, Bill Hands rose to voice again. Change is rapid and dangerous. However, talkative and mocking Bill Hands wouldn't get far this time. A new order was in town.

“Oh I did not think I would see the time—”

The stranger threw a hand towards the clock and the sounds stopped silent. Bill Hands was no more. And the ticking resumed. Tick, tock. Alone again, the boy behind the desk prayed. Help doesn't always appear though. Sometimes you have to find your own way. When the man slammed a forceful and demanding finger down again, Timmy broke. He felt the small wobbling jelly’s behind his eyes and was powerless to stop them. He was weak. Compared to the ragged stranger towering in front of him, Timmy was tiny. He was just a boy. And he couldn't cope with this. This horrible pointing, strange questions to which he did not know the answer, waiting and wanting, the man stood powerful.

Like a puppy in the wrong, all Timmy could do was stare teary eyed.

You’re weak Timmy. Useless, you can’t do anything. Get a job, Timmy. Fucking do something, Timmy. Be a man, Timmy. Hit back, don’t be a mat. Timmy, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy this, Timmy that, Timmy shake it all the fuck about. Play time is over, Timmy.

It clicked. There were no other robots.

Don’t listen to ya mother, Timmy. Today, Timmy, you’re working. For me, Timmy, you’re gonna work for me, that’s what you’re gonna do. Money make’s everything TICK. A man earns Timmy. A man works. Play time is over.

No other robots…

Timmy was the only worker. Left in charge, co-owner, he had responsibility, heavy slabs weighed on his shoulders.

Forget about them, Timmy. You’re working for me now. Play time is over. Do you hear me? Only way you’re gonna live is to work. There’s no other way, son. That’s how the world TICKS. Forget school. Work, Timmy, work.

Looking up, meeting the man’s burning stare, meeting his infuriated twitching, Timmy wiped his eyes. This was his store. This is was his first fucking day. “We don’t have what you’re looking for, sir.”

The man wheeled away in a violent sweep and made for the history section to Timmy’s right, striding with a red-purpose. Every drip, and squelch from underneath the man’s clawed feet caused a cringe in Timmy. Please just go. He could only watch. What else could he do? He was alone, almost alone anyway. Bill Hands had gone. Once so loud and playful, he was a silent tick of his former self. Tick, tock. In a fit of rage, books began to fly. The man flung hands in and out and books came sprawling down. He spun around. Fixed on the little boy.

“I…don’t think we have…what you’re looking for, sir.” Timmy didn’t understand what he was doing. He didn’t understand what was going on. He didn’t control what he was saying. He only watched as the words glided out with the control coming elsewhere. It was almost another sense.

Key skills.

The rain continued. Howling winds blew. The windows held. The shop stood its ground. It would not be moved.

Customer service experience wanted.

Two more lunges and the stranger was around the corner of the desk, four feet form Timmy. He moved again. It reminded Timmy of a ghost moving. A flickering image shimmering in and out of sight. Now he was a…tongue away from Timmy. Face to face. He’d craned his neck down and arched his back unnaturally so his eyes lined up with Timmy’s. Recoiling his head backwards, gagging for distance, Timmy controlled his nose. He would not breathe in the foulness. And he doubted he’d ever forget it. He wouldn't forget anything about today.

Training will be provided.

Monstrous grinning revealed the man’s stalactite like teeth, yellow, jagged and bitty. There were bits in them. Flesh? Fur? Maybe just fruit? An awful noise slipped from the cave. It sounded like a snarl. Timmy’s concentration moved off-balance and his nostrils opened wide. The stench hit hard. Snaky fumes grappled around and up and his nose, clogging the entrance. Then with a rough and uneven dance the man jerked upright and fled backwards before thumping through the door bordering the desk. The store room waited.

*

Minutes passed. Timmy didn't count. He didn't even look at the clock. Bill Hands was well and truly gone. In a strange way he missed him. Company was a strange thing, but Timmy was certain for one thing, he did not miss the stranger. The stranger who breathed sizzled fur. Who breathes sizzled fur? The store room begged for Timmy to look. Strangely he didn't feel he had to. No sign of life drifted from out of the door, no strange noises, nothing, perhaps the man was gone? Timmy went with that.

With absent mind, he had wandered over to the tumble of paperbacks on the floor. And like a good robot he’d picked them up and slotted them back into place, into order. Order was important. As his hand effortlessly re-ordered the last book on the floor, ‘The Great Depression, 1930-33’, he listened for the store room again. And again, silence greeted him. He also noticed the ticking had stopped. The clock was broke. Even stranger, formerly Bill Hands read: eleven o’clock. Eleven on the dot. No minute either side. Puzzled, Timmy went over to the clock. Pulling a stall from behind the far right bookcase, he stepped up to investigate. It wobbled slightly. Nothing to worry about, and with two feet glued firmly down, he examined the clock, listening intently. Sure as time there was no tick. How long had it been broken? he wondered.

A ray of sunshine painted a shadow on the wall. A black outline of Timmy copied his progress. It was another thing which poked odd questions, but showers come and go. Well Timmy believed so. And rain in the summer wasn't too odd. It was a storm Timmy. It nearly blew the little pig’s house down. A big, black storm.

It all happened with suffocating speed. Rarely does change happen slowly. Even if it appears to be stretched over a period of increasing intervals, the change is immediate. It’s just not always obvious, it’s often obscured. And then it’s too late.

The screeching began first. Then the light came. A dark pink beam peered from underneath the store room door. Hearing something odd, Timmy had stepped down and looked around. That’s when he saw the light. And from then on his eyes were stolen by the cut of colour seeping from the gap.

*

Indescribable. That was the only appropriate thing left to say. There was nothing like it, not in the real world of work and grey, drizzle. The stench was still there, revolting particles lingering in a repulsive mist unseen to the eye, but hurtful to the nose.

Sizzled fur.

Timmy had barely moved, not even out of curiosity, and his back was stiff and willing like a magnetic against the door. All the while, a beaming rectangle of light set fire to his eyes, running straight through to his sockets as data would travel a wire. Just one look and a thousand stories, ideas and questions, all shattering belief, flooded through. Somehow, Timmy couldn't shake the idea that everything had been leading up to this moment. Yet, on the same path, but parallel, he couldn't shake the idea that this was terribly wrong and he should run and cry to mommy. He’d never called her mommy. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he’d spoken to her. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he’d seen her. It’s up to Timmy what happens now. He knew and felt it. After all, wasn't he the only robot, the one and only. He felt like a robot. He acted like a robot. And now he realised that in life we are all just machines, programmed and ordered by people older, stronger, and better than us. We listen and we do. Timmy listened and he did. Play time may be over for some people, but not for Timmy. He wasn't ready for trials of work, mortgages, people, money, money, and money.

WORKERS WANTED.

He advanced. One giant leap for Timmy. Bathing in the light, he raised his arms to the side, palms open, finger parted, and soaring like a bird. Free. Another step and he’d be closer. Another step and he’d feel its heat. Another step and he’d be through. Two more childish steps moved from downstairs and Timmy realised he was moving, he was really moving.

It was warm and pleasant, although all the newspaper clippings and fiction snippets told him this was warm cuddle was radiation, possibly harmful. Only possibly though, and newspapers lie, Timmy. And fiction is just fiction.

PART-TIME ONLY.

Work was over. Eyes closed, body warm, mind electric, Timmy stepped through the door of light.