Sam?
06-30-2008, 11:48 PM
This is the first chapter of a serial I'm writing for my website. Both those who enjoy what they read below and those who don't but are masochistic can find more here: http://theswollenhead.com/category/the-doombringer-chronicles/
“Excuse me.”
Framed by the partition between the walls of his cubicle, the potted plant sat innocently by the window, unmoving.
“Excuse me.”
It didn’t trick him. Not for a moment. He was on to it.
“Excuse me.”
Any minute now it would slip up, shake a branch, twitch a leaf, and he’d be there, waiting, camera in hand.
“Excuse me!”
The shock sent his head careening into the desk above, and he took a rather arty photograph of his foot. Pot plant forgotten he swung around to see a picture of rage.
“Mr. Cellars!”
The co-CEO of Bridge and Cellars Industries thrust the picture further forward.
“Do you know what this is?”
“A picture?” He didn’t dare climb to his feet.
“A picture of what?”
“Rage, sir?”
“It is a picture of what I am feeling right now. Tell me, if you had a picture of what you were feeling, what would I see?”
“Um…”
“Would it be a plausible explanation as to why, rather than doing whatever it is you’re paid to do, you are crouching beneath a desk staring at a potted plant?”
“Um, no, sir.”
Eyebrows were raised.
“I mean, um, sir, you said I would have a picture of what I’m feeling, and you can’t really feel a plausible explanation, can you? Or even an implausible one.”
“Then what would I see?”
“Um…fear, sir?”
“And why would I see fear? Do you have a reason to be fearful?”
“Um…”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Um, Rupert, sir.” He winced in anticipation. “Rupert Doombringer.”
“That some kind of joke? You think this is a time for jokes?”
“No, sir. It’s my name. Honestly.”
He fumbled with his wallet, found his driver’s license.
“What kind of name is that, Doombringer?”
“It’s, um, Nordic, sir.”
“Nordic?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, Rupert Doombringer, what exactly is it that you do here?”
“I, um, cross check the accounts, sir. Mostly”
“Lot of them under the table, are there?”
“No sir.”
“Do you know why I’m not going to fire you right now?”
“Sir?”
“Nor do I. Try to stay in your chair from now on. If I catch you out of it again I’ll chain the two of you together before sending you home for good.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I’ll expect it returned. Don’t think you’ll get a free chair out of it.”
“No sir.”
Mr. Cellar turned like a sergeant and stalked off in search of other miscreants bringing down his business, and Rupert stared intently at his computer until positive it was safe to look away. When he did, the potted plant was gone.
***
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t there yesterday. Or the day before. It is, without a doubt, the first example of flora ever to step pot on the linoleum of this cafeteria.”
Tim took another bite of his sandwich, and gazed sceptically from Rupert to the potted plant across the cafeteria.
“I dropped a piece of lettuce on the floor yesterday.”
“Was it potted lettuce?”
“No.”
“Then my point stands.”
He gave the potted plant a glare for emphasis. Like it was kidding anyone.
“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure it’s always been there.”
“There aren’t even any windows, how would it survive without sunlight? There’s no nutrition to be gleaned from fluorescent lights.”
“It’s probably plastic.”
“It was outside my cubicle when I arrived this morning.”
“And obviously there couldn’t possibly be two pot plants in the same building.”
“It was that exact pot plant. And it was there when I left home this morning, just sitting there across the road. Then I get on the train, and what do I see at the end of my carriage? And now it’s here, watching me. How does a pot plant even move that fast?”
“You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m being followed by a pot plant, what do you think?”
“How are things with Sharon?”
“Non existent.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Remember I told you about that homeless guy who moved into my hallway?”
“Yeah.”
“She ran away with him.”
“No!”
“To Adelaide.”
“Adelaide? Who runs away to Adelaide? Adelaide is for running away from.”
“That’s what the note said, anyway.”
“Well I’m sorry to hear it, but you’re better off without her.”
“I’ve been living on toast and cereal for a week now. I’ve forgotten how to empty the vacuum cleaner.”
“Okay, so maybe you’re not better off, you know, physically. But life is your oyster again, there are plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Don’t go nautical on me. I have enough problems as it is.”
He gave the plant another glare, and was sure it glared back.
“You don’t think maybe you’re just a bit stressed?”
“My fiancé ran away with a homeless man and I’m being stalked by a pot plant, why would I be stressed?”
“Why don’t you take a week off work, relax?”
“And leave myself at the mercy of the pot plant? With no witnesses around?”
“What’s it going to do? It’s a plant.”
“It’s more than that. I know it is. It’s driven by sinister motives.”
“Tell you what, why don’t we go have a drink after work, talk it through?”
***
“Can you imagine it? Ankle deep in dirt, never allowed to sit down? Just standing there all day absorbing sunlight? That’s no way to live.”
“That’s right Tim, side with the enemy.”
“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t want to live like that.”
“So, what, it’s planning to steal my identity? It’s going to murder me and bury my corpse ankle deep in a pot?”
“You never know. I read a thing, said identity theft has had the largest growth in the whole theft industry over the last five years.”
“Well it’s going the wrong way about it. Who’d want to be me? I don’t. It can have my identity. Just ask.”
“Can I have your identity?”
“What?”
“I could be like Batman. Tim Bircher by day, Rupert Doombringer by night.”
“What a life. Work in accounts till evening, then sneak back in when the lights go off and keep working.”
“Yeah, alright. But I could wear a cape.”
“I don’t wear a cape.”
“Why do you always have to be so negative? All you do is poke holes in my ideas.”
Rupert finished his beer and stood up.
“What are you doing?” Tim’s eyes flashed real shock.
“Going to the toilet?”
“No. You finished your beer!”
“And?”
“You don’t finish your beer yet! They’ll take away the glass!”
“Okay…”
“I need it!”
“What?”
“There was an accident. I’ve been drinking out of jars.”
“You plan to steal all of these?” He gestured towards Tim’s three half empties.
Tim placed forefinger to lips in a frantic shoosh. “They’ll hear you!”
“Right, my bad, what was I thinking?” He took one of Tim’s glasses and poured half its contents into his own. “There, happy?”
Pub bathrooms were always an education. The wall of this particular cubicle, for instance, was quite informative about the nature of Brett’s relationship with his mother, and which body parts he most resembled. It also bore the number of, it guaranteed, a top notch dentist.
Why didn’t anyone ever review dentists? God knew he wouldn’t want the job, but it seemed like the sort of thing that should be done. You checked up on a restaurant’s food before you put it in your mouth, but you just stumbled blindly into a dentist’s and let him stick his actual hands right in without even asking where they’ve been. Back in university there had actually been philosophical debates scrawled across the cubicle walls. Nobody would have mentioned Brett without quotes and sources.
Bladder evacuated, Rupert stared back at himself from the mirror above the sink. His hairline had taken another step back today. At this rate it was going to fall off the back of his head in a month or two. Barely twenty seven and already going bald. And his dad still looked like bloody Fabio. Even the homeless guy had hair right out of a shampoo commercial. No wonder Sharon had left him, his own hair could barely stand to hang around.
And then he saw the leaves in the mirror, protruding above the door of a cubicle behind him.
He stifled a yell. It didn’t know he’d seen it yet. He began to wash his hands, as slowly as possible. He needed a plan. He couldn’t just kick the door open, there was no telling what might await him. It got around easily enough, who knew what else it was capable of? Was he better off running? No! It knew where he lived, where he worked, where he drank. There was no escaping it. He had to confront it now, on his own terms. With witnesses right outside and multiple escape routes.
Hands as clean as they’d ever been, he turned towards the door, as casual as possible, took three steps to lull his photosynthesising stalker into a false sense of security, then spun and pounced, straight onto the toilet in the next cubicle over and halfway over the wall between them.
A man stared back at him, pants around his ankles, bearded and shocked at first, then angry. And still bearded. Rupert didn’t give him time to react, he legged it.
***
Eyes closed, lights off, covers up to his chin, Rupert’s mind raced and his heart beat with all the ferocity of a heavy metal drummer. Either he was going mad, or he was being stalked by a potted plant. He couldn’t decide which was worse. He didn’t dare open his eyes again to find out.
Listening to the darkness he heard nothing. No leafy rustle, no potty thump, no shifting soil. Silence filled the room, and the sense that someone, or something, was watching him. Knot holes in the darkness.
This was ludicrous. Tim was right. It had to be stress. How could a potted plant even move? Open your eyes Rupert. It’s going to happen. You know it, I know it, we’re the same person, we’ll do it together.
Slowly, the stone gates of an ancient temple, opened by magic, his eyelids parted to reveal a ceiling dimly lit by the moonlight filtering through his curtains. That was the hard part, now sit up, have a look. He took a deep breath. And sat up.
It was there! Right bloody there at the end of his bed! Made brave by adrenalin and the lingering effects of too many beers, Rupert lunged forward, landing a hefty kick with his blanketed right foot that sent the potted plant to the floor.
It didn’t move, didn’t react, just lay there, inanimate. Heart beating again, lungs inhaling, Rupert grappled with a lamp and filled the room with light. It was the same plant. Exactly the same plant. Of course it was. What business would any other plant have in his room? Outside in the lounge room his grandmother’s grandfather clock struck two.
“Hello?” His voice was week and pathetic, and he summoned the courage to raise his voice. “Is anyone there?”
Silence.
Staying as far away from the plant as he could at all times, Rupert made his way to the front door. The deadlock hung in place, exactly as he’d left it.
“Very funny Tim. Ha.” Nothing.
“Sharon?”
“Homeless guy?”
Nothing.
At the back of a cupboard he found the cricket bat Sharon had given him two birthday’s ago, still unused. Then edging forward, switching lights on as he went, he returned to his bedroom and his foe. It lay exactly as he had left it, spilled soil sinking into the fibres of the carpet.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
The plant laughed in silence.
“I’m not even afraid.”
He wasn’t convincing anyone.
“What do you want?!”
The question hung answerless in the air.
“Right, if that’s how you want it.”
He raised his cricket back, hesitated for a moment, hoping for a response to the threat, then laid into it with wrath and fury both. The thin trunk snapped in two, held together only by a thread, and the bat hit the carpet with an impotent thud. He kicked the pot for emphasis and it rolled across the room before thumping into the wall beneath the window, leaving a trail of soil in its wake.
He sat down on the bed to regain his composure, considered calling Tim then decided against it. The plant lay there innocently, as if he were the unreasonable one in the room.
***
“Rupert?”
He nodded sadly, and Tim looked concerned as he led the way inside.
“You look like you spent the night on a bench in a park.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“Not really.”
“Well, no, but I did spend the night on a bench.”
“You’re not trying to win Sharon back are you?”
“What?”
“Out homeless the homeless guy?”
“No!”
“I bet a cup of tea would do you wonders, why don’t you make one?” Tim slumped down on the couch.
“Thanks a lot.‘You look terrible, you spent the night on a bench, now make me some tea.’”
“Hey, I’m dealing with a major hangover here, which I wouldn’t have if not for you and your conspiracy theories.”
“Fine.”
He moved into the kitchen, where fifteen stolen glasses sat on the counter, and put the kettle on.
“So, did your pot plant follow you here?”
“No.”
“You’ve seen reason?”
“I’ve locked it in my closet.”
“What?”
“I woke up to find it at the foot of my bed.”
“No way.”
“Way. So I beat it up, locked it in my closet and spent the rest of the night on a park bench.”
The kettle switched itself off, and he poured two cups of tea.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
He handed Tim a cup and took a seat.
“Now what?”
“I want you to go back with me, back me up.”
“It’s a prank. It has to be.”
“The door was deadlocked and I live on the sixteenth floor. Who could possibly have gotten it in there?”
“You’re right, it’s far more reasonable to believe it teleported in of its own volition.”
“I know it sounds crazy.”
“I don’t think you know how crazy.”
“Are you coming with me or not?”
“Give me an hour or two to recover first.”
***
“Ready?”
Tim held out his wicket.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Your choice, if you want to risk it, I won’t stop you.”
Tim thought for a moment, and grabbed a second wicket from the cricket set to hold in his other hand. He gave them a martial arts twirl and nearly impaled his foot.
Cricket bat under arm, Rupert inserted key into padlock, took a deep breath and turned. The chains fell away and, making sure Tim was still ready, Rupert flung open the closet doors.
Shirts gasped n surprise, Jackets were taken aback by the intrusion. The potted plant displayed no reaction. It wasn’t there.
Tim looked to Rupert, annoyed.
“It was right there. I put it there.”
“Rupert…”
“Don’t Rupert me! Haven’t you ever seen a movie? Don’t you know how this works? The second you leave it’ll be back!”
“Look, if you need to talk, I’m here for you.”
“I’m not going bloody mad! It was right there!”
“Well, give us a call if you change your mind.” Tim handed him the wickets. “I have the remainder of a hangover to suffer through.”
Rupert slumped, hurled the wickets to the carpet in an uncharacteristic fit of rage.
“Bastards!” And kicked a closet door shut. “I’m on to you! I’m bloody on to you!”
There was no reply, and a moment later he went after Tim. Fifteen flights of stairs calmed him down, and he ran outside wondering if he should take his friend up on his offer after all.
“Tim, wait up!”
Then as Tim began to turn, a pink florist’s van pulled up between them, the door slid open, and three pairs of hands reached out and pulled him inside.
“Excuse me.”
Framed by the partition between the walls of his cubicle, the potted plant sat innocently by the window, unmoving.
“Excuse me.”
It didn’t trick him. Not for a moment. He was on to it.
“Excuse me.”
Any minute now it would slip up, shake a branch, twitch a leaf, and he’d be there, waiting, camera in hand.
“Excuse me!”
The shock sent his head careening into the desk above, and he took a rather arty photograph of his foot. Pot plant forgotten he swung around to see a picture of rage.
“Mr. Cellars!”
The co-CEO of Bridge and Cellars Industries thrust the picture further forward.
“Do you know what this is?”
“A picture?” He didn’t dare climb to his feet.
“A picture of what?”
“Rage, sir?”
“It is a picture of what I am feeling right now. Tell me, if you had a picture of what you were feeling, what would I see?”
“Um…”
“Would it be a plausible explanation as to why, rather than doing whatever it is you’re paid to do, you are crouching beneath a desk staring at a potted plant?”
“Um, no, sir.”
Eyebrows were raised.
“I mean, um, sir, you said I would have a picture of what I’m feeling, and you can’t really feel a plausible explanation, can you? Or even an implausible one.”
“Then what would I see?”
“Um…fear, sir?”
“And why would I see fear? Do you have a reason to be fearful?”
“Um…”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Um, Rupert, sir.” He winced in anticipation. “Rupert Doombringer.”
“That some kind of joke? You think this is a time for jokes?”
“No, sir. It’s my name. Honestly.”
He fumbled with his wallet, found his driver’s license.
“What kind of name is that, Doombringer?”
“It’s, um, Nordic, sir.”
“Nordic?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, Rupert Doombringer, what exactly is it that you do here?”
“I, um, cross check the accounts, sir. Mostly”
“Lot of them under the table, are there?”
“No sir.”
“Do you know why I’m not going to fire you right now?”
“Sir?”
“Nor do I. Try to stay in your chair from now on. If I catch you out of it again I’ll chain the two of you together before sending you home for good.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I’ll expect it returned. Don’t think you’ll get a free chair out of it.”
“No sir.”
Mr. Cellar turned like a sergeant and stalked off in search of other miscreants bringing down his business, and Rupert stared intently at his computer until positive it was safe to look away. When he did, the potted plant was gone.
***
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t there yesterday. Or the day before. It is, without a doubt, the first example of flora ever to step pot on the linoleum of this cafeteria.”
Tim took another bite of his sandwich, and gazed sceptically from Rupert to the potted plant across the cafeteria.
“I dropped a piece of lettuce on the floor yesterday.”
“Was it potted lettuce?”
“No.”
“Then my point stands.”
He gave the potted plant a glare for emphasis. Like it was kidding anyone.
“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure it’s always been there.”
“There aren’t even any windows, how would it survive without sunlight? There’s no nutrition to be gleaned from fluorescent lights.”
“It’s probably plastic.”
“It was outside my cubicle when I arrived this morning.”
“And obviously there couldn’t possibly be two pot plants in the same building.”
“It was that exact pot plant. And it was there when I left home this morning, just sitting there across the road. Then I get on the train, and what do I see at the end of my carriage? And now it’s here, watching me. How does a pot plant even move that fast?”
“You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m being followed by a pot plant, what do you think?”
“How are things with Sharon?”
“Non existent.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Remember I told you about that homeless guy who moved into my hallway?”
“Yeah.”
“She ran away with him.”
“No!”
“To Adelaide.”
“Adelaide? Who runs away to Adelaide? Adelaide is for running away from.”
“That’s what the note said, anyway.”
“Well I’m sorry to hear it, but you’re better off without her.”
“I’ve been living on toast and cereal for a week now. I’ve forgotten how to empty the vacuum cleaner.”
“Okay, so maybe you’re not better off, you know, physically. But life is your oyster again, there are plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Don’t go nautical on me. I have enough problems as it is.”
He gave the plant another glare, and was sure it glared back.
“You don’t think maybe you’re just a bit stressed?”
“My fiancé ran away with a homeless man and I’m being stalked by a pot plant, why would I be stressed?”
“Why don’t you take a week off work, relax?”
“And leave myself at the mercy of the pot plant? With no witnesses around?”
“What’s it going to do? It’s a plant.”
“It’s more than that. I know it is. It’s driven by sinister motives.”
“Tell you what, why don’t we go have a drink after work, talk it through?”
***
“Can you imagine it? Ankle deep in dirt, never allowed to sit down? Just standing there all day absorbing sunlight? That’s no way to live.”
“That’s right Tim, side with the enemy.”
“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t want to live like that.”
“So, what, it’s planning to steal my identity? It’s going to murder me and bury my corpse ankle deep in a pot?”
“You never know. I read a thing, said identity theft has had the largest growth in the whole theft industry over the last five years.”
“Well it’s going the wrong way about it. Who’d want to be me? I don’t. It can have my identity. Just ask.”
“Can I have your identity?”
“What?”
“I could be like Batman. Tim Bircher by day, Rupert Doombringer by night.”
“What a life. Work in accounts till evening, then sneak back in when the lights go off and keep working.”
“Yeah, alright. But I could wear a cape.”
“I don’t wear a cape.”
“Why do you always have to be so negative? All you do is poke holes in my ideas.”
Rupert finished his beer and stood up.
“What are you doing?” Tim’s eyes flashed real shock.
“Going to the toilet?”
“No. You finished your beer!”
“And?”
“You don’t finish your beer yet! They’ll take away the glass!”
“Okay…”
“I need it!”
“What?”
“There was an accident. I’ve been drinking out of jars.”
“You plan to steal all of these?” He gestured towards Tim’s three half empties.
Tim placed forefinger to lips in a frantic shoosh. “They’ll hear you!”
“Right, my bad, what was I thinking?” He took one of Tim’s glasses and poured half its contents into his own. “There, happy?”
Pub bathrooms were always an education. The wall of this particular cubicle, for instance, was quite informative about the nature of Brett’s relationship with his mother, and which body parts he most resembled. It also bore the number of, it guaranteed, a top notch dentist.
Why didn’t anyone ever review dentists? God knew he wouldn’t want the job, but it seemed like the sort of thing that should be done. You checked up on a restaurant’s food before you put it in your mouth, but you just stumbled blindly into a dentist’s and let him stick his actual hands right in without even asking where they’ve been. Back in university there had actually been philosophical debates scrawled across the cubicle walls. Nobody would have mentioned Brett without quotes and sources.
Bladder evacuated, Rupert stared back at himself from the mirror above the sink. His hairline had taken another step back today. At this rate it was going to fall off the back of his head in a month or two. Barely twenty seven and already going bald. And his dad still looked like bloody Fabio. Even the homeless guy had hair right out of a shampoo commercial. No wonder Sharon had left him, his own hair could barely stand to hang around.
And then he saw the leaves in the mirror, protruding above the door of a cubicle behind him.
He stifled a yell. It didn’t know he’d seen it yet. He began to wash his hands, as slowly as possible. He needed a plan. He couldn’t just kick the door open, there was no telling what might await him. It got around easily enough, who knew what else it was capable of? Was he better off running? No! It knew where he lived, where he worked, where he drank. There was no escaping it. He had to confront it now, on his own terms. With witnesses right outside and multiple escape routes.
Hands as clean as they’d ever been, he turned towards the door, as casual as possible, took three steps to lull his photosynthesising stalker into a false sense of security, then spun and pounced, straight onto the toilet in the next cubicle over and halfway over the wall between them.
A man stared back at him, pants around his ankles, bearded and shocked at first, then angry. And still bearded. Rupert didn’t give him time to react, he legged it.
***
Eyes closed, lights off, covers up to his chin, Rupert’s mind raced and his heart beat with all the ferocity of a heavy metal drummer. Either he was going mad, or he was being stalked by a potted plant. He couldn’t decide which was worse. He didn’t dare open his eyes again to find out.
Listening to the darkness he heard nothing. No leafy rustle, no potty thump, no shifting soil. Silence filled the room, and the sense that someone, or something, was watching him. Knot holes in the darkness.
This was ludicrous. Tim was right. It had to be stress. How could a potted plant even move? Open your eyes Rupert. It’s going to happen. You know it, I know it, we’re the same person, we’ll do it together.
Slowly, the stone gates of an ancient temple, opened by magic, his eyelids parted to reveal a ceiling dimly lit by the moonlight filtering through his curtains. That was the hard part, now sit up, have a look. He took a deep breath. And sat up.
It was there! Right bloody there at the end of his bed! Made brave by adrenalin and the lingering effects of too many beers, Rupert lunged forward, landing a hefty kick with his blanketed right foot that sent the potted plant to the floor.
It didn’t move, didn’t react, just lay there, inanimate. Heart beating again, lungs inhaling, Rupert grappled with a lamp and filled the room with light. It was the same plant. Exactly the same plant. Of course it was. What business would any other plant have in his room? Outside in the lounge room his grandmother’s grandfather clock struck two.
“Hello?” His voice was week and pathetic, and he summoned the courage to raise his voice. “Is anyone there?”
Silence.
Staying as far away from the plant as he could at all times, Rupert made his way to the front door. The deadlock hung in place, exactly as he’d left it.
“Very funny Tim. Ha.” Nothing.
“Sharon?”
“Homeless guy?”
Nothing.
At the back of a cupboard he found the cricket bat Sharon had given him two birthday’s ago, still unused. Then edging forward, switching lights on as he went, he returned to his bedroom and his foe. It lay exactly as he had left it, spilled soil sinking into the fibres of the carpet.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
The plant laughed in silence.
“I’m not even afraid.”
He wasn’t convincing anyone.
“What do you want?!”
The question hung answerless in the air.
“Right, if that’s how you want it.”
He raised his cricket back, hesitated for a moment, hoping for a response to the threat, then laid into it with wrath and fury both. The thin trunk snapped in two, held together only by a thread, and the bat hit the carpet with an impotent thud. He kicked the pot for emphasis and it rolled across the room before thumping into the wall beneath the window, leaving a trail of soil in its wake.
He sat down on the bed to regain his composure, considered calling Tim then decided against it. The plant lay there innocently, as if he were the unreasonable one in the room.
***
“Rupert?”
He nodded sadly, and Tim looked concerned as he led the way inside.
“You look like you spent the night on a bench in a park.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“Not really.”
“Well, no, but I did spend the night on a bench.”
“You’re not trying to win Sharon back are you?”
“What?”
“Out homeless the homeless guy?”
“No!”
“I bet a cup of tea would do you wonders, why don’t you make one?” Tim slumped down on the couch.
“Thanks a lot.‘You look terrible, you spent the night on a bench, now make me some tea.’”
“Hey, I’m dealing with a major hangover here, which I wouldn’t have if not for you and your conspiracy theories.”
“Fine.”
He moved into the kitchen, where fifteen stolen glasses sat on the counter, and put the kettle on.
“So, did your pot plant follow you here?”
“No.”
“You’ve seen reason?”
“I’ve locked it in my closet.”
“What?”
“I woke up to find it at the foot of my bed.”
“No way.”
“Way. So I beat it up, locked it in my closet and spent the rest of the night on a park bench.”
The kettle switched itself off, and he poured two cups of tea.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
He handed Tim a cup and took a seat.
“Now what?”
“I want you to go back with me, back me up.”
“It’s a prank. It has to be.”
“The door was deadlocked and I live on the sixteenth floor. Who could possibly have gotten it in there?”
“You’re right, it’s far more reasonable to believe it teleported in of its own volition.”
“I know it sounds crazy.”
“I don’t think you know how crazy.”
“Are you coming with me or not?”
“Give me an hour or two to recover first.”
***
“Ready?”
Tim held out his wicket.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Your choice, if you want to risk it, I won’t stop you.”
Tim thought for a moment, and grabbed a second wicket from the cricket set to hold in his other hand. He gave them a martial arts twirl and nearly impaled his foot.
Cricket bat under arm, Rupert inserted key into padlock, took a deep breath and turned. The chains fell away and, making sure Tim was still ready, Rupert flung open the closet doors.
Shirts gasped n surprise, Jackets were taken aback by the intrusion. The potted plant displayed no reaction. It wasn’t there.
Tim looked to Rupert, annoyed.
“It was right there. I put it there.”
“Rupert…”
“Don’t Rupert me! Haven’t you ever seen a movie? Don’t you know how this works? The second you leave it’ll be back!”
“Look, if you need to talk, I’m here for you.”
“I’m not going bloody mad! It was right there!”
“Well, give us a call if you change your mind.” Tim handed him the wickets. “I have the remainder of a hangover to suffer through.”
Rupert slumped, hurled the wickets to the carpet in an uncharacteristic fit of rage.
“Bastards!” And kicked a closet door shut. “I’m on to you! I’m bloody on to you!”
There was no reply, and a moment later he went after Tim. Fifteen flights of stairs calmed him down, and he ran outside wondering if he should take his friend up on his offer after all.
“Tim, wait up!”
Then as Tim began to turn, a pink florist’s van pulled up between them, the door slid open, and three pairs of hands reached out and pulled him inside.