- Joined
- Jun 13, 2006
- Messages
- 6,381
When I first joined Chronicles many months ago, one of the main reasons was to use the critiques section and for various reasons never got around to it. Well at last I thought I throw something at the wall and see what happens. This is the start of an idea I've had floating around my head for the last few weeks. It's in the raw, exactly as it came out on the page without any revisions! Hope it's not too long... but this is the first point where it felt like a break!
The street was much like any other, the house standing on the end of a row, on one side similar houses on the other a modern purpose built student flats that looked so out of place when compared to all the other buildings around them. It could have been argued that they were all turn of the century buildings, only that the student building was turn of this century, virtually all of the other houses were turn of the previous.
The house I had business with was the end one, biggest in the row. Although it had a number it was named Stuart House, just as the road was named Stuart Road. Unlike the others in the row it was double fronted, a black door between two bow windows, a small concrete path running up to the front step. On either side of the walkway there was an overgrown, badly neglected garden, fronted by an equally ignored hedge, a black metal gate almost consumed by the encroaching greenery.
I sighed. In my job I got to see too many of these places, but I still checked the clipboard hoping against hope that I had come to the wrong house, but no. The form clearly stated this address and so with a sigh I unlatched the gate, wincing as it squeaked open and made my way up the path, looking up at the window above the door, flaking gold letters stating that this was indeed the aforementioned Stuart House.
There was no bell just an old brass knocker and as loudly as I dared I used it, watching rust and paint flake away from the door, escaping the impact of my incursion. I stood there, standing just in front of the concrete step, looking for any sign of movement in the rooms beyond the windows, feeling the spring breeze gently brush through my hair, wondering whether there was anyone at home, and if there was whether they would answer the door. It would not be unusual to get no response.
But there was movement. Behind the frosted glass I heard a noise, could see an interior door opening and a ghostly figure appear. A few moments later the front door opened and I came face to face with the man that would change my life. He was tall and thin, his head a chaotic mass of white hair, looking more than a little like Christopher Lloyd in back to the future, only older.
The small vestibule behind him was not that big, a coconut hair carpet on the floor, half covered with unopened post. I did my bets to not wince, then smiled engagingly, “Mr Carter, my name is Russell Morgan, I’m with Social Services.” I flashed my identity badge, confirming I was who I said I was.
His aged grey eyes narrowed, “Well,” he snapped, “That’s just wonderful for you, but what in the name of old Murphy has that got to do with me?”
I blinked, used to these kind of outbursts, “I’m here to check that everything is all okay with you. It has been noted that you have not been cashing your cheques and that…”
He waved me to silence with one bony-fingered hand, “Oh. Well,” he seemed to consider things for a moment, “What you are actually saying is that one of you lazy bastards has just come to check up on me and see if I am okay, when there are plenty of other old people who need your help so much more.
“Well as you can see, I’m fine.” He paused, took a deep breath, “Now bugger off!”
I blinked. I had not been doing this job for long, but I was already getting used to the varied reaction from some of the senior citizens. Many were pleased to see me, some felt as though I was a representation of those that thought they were not capable any more. Aggression was, perhaps unfortunately, part of the job. A part I was learning to deal with.
“I’m really sorry, Mr Carter,” I began in my most sincere tones, “but…”
“He cut me off with a fast snapping of his jaws, “Professor.”
“I beg your pardon?” I managed, surprised.
His sharp grey eyes glared right into mine, “It’s professor. Not Mister. I have earned the right to the title a thousand fold, and if a young Oink like you is going to address me, I’ll be damned if it is by anything but my correct title.”
I quickly scanned the page of notes in front of me. Nowhere did it state that the man before me had any credentials at all. I wondered whether it was a form of senility. But I decided it would be better to play along, he seemed temperamental enough as it was, “Oh, sorry Professor, I did not know.
“Look, I know this is just a waste of time for you and I’m sure that you are alright, but now that I am here it might be worth just letting me go through a few things with you. Once that is done I’m sure Social Services will not bother you again for a long time.”
He glared at me, almost breathing steam through his flaring nostrils, then nodded slowly.
“What do you want?” his tone was still suspicious.
“I have to make sure that you are living well, ascertain why you have not been claiming your benefits and make sure that there are no problems that we may be in a position to help with.”
He leaned against the wall running his fingers through his mass of grey white hair, “As you can see I am alive and by default well. I have not been claiming my benefits because I may well be on the wrong side of seventy, but I’m more than capable of supporting myself. And there are no problems thank you.
“Goodbye,” the black door began to close.
“Professor!” I called, “You know that is not the way these things work.” I half expected to see the door accelerate and slam in my face, but it stopped and he looked back at me, frustrated, “Oh for the love of…” I heard him mutter.
“What,” he asked in measured tones, “Is it going to take to get rid of you?”
I put on my most sympathetic face and combined it with tone, “Professor Carter, you can just imagine that I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. If I can just run through a few quick forms with you, the sooner I will be gone.”
He shook his head from side to side, his mane strangely staying still, “You had better come in.”
I waited until his back was turned before I grinned at his capitulation, then followed him into the small vestibule, stepping over the ignored post and closed the door behind me. He opened the inner door and led the way into the main hallway. I had little time to marvel at the ornate glass in the door, before I realised the state the hall was in. It was hard to describe just what the passageway looked like, obscured at it was by piles. Stacked floor to ceiling there were piles: of newspapers, magazines, bottles, rusting cans and virtually anything else that should have found itself into a bin at some stage. It obscured everything, I could barely make out the stairs, hidden as they were beneath the neatly arranged refuse, the only sign of where to go was the narrow path running through it all. Somehow the old man navigated it all without even touching any of it, while I had to turn sideways just to get through it all, realising with that sinking feeling that I had stumbled on ‘one of those’ clients my colleagues sometimes talked about.
He slipped between the stacks of paper, through a door that was all but hidden by the piles of papers and I followed being led into a very large living room. At least I presumed that was what the room was. It stretched the entire length of the house, with fantastically carved plaster ceilings, high above the floor. Light poured into the room from the large windows at both ends, while a large fireplace was set back in the wall opposite the door. This looked as though it had not been cleaned since it had last been used, but there was no way of knowing where that was. The fact that there was a small bar heater tucked into one corner indicated to me that it was probably a good time before, despite the ashes that remained in its black grate.
As for furniture the room was an eclectic mix of styles, almost as though the old man had taken whatever it was he was offered from countless sources. It may well have been that some of the cabinets were antiques, but if that was the case they had never really been looked after and were devalued beyond compare. But none of these things were the important features of the room, what took up most of the space were the wires, cogs, batteries, capacitors, chips and virtually every form of technology I could have thought of.
Some of these were cobbled together into strange forms that seemed like nothing else I had ever seen. Lights flashed deep in bundles of bolts, wires sparked and there was the old smell of what I believed to be bakerlight. I slowly looked around at the technological chaos my mouth dropping open as I tried to understand just what it was the old man was doing.
He slumped back into a battered old chair, glaring at me, “Come on boy, I have not got all day you know!”
I wanted to snap back some witty comment at him, perhaps telling him that he was an old man so what else was there for him to be doing, but apart from being politically incorrect, not to mention rude, I had the nasty feeling I did not really want to know.
I looked for somewhere to sit, realising that there was no where else for me to go. There were other chairs in the room but all of them were covered in twisted lumps of technology that looked harmless, but the way some of them blinked indicated that they might just have been dangerous.
I looked down at my clipboard, opened my mouth to begin then as though my mouth had a life of it’s own asked, “What on earth is all this stuff?”
As my mind railed at me for asking I waited for an answer. Professor Carter shrugged, “If you people did your job properly you would know that I am an inventor, so by default all of these,” he indicated the entire room, “These would be my inventions!”
I blinked, “Inventions…”
“Of course,” he snapped, leaping to his feet with an agility that belied his years, “What else are they going to be!”
“Like what?” I knew I was going to regret asking.
Without a pause he gripped one of them a small metal object with pincers and a few wires wrapped around it. “This,” he began, “Now this is a step forward. It’s not working yet, but this will be the worlds first electronic can opener!”
I blinked, “I think they’ve had those for a couple of years.”
Grey eyes narrowed, looked at me, then the device, “Really?” He looked at me again, “I mean really?”
I nodded.
“Oh well,” with a sigh he threw them over his should, dismissing them with a casual flick of the wrist, instantly whipping out with one hand and grapping a device that looked like a calculator, complete with buttons, a microphone and speaker. “Well, how about this then. A telephone. But not like any other, not only does it work without wires, but you can listen and speak without having to hold the hand piece!”
I blinked and held up my mobile, “My mobile phone does all that.”
He stalked up to me and peered at the small handheld device, “Well, bugger me!”
He stood erect and silent for a few moment absorbing the news I had given him, “What about changing channels on the television without leaving the chair?”
“Can do that,” I acknowledged.
“Ahh.” A few more examples of his work were forthcoming, most of which existed in one form or another, or else he announced that eh had not got them to work yet.
For a moment he seemed rather deflated, and I almost felt sorry for him. I decided to have mercy on him, “Okay Professor, let’s get back to these forms and then I’ll be gone.”
He waved at me to continue distractedly.
“So,” I put on my most professional manner, “Your full name is Simion Carter, you are 72 years old and this is your home residence.”
I looked up waiting for confirmation but he shook his head, “Huh, bet you think this is all a waste of time,” he indicated the room, “That I am some old eccentric fool who may or may not be harmless?”
“Well…” I began, trying to work out what the best thing was to say, wishing I had never brought up the ‘inventions’ and wishing I could just get out of the house and onto the next job.
“A fool!” he snapped, “An old idiot with delusions!”
“No, not at all!” I protested but it was too late. The old man was ranting and I began to worry that he was going to do himself some damage. He stalked back and forwards around the room, insisting that he was a serious inventor. Half the time I think he was talking to himself, and just when I thought he was going to stop he would launch into a diatribe about how great he could have been. Suddenly he stopped, looking right at me, “Okay that’s no good! I’ll not have you laughing at me!” And before I could protest he was gone, almost skipping out of the room indicating that I should have been right behind him. With a sigh I followed, back into the refuse filled corridor, down to the end of the passage. There was a solid door at the end of the hall, that I guessed led outside, a second to the left. This was the one he opened and revealing a set of steps running down and two at a time the old man took them, and like an idiot I followed wondering just what it was that an old, mad inventor kept in the basement.
The cellar was one giant room, almost the size of the house, with only a few pillars visible supporting the main house above. But it was what filled it that took the attention. I call it a machine because there was nothing else that described it. Like something out of an ancient science fiction movie it filled the open space. Capacitors, transistors and valves seemed to be the order of the day, silent and dead to the world they lay in silence, connected by a web of coloured wires that was almost beautiful to behold. Giant, silver dishes, at least four of them dangled from poles, positioned in the centre of the room, and in one distant corner I spotted a solid shape, black in the grey shadows that lurked there.
“See!” the professor crowed, “See my crowning achievement, my greatest invention!”
All I could see was something that looked like it had escaped from a Buster Crabbe adventure. “What does this do?” I asked flippantly, wondering why there was no sign of a modern computer, “A new type of radio transceiver?”
Carter frowned of me, genuinely looking confused, “This,” he announced with a measure of pride, “This is my time machine!”
The street was much like any other, the house standing on the end of a row, on one side similar houses on the other a modern purpose built student flats that looked so out of place when compared to all the other buildings around them. It could have been argued that they were all turn of the century buildings, only that the student building was turn of this century, virtually all of the other houses were turn of the previous.
The house I had business with was the end one, biggest in the row. Although it had a number it was named Stuart House, just as the road was named Stuart Road. Unlike the others in the row it was double fronted, a black door between two bow windows, a small concrete path running up to the front step. On either side of the walkway there was an overgrown, badly neglected garden, fronted by an equally ignored hedge, a black metal gate almost consumed by the encroaching greenery.
I sighed. In my job I got to see too many of these places, but I still checked the clipboard hoping against hope that I had come to the wrong house, but no. The form clearly stated this address and so with a sigh I unlatched the gate, wincing as it squeaked open and made my way up the path, looking up at the window above the door, flaking gold letters stating that this was indeed the aforementioned Stuart House.
There was no bell just an old brass knocker and as loudly as I dared I used it, watching rust and paint flake away from the door, escaping the impact of my incursion. I stood there, standing just in front of the concrete step, looking for any sign of movement in the rooms beyond the windows, feeling the spring breeze gently brush through my hair, wondering whether there was anyone at home, and if there was whether they would answer the door. It would not be unusual to get no response.
But there was movement. Behind the frosted glass I heard a noise, could see an interior door opening and a ghostly figure appear. A few moments later the front door opened and I came face to face with the man that would change my life. He was tall and thin, his head a chaotic mass of white hair, looking more than a little like Christopher Lloyd in back to the future, only older.
The small vestibule behind him was not that big, a coconut hair carpet on the floor, half covered with unopened post. I did my bets to not wince, then smiled engagingly, “Mr Carter, my name is Russell Morgan, I’m with Social Services.” I flashed my identity badge, confirming I was who I said I was.
His aged grey eyes narrowed, “Well,” he snapped, “That’s just wonderful for you, but what in the name of old Murphy has that got to do with me?”
I blinked, used to these kind of outbursts, “I’m here to check that everything is all okay with you. It has been noted that you have not been cashing your cheques and that…”
He waved me to silence with one bony-fingered hand, “Oh. Well,” he seemed to consider things for a moment, “What you are actually saying is that one of you lazy bastards has just come to check up on me and see if I am okay, when there are plenty of other old people who need your help so much more.
“Well as you can see, I’m fine.” He paused, took a deep breath, “Now bugger off!”
I blinked. I had not been doing this job for long, but I was already getting used to the varied reaction from some of the senior citizens. Many were pleased to see me, some felt as though I was a representation of those that thought they were not capable any more. Aggression was, perhaps unfortunately, part of the job. A part I was learning to deal with.
“I’m really sorry, Mr Carter,” I began in my most sincere tones, “but…”
“He cut me off with a fast snapping of his jaws, “Professor.”
“I beg your pardon?” I managed, surprised.
His sharp grey eyes glared right into mine, “It’s professor. Not Mister. I have earned the right to the title a thousand fold, and if a young Oink like you is going to address me, I’ll be damned if it is by anything but my correct title.”
I quickly scanned the page of notes in front of me. Nowhere did it state that the man before me had any credentials at all. I wondered whether it was a form of senility. But I decided it would be better to play along, he seemed temperamental enough as it was, “Oh, sorry Professor, I did not know.
“Look, I know this is just a waste of time for you and I’m sure that you are alright, but now that I am here it might be worth just letting me go through a few things with you. Once that is done I’m sure Social Services will not bother you again for a long time.”
He glared at me, almost breathing steam through his flaring nostrils, then nodded slowly.
“What do you want?” his tone was still suspicious.
“I have to make sure that you are living well, ascertain why you have not been claiming your benefits and make sure that there are no problems that we may be in a position to help with.”
He leaned against the wall running his fingers through his mass of grey white hair, “As you can see I am alive and by default well. I have not been claiming my benefits because I may well be on the wrong side of seventy, but I’m more than capable of supporting myself. And there are no problems thank you.
“Goodbye,” the black door began to close.
“Professor!” I called, “You know that is not the way these things work.” I half expected to see the door accelerate and slam in my face, but it stopped and he looked back at me, frustrated, “Oh for the love of…” I heard him mutter.
“What,” he asked in measured tones, “Is it going to take to get rid of you?”
I put on my most sympathetic face and combined it with tone, “Professor Carter, you can just imagine that I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. If I can just run through a few quick forms with you, the sooner I will be gone.”
He shook his head from side to side, his mane strangely staying still, “You had better come in.”
I waited until his back was turned before I grinned at his capitulation, then followed him into the small vestibule, stepping over the ignored post and closed the door behind me. He opened the inner door and led the way into the main hallway. I had little time to marvel at the ornate glass in the door, before I realised the state the hall was in. It was hard to describe just what the passageway looked like, obscured at it was by piles. Stacked floor to ceiling there were piles: of newspapers, magazines, bottles, rusting cans and virtually anything else that should have found itself into a bin at some stage. It obscured everything, I could barely make out the stairs, hidden as they were beneath the neatly arranged refuse, the only sign of where to go was the narrow path running through it all. Somehow the old man navigated it all without even touching any of it, while I had to turn sideways just to get through it all, realising with that sinking feeling that I had stumbled on ‘one of those’ clients my colleagues sometimes talked about.
He slipped between the stacks of paper, through a door that was all but hidden by the piles of papers and I followed being led into a very large living room. At least I presumed that was what the room was. It stretched the entire length of the house, with fantastically carved plaster ceilings, high above the floor. Light poured into the room from the large windows at both ends, while a large fireplace was set back in the wall opposite the door. This looked as though it had not been cleaned since it had last been used, but there was no way of knowing where that was. The fact that there was a small bar heater tucked into one corner indicated to me that it was probably a good time before, despite the ashes that remained in its black grate.
As for furniture the room was an eclectic mix of styles, almost as though the old man had taken whatever it was he was offered from countless sources. It may well have been that some of the cabinets were antiques, but if that was the case they had never really been looked after and were devalued beyond compare. But none of these things were the important features of the room, what took up most of the space were the wires, cogs, batteries, capacitors, chips and virtually every form of technology I could have thought of.
Some of these were cobbled together into strange forms that seemed like nothing else I had ever seen. Lights flashed deep in bundles of bolts, wires sparked and there was the old smell of what I believed to be bakerlight. I slowly looked around at the technological chaos my mouth dropping open as I tried to understand just what it was the old man was doing.
He slumped back into a battered old chair, glaring at me, “Come on boy, I have not got all day you know!”
I wanted to snap back some witty comment at him, perhaps telling him that he was an old man so what else was there for him to be doing, but apart from being politically incorrect, not to mention rude, I had the nasty feeling I did not really want to know.
I looked for somewhere to sit, realising that there was no where else for me to go. There were other chairs in the room but all of them were covered in twisted lumps of technology that looked harmless, but the way some of them blinked indicated that they might just have been dangerous.
I looked down at my clipboard, opened my mouth to begin then as though my mouth had a life of it’s own asked, “What on earth is all this stuff?”
As my mind railed at me for asking I waited for an answer. Professor Carter shrugged, “If you people did your job properly you would know that I am an inventor, so by default all of these,” he indicated the entire room, “These would be my inventions!”
I blinked, “Inventions…”
“Of course,” he snapped, leaping to his feet with an agility that belied his years, “What else are they going to be!”
“Like what?” I knew I was going to regret asking.
Without a pause he gripped one of them a small metal object with pincers and a few wires wrapped around it. “This,” he began, “Now this is a step forward. It’s not working yet, but this will be the worlds first electronic can opener!”
I blinked, “I think they’ve had those for a couple of years.”
Grey eyes narrowed, looked at me, then the device, “Really?” He looked at me again, “I mean really?”
I nodded.
“Oh well,” with a sigh he threw them over his should, dismissing them with a casual flick of the wrist, instantly whipping out with one hand and grapping a device that looked like a calculator, complete with buttons, a microphone and speaker. “Well, how about this then. A telephone. But not like any other, not only does it work without wires, but you can listen and speak without having to hold the hand piece!”
I blinked and held up my mobile, “My mobile phone does all that.”
He stalked up to me and peered at the small handheld device, “Well, bugger me!”
He stood erect and silent for a few moment absorbing the news I had given him, “What about changing channels on the television without leaving the chair?”
“Can do that,” I acknowledged.
“Ahh.” A few more examples of his work were forthcoming, most of which existed in one form or another, or else he announced that eh had not got them to work yet.
For a moment he seemed rather deflated, and I almost felt sorry for him. I decided to have mercy on him, “Okay Professor, let’s get back to these forms and then I’ll be gone.”
He waved at me to continue distractedly.
“So,” I put on my most professional manner, “Your full name is Simion Carter, you are 72 years old and this is your home residence.”
I looked up waiting for confirmation but he shook his head, “Huh, bet you think this is all a waste of time,” he indicated the room, “That I am some old eccentric fool who may or may not be harmless?”
“Well…” I began, trying to work out what the best thing was to say, wishing I had never brought up the ‘inventions’ and wishing I could just get out of the house and onto the next job.
“A fool!” he snapped, “An old idiot with delusions!”
“No, not at all!” I protested but it was too late. The old man was ranting and I began to worry that he was going to do himself some damage. He stalked back and forwards around the room, insisting that he was a serious inventor. Half the time I think he was talking to himself, and just when I thought he was going to stop he would launch into a diatribe about how great he could have been. Suddenly he stopped, looking right at me, “Okay that’s no good! I’ll not have you laughing at me!” And before I could protest he was gone, almost skipping out of the room indicating that I should have been right behind him. With a sigh I followed, back into the refuse filled corridor, down to the end of the passage. There was a solid door at the end of the hall, that I guessed led outside, a second to the left. This was the one he opened and revealing a set of steps running down and two at a time the old man took them, and like an idiot I followed wondering just what it was that an old, mad inventor kept in the basement.
The cellar was one giant room, almost the size of the house, with only a few pillars visible supporting the main house above. But it was what filled it that took the attention. I call it a machine because there was nothing else that described it. Like something out of an ancient science fiction movie it filled the open space. Capacitors, transistors and valves seemed to be the order of the day, silent and dead to the world they lay in silence, connected by a web of coloured wires that was almost beautiful to behold. Giant, silver dishes, at least four of them dangled from poles, positioned in the centre of the room, and in one distant corner I spotted a solid shape, black in the grey shadows that lurked there.
“See!” the professor crowed, “See my crowning achievement, my greatest invention!”
All I could see was something that looked like it had escaped from a Buster Crabbe adventure. “What does this do?” I asked flippantly, wondering why there was no sign of a modern computer, “A new type of radio transceiver?”
Carter frowned of me, genuinely looking confused, “This,” he announced with a measure of pride, “This is my time machine!”
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