{Part Four}
"After you, Mister Skidd," said Blather, waving his sausage fingers with perverse delicacy in front of his grotesquely bulging waistcoat. "After you!"
Skidd hesitated in the doorway. He retched when another puff of the foul air assailed his nostrils. Behind him he could hear Blather's breath whistling through his fleshy nostrils. The lightbulb continued to swirl in crazy arcs above the moist and mossy steps. Skidd barely had time to wonder how a modern office could even have a doorway like this when he felt the tip of Mister Blather's file pressing into his kidneys, and the heavy cake-laden voice spat into his ear, "Today, if you please, Mister Skidd."
Heaving a sigh, and wondering if he'd remembered to turn the light off in his own kitchen that morning, Skidd reached for the wet and rusty chain which ran down, down parallel to the stairs and took his first step.
The air became more unbearable the further down they went, Skidd all the while bracing himself with one hand, and waving his other hand nervously in front of him, trying to fend off contact with, well, who knows what might be lurking in such a subterranean cavern?
As the unlikely pair wound their way deep underground beneath the city, the stench abated and Skidd began to breath tentatively through his nose again. Blather even let up on the pressure, and dropped a couple of stps behind, occasionally stopping altogether to wheeze and cough. Skidd knew that there must be absolutely no possibility of escape, or else Blather wouldn't have bothered to let him draw even slightly ahead. Mister Blather may well appear to the casual observer to be more beast than man, but Skidd knew that in such fellows animal cunning was a very sharp sixth sense indeed.
Skidd look at his watch. And looked again. It had stopped. He was sure he'd wound it that morning. He shook his wrist and raised his watch to his ear. In the thick silence of the interminable stone stairwell, he heard nothing. Damn and blast the thing.
Blather caught Skidd's attention with an exceedingly phlegmy cough. The latter stopped and looked up behind him. Something glinted in the half-darkness. Then, with a muffled pop, the light went out.
{To be continued...}
"After you, Mister Skidd," said Blather, waving his sausage fingers with perverse delicacy in front of his grotesquely bulging waistcoat. "After you!"
Skidd hesitated in the doorway. He retched when another puff of the foul air assailed his nostrils. Behind him he could hear Blather's breath whistling through his fleshy nostrils. The lightbulb continued to swirl in crazy arcs above the moist and mossy steps. Skidd barely had time to wonder how a modern office could even have a doorway like this when he felt the tip of Mister Blather's file pressing into his kidneys, and the heavy cake-laden voice spat into his ear, "Today, if you please, Mister Skidd."
Heaving a sigh, and wondering if he'd remembered to turn the light off in his own kitchen that morning, Skidd reached for the wet and rusty chain which ran down, down parallel to the stairs and took his first step.
The air became more unbearable the further down they went, Skidd all the while bracing himself with one hand, and waving his other hand nervously in front of him, trying to fend off contact with, well, who knows what might be lurking in such a subterranean cavern?
As the unlikely pair wound their way deep underground beneath the city, the stench abated and Skidd began to breath tentatively through his nose again. Blather even let up on the pressure, and dropped a couple of stps behind, occasionally stopping altogether to wheeze and cough. Skidd knew that there must be absolutely no possibility of escape, or else Blather wouldn't have bothered to let him draw even slightly ahead. Mister Blather may well appear to the casual observer to be more beast than man, but Skidd knew that in such fellows animal cunning was a very sharp sixth sense indeed.
Skidd look at his watch. And looked again. It had stopped. He was sure he'd wound it that morning. He shook his wrist and raised his watch to his ear. In the thick silence of the interminable stone stairwell, he heard nothing. Damn and blast the thing.
Blather caught Skidd's attention with an exceedingly phlegmy cough. The latter stopped and looked up behind him. Something glinted in the half-darkness. Then, with a muffled pop, the light went out.
{To be continued...}
{Part Three}
Had he done anything to draw the attention of the management? He knew that it could prove fatal.
Skidd drew alongside a panting, and still masticating, Mister Blather. Blather raised a chubby eyebrow. "So you could join us at last, could you Mister Skidd?" It took the greatest of self-control for Skidd not to wrinkle his nose at the uncouth owner. Cake still rained down on the front of Blather's pinstrip suit, and Skidd was sure he felt a mist of finer crumbs landing on his cheeks and - worse! - his own lips. He kept his face stony and nodded. "Thplendid!" Blather roared, and abruptly stopped by an unmarked door. He fumbled in his trouser pockets for a minute, clamping his elbows down to keep a file under his arm. Skidd stood back and watched the spectacle.
Eventually Blather withdrew a diamond-studded keyring from his pocket. Coins, pieces of pocket-lint, and the body of a mouse tumbled to the floor. Skidd, standing out of Blather's line of sight, raised an eyebrow. He'd heard about this keyring before, the rooms it allowed entry to were the stuff of office legend. He didn't know if he should feel excited or extremely nervous about this new development. It depended, he knew, which of the office legends he chose to believe.
After fumbling the key into the lock, Mister Blather swung the door open with as close to theatrical gusto as his stubby arms and limited imagination would allow. Skidd's eyebrows shot up even further. The open door revealed an ancient stone staircase, lit by a naked bulb which was swinging in crazy circles as a gust of foetid air blew up from below.
"After you, Mister Skidd," said Blather, waving his sausage fingers with perverse delicacy in front of his grotesquely bulging waistcoat. "After you!"
{To Be Continued...}
Had he done anything to draw the attention of the management? He knew that it could prove fatal.
Skidd drew alongside a panting, and still masticating, Mister Blather. Blather raised a chubby eyebrow. "So you could join us at last, could you Mister Skidd?" It took the greatest of self-control for Skidd not to wrinkle his nose at the uncouth owner. Cake still rained down on the front of Blather's pinstrip suit, and Skidd was sure he felt a mist of finer crumbs landing on his cheeks and - worse! - his own lips. He kept his face stony and nodded. "Thplendid!" Blather roared, and abruptly stopped by an unmarked door. He fumbled in his trouser pockets for a minute, clamping his elbows down to keep a file under his arm. Skidd stood back and watched the spectacle.
Eventually Blather withdrew a diamond-studded keyring from his pocket. Coins, pieces of pocket-lint, and the body of a mouse tumbled to the floor. Skidd, standing out of Blather's line of sight, raised an eyebrow. He'd heard about this keyring before, the rooms it allowed entry to were the stuff of office legend. He didn't know if he should feel excited or extremely nervous about this new development. It depended, he knew, which of the office legends he chose to believe.
After fumbling the key into the lock, Mister Blather swung the door open with as close to theatrical gusto as his stubby arms and limited imagination would allow. Skidd's eyebrows shot up even further. The open door revealed an ancient stone staircase, lit by a naked bulb which was swinging in crazy circles as a gust of foetid air blew up from below.
"After you, Mister Skidd," said Blather, waving his sausage fingers with perverse delicacy in front of his grotesquely bulging waistcoat. "After you!"
{To Be Continued...}
{Part Two}
"Follow me, Skidd," Blather mumbled, still chewing, raining cake from the corners of his mouth, "follow me, man!"
Skidd could barely keep up with the departing Blather, who, despite his tremendous size, could move at quite a clip. It took a second for Skidd's brain to engage his feet and set the creaking machinery of his narrow frame in motion. Blather's sonorous voice could be heard pontificating flabbily as he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. All Skidd could make out of the very one-sided conversation was the repetition of his name, and what he thought was the phrase "... not happy at all"
His briefcase slapped against his thigh has Skidd slipped and slid around the corner in hot pursuit of his boss who was already shrinking to a tiny black pinstriped point in the gloom of the corridor. The hammering of the typing pool had faded into into a heartbeat-like thud deep in Skidd's ears and his breath was burning in his chest, and he could taste metal.
Blather drew further and further away. Skidd loped along past closed doors which bled little trickles of insipid light into the otherwise dark corridor. His mind was racing. What could Blather want with him? Had he done anything to draw the attention of the management? He knew that it could prove fatal.
{To Be Continued...}
"Follow me, Skidd," Blather mumbled, still chewing, raining cake from the corners of his mouth, "follow me, man!"
Skidd could barely keep up with the departing Blather, who, despite his tremendous size, could move at quite a clip. It took a second for Skidd's brain to engage his feet and set the creaking machinery of his narrow frame in motion. Blather's sonorous voice could be heard pontificating flabbily as he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. All Skidd could make out of the very one-sided conversation was the repetition of his name, and what he thought was the phrase "... not happy at all"
His briefcase slapped against his thigh has Skidd slipped and slid around the corner in hot pursuit of his boss who was already shrinking to a tiny black pinstriped point in the gloom of the corridor. The hammering of the typing pool had faded into into a heartbeat-like thud deep in Skidd's ears and his breath was burning in his chest, and he could taste metal.
Blather drew further and further away. Skidd loped along past closed doors which bled little trickles of insipid light into the otherwise dark corridor. His mind was racing. What could Blather want with him? Had he done anything to draw the attention of the management? He knew that it could prove fatal.
{To Be Continued...}
{Part One}
Cyril Skidd slipped through the door, late as always on a Monday morning, hoping that nobody had reconnoitered his desk and noted his absence. He slunk along the corridor, walking on the sides of his feet, wishing himself invisible. He heard the clatter and thwack of the typing pool, audible even from behind closed doors, as the ladies set-to with the morning's work. He'd nearly made it to his own bland door, distinguishable by the supermarket-purchased gold lettering - Cyril P Skidd, Esq. PI. - when he hear the creak of Mister Blather's door at the other end of the corridor. Skidd pressed himself against the wall, trying to blend into the pot plant. He visualised himself turning into an information pamphlet and fluttering to the ground, only to be picked up by Blind Isidore, the office lackey, cleaner, and the unofficial lickspittle of Messrs Blather, Knobble and Pound - Attorneys at Law, Licensed Investigators & Bailiffs By Appointment. He had, of course, no such luck.
"Ah Skidd," boomed Mr Blather, "nice of you to join us. Would you care for a sweetmeat?" The flabby Blather sidled up to Skidd, proffering up a box of iced, glazed, powdered, creamed, and coated delicacies.
"Thank you sir, but no, " Skidd managed, through chattering teeth. His bladder was suddenly full. His legs were not his own. He insides churned.
"Each to his own, Skidd, as you know I always say!" returned Blather, pausing only to cram several of the unidentifiable confections between his moist and sugary lips. "Each to his own." - but this time it was less clear. Blather had already begun his ponderous mastication, gobbets of cake dropped to the floor. Skidd watched them bounce over the waxed floor. The sound of the typing pool had become ominous. Each ting! of a carriage return was the hammer of a demonic elf nailing his body to the floor. Each clack of the keys was a hobnailed boot pacing his cell floor.
"Follow me, Skidd," Blather mumbled, still chewing, still raining cake from the corners of his mouth, "follow me, man!"
{To Be Continued...}
Cyril Skidd slipped through the door, late as always on a Monday morning, hoping that nobody had reconnoitered his desk and noted his absence. He slunk along the corridor, walking on the sides of his feet, wishing himself invisible. He heard the clatter and thwack of the typing pool, audible even from behind closed doors, as the ladies set-to with the morning's work. He'd nearly made it to his own bland door, distinguishable by the supermarket-purchased gold lettering - Cyril P Skidd, Esq. PI. - when he hear the creak of Mister Blather's door at the other end of the corridor. Skidd pressed himself against the wall, trying to blend into the pot plant. He visualised himself turning into an information pamphlet and fluttering to the ground, only to be picked up by Blind Isidore, the office lackey, cleaner, and the unofficial lickspittle of Messrs Blather, Knobble and Pound - Attorneys at Law, Licensed Investigators & Bailiffs By Appointment. He had, of course, no such luck.
"Ah Skidd," boomed Mr Blather, "nice of you to join us. Would you care for a sweetmeat?" The flabby Blather sidled up to Skidd, proffering up a box of iced, glazed, powdered, creamed, and coated delicacies.
"Thank you sir, but no, " Skidd managed, through chattering teeth. His bladder was suddenly full. His legs were not his own. He insides churned.
"Each to his own, Skidd, as you know I always say!" returned Blather, pausing only to cram several of the unidentifiable confections between his moist and sugary lips. "Each to his own." - but this time it was less clear. Blather had already begun his ponderous mastication, gobbets of cake dropped to the floor. Skidd watched them bounce over the waxed floor. The sound of the typing pool had become ominous. Each ting! of a carriage return was the hammer of a demonic elf nailing his body to the floor. Each clack of the keys was a hobnailed boot pacing his cell floor.
"Follow me, Skidd," Blather mumbled, still chewing, still raining cake from the corners of his mouth, "follow me, man!"
{To Be Continued...}
It's Sunday night, which means that Monday morning is getting so close I can almost smell it. There's only a small fence of sleep between us. I can hear its footsteps galloping across the frozen field through the mist. It's almost time for bed, but there are a couple of last things to prepare to stave off the worst when the sun rises again. Here goes...
The subject-line tells me I am Mortmain. So Mortmain I shall be. I am also a foreigner in a strange and, at times, inexplicable, country. I am happy about this. I am also interested in broadening my horizons - in all directions. I am optimistic about this. I am proceeding apace with my plans! I am looking through my archives for a better profile picture. I am listening to Wagner as I write this. I am sitting on a black seat at a black desk typing on a while computer. I am reading too much into this. I am breathing deeply. I am aware that I often don't breathe enough when I write, and that the words come as erratically as my breaths - in gushing flows, followed by stillness and calm. I am checking my phone too often. I am still optimistic.
