In September 2015, I wrote a short piece I called ‘Assimilated‘. A short while later, I wrote a sequel titled ‘You have nothing to fear, but …‘, which I produced in response to a challenge at esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com that asked for a story about fear.
Using those as a start-point, we now follow Victor’s adventures after his exposure to Martinus mendax.
Let’s run with this for a few weeks, to see where it takes us.
I will welcome storyline suggestions or even complete scenes, as long as they fit the overall scheme (which I hope will emerge before too long).
Catch up on earlier episodes of Martinus mendax at this link
I had to get rid of what was in the boot of the car. But where, and how? Martin will know, I thought. I was damned if I was going to start summoning him, though, even when he could be useful. That was the first step on a very slippery slope.
It was a pleasant day outside, if a little cool, so I kept the car’s hood down. I donned my tweed jacket and matching flat cap, pulled on my string-backed leather driving gloves to complete the 70s look, and got into the car. I started the engine, appreciating the throaty roar from its exhaust, drove out of the garage and turned left at the road. Seven junctions later, I was heading west, toward open country; as much as there is such a beast in south-eastern England. The mp3 player in the car was pumping out some of my favourite smooth jazz tracks and I was enjoying the wind on my face, the smells of the country filling my nostrils and some relaxing music pampering my ears.
I had recently given a lot of thought to the presence of my ‘visitor’. I had no control over his decisions; quite the opposite, in fact. It was he controlling mine. I had no intention of inviting him into my consciousness, although I recognised that the very act of thinking about him probably sent him exactly the message I was aiming to avoid him getting. I couldn’t control it, but over time, I was beginning to recognise when decisions were mine, and when they were his.
I wasn’t taking much notice of where I was going; I was just enjoying the drive. When I entered one of the largest areas of ancient woodland in the region, I knew the decision wasn’t mine. I drove for some distance, finally coming to a stop in a clearing off the beaten track. I instinctively knew that this is where I needed to dig a pit big enough and deep enough to bury my load to keep it from prying eyes. I dug for almost two hours, until I was sure I had done enough, opened the boot of the car, uncovered and carefully lifted out what needed to be hidden. Having lowered it into my pit, I back-filled, covering it to a reasonable depth, then flattened the soil and covered it with the woodland floor material that was there originally.
I cleaned my shovel, put it in the boot of the car and drove back onto the track. Leaving the car, I returned to the scene of the crime on foot, lawn rake in hand and, walking backwards, raked out all trace of car tyre tracks and my own footprints. If anyone did come across what I had buried I didn’t want to make it easy for them to trace it back to me.
The following morning, I was awakened just before seven o’clock by Gina’s Jack Russells declaring war on, presumably, a Royal Mail employee. I threw on my bath robe and descended the stairs, hoping to see who it was. There was a knock on the door.
I opened it.
“Didn’t expect to see you,” I said.
“Why not, Vic,” Jim replied, “didn’t you see my note? I told you I would only be away for one day. My mum’s in hospital, not at all well. Said she needed to see me urgently, so I had to rush off straight after work.”
“I haven’t looked at yesterday’s mail yet, Jim. Was it in there?”
“Should have been.”
“What’ve you got for me today?”
“Nothing, Vic. I just wanted to thank you for getting rid of that ugly sculpture that’s been in your front garden for ages. Where is it now?”
“Let’s just say it’s gone the way of all gnomes, Jim, shall we?” Vic replied, and started to laugh.
Jim joined him. “As long as it’s gone. Apart from being an affront to good taste, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve nearly tripped over it on dark winter mornings. Now, if we could get Gina’s dogs to shut up, my life would be complete.”
“Is that a challenge, Jim?”
Jim chuckled and started to walk away. He turned, a wry smile on his face. “Or an assignment…” he said.