 
Followers of the Dead Man

G. Haritharan
Copyright © 2011 G. Haritharan and s4mT

First published by s4mT in 2006 ISBN 978 0 9552958 0 5

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Other books by G. Haritharan:

The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era) <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42621>
For the patiences of my sister and dear mother
"In the history of Ceylon... the Eela Tamils never lost their kingdom entirely, except for two short periods of 16 and 6 years, while for much longer periods Tamil kings have ruled over all Ceylon, history is repeating itself and must indeed repeat itself, adapted to modern conditions. When dharma decays and adharma prospers providence intervenes to destroy the wicked and to protect the weak. That ear has dawned once more in Ceylon. Will the Eela Tamils in this hour of danger and disaster to their nation, show their worth and their valour? Will they do their duty, unite as brothers... and join in the Eela Tamil struggle for independence?"

1958, C. Suntheralingam (M.P. for Vavuniya, Ceylon)

All times, persons and places are relative to this tale. If you find parts familiar, you maybe more knowledgeable than some. Remember: keeping your mind receptive will help you enjoy exactitude.

If you still feel giddy, please place this volume safely and partake to another task.
Introduction

What is tea? It is a drink. It is a hot drink. Drank by millions... hold on, billions of people across this planet. What is guaranteed is that anybody who is reading this book has tasted a quantity of tea in his or her lifetime.

No matter where you are on this planet you will have access to a cup of tea. Many rally sand racers in the Sahara desert are known to carry a flask or two with them while they bid to defeat both conditions and their opponents alike. Inuits in Greenland have indeed been boiling their brews for a very long time – nothing like a hot liquid infusion for a cold environment. In fact (and without being too bold) tea is the most consumed beverage in the world.

Imagine a population of 6,673,382,116 (that's six billion, six hundred and seventy-three million, three hundred and eighty-two thousand, one hundred and sixteen). Taking away babies and small children (of course, a few others for random variable reasons) leaves us with at least a couple of billion people. So at least two billion individuals (or in groups) purchase some sort of tea leaf for their brewing habits. Collectively, that is big business; lots of tea = lots of people making tea, lots of ingredients to construct tea (tea leaves and other) which ultimately means: lots of money. Aside, individually, it is 'big' business for another ground.

A glass/cup/mug/pot of tea is brewed in many different ways defined mainly by the different people who make the brew. Strong tea/light tea is a favoured distinction which is usually measured by the amount of time a tea bag is left in the water for; the longer the stronger. Milk definition is another; a lot, a little or no milk and also the type, affect its taste and colour. You probably have your favourite way of making tea that others just do not abide by when making a cup for you. Don't be too harsh on them; they simply have an alternative taste for the leaf that takes them into their own. Whatever the situation, the concoction of tea is a big deal – it is special, different and very personal. Personal due to the feelings a good (also for that a matter a bad) cup of tea can bring.

During at least one of the cups of tea you have had in your lifetime you must have felt the tea feeling. It is the reaction you find yourself in which can only be described as a 'funk of delicacy'. Whilst drinking you would have assumed this position: two hands on the cup very much engulfing it; the cup to your lips and eyes starring blindly into a scene that sits just behind the steam rising up off of the liquid. It is a zone of mind but is definitely a separate feeling or emotion. This 'zone' can quite easily be interrupted – hence why I have labelled the funk; a delicacy. But, if the zone is not broken up, it will last.

Have you ever wondered why this feeling is tied only with tea? Think about it. When was the last time a coffee or hot chocolate caused such a moment? Never. Now, be not confused by the beautiful feeling of warmth and relaxation a good (i.e. not too 'cocoa-ed') chocolat can bring. That is plain enjoyment (and not the same funk) which can occur with anything that you do, let alone drink.

Don't believe me? Try it, perhaps my way. Boil the kettle and place the tea bag in the cup adding sugar to taste. When the boiling process has finished pour in the water to the level of your desire adding milk (of your preference) after you have removed the tea bag. Take a seat with your tea in a quiet area and follow the position described in the previous paragraphs. You will never experience a feeling that you can call this.

Is there a connection between this distinct and separate feeling with the widespread nature of tea? I cannot really conclude in favour; this is merely an introduction to a story and not an answer to a question that is a lot bigger. For now, just sit, relax and read on, losing yourself in the narrative. Realise that the complexity of everything is very unnecessary, when you can read something simple...

...this, as long as you are sipping at a hot cup of your preferred variation of tea.
Dear Diary - S

Oh, am I mad?

A simple answer to that. I have sacrificed a lot and I understand that the good of all is at stake here... but what the fuck? This is my personal space to vent my frustration – livid! Many a time you have seen such a display of my written worries, but then many a time I am in these silly pent up situations. I should calm but that is for another day because I have returned to sit in my lonely flat – and it is Saturday. I should be out of the country and fighting for what I believe in. Do you know what that feels like? To struggle against an oppression, forgive the fucking rhyme but it is an obsession!? There is no give up but if I am told by my boss to just sit back, hope and simply assume that it will all go according to plan then he doesn't know my commitment?

Ever since Tim approached me on the lucky fateful day two years ago. I say fateful because I UNDERSTAND! It was not he who found me or I vice versa, but it was the governing of... well it. Them. Whatever, it's labelled as fate, destiny, movement – again, WHATEVER. I discovered the group and they discovered me and now I am as much apart of this... as even big Mo'.

Ok, ok. The hostility is making me sound like I have the want to disrespect this gathering. No that is not what I want. Not what is intended. I'll repeat this til I am blue in the face – I believe in this and I believe in Tim's structures. I do.

Shunted is what I feel and I know it is only on the temporary and I will explain myself, dearest diary, but for now it is vent a vent time with the mere slightest suggestion to my understanding. The appropriate seat for the appropriate agent. With only five spaces I was the obvious casualty seeing as how our latest entrant has grown priority. You know? It's hard to take and I know I must but it's still so hard. I will give my all for these people. My people. Their cause is my cause. Maybe if Tim knew that then it would have been different?

I mean my idiot replacement (who I must add is a lying toe-rag and a thief – I mean, who steals from a library – the fucking books are FREE!) is not a believer – believers are who can steer a ship – because they can see. That's as obvious as it can get... and NO, I am not doubting the leader's stance ('the leader', I make him sound like Hitler or Mussolini... which who is NOT what I want him to sound like). Even Tim says we should question – as that is the essence of our very nature. All that we think of in reality is so clouded by the stupidity of what people think is real and what they don't know is real. I don't know if that makes sense, but remember, dear diary, what exactly is sense and how do we get a grasp of such concepts? Tim was clear in his teachings and I will stand by his decision, but even he knows that we all feel and it's this feeling and drive passion that distinguishes us as human... and that is what we are saving. HUMANITY.

Ok. I'm coherent now. Let me explain.
A. In London, Nobody Knows Your Name
1. It Take's Character

1.1 Past, Present? Whatever...

-a book; a novel. Investing in characters that will take time effort and eventually a feeling indescribable in words. The get out is the escape; a fortune; a breath. When is it that true emancipation ever been achieved? The feeling of real freedom is that from constraint and shackle - this need not be physical in construction. It is in the case of the novel. These are words strung together to drag emotion. Manipulate emotions. Human beings are not in the necessity of the emotive expense – natural is to stay levelled. Still want to read on? A fool to not heed a warning...

Chris Uranson never drank Coca-Cola. Ever since he was four years old he would not go near the stuff. An allergic reaction he liked to call it. The truth was at that age his older brother, Malcolm, gave him a can to drink out of at a family trip to a theme park. When Chris put it to his lips the elder sibling tilted the can sending the drink too quickly down his throat causing Chris to choke violently. From then onwards the simple image of the red can would bring forward feelings of anxiety and fear.

From this moment (one of his earliest memories), as a child, he grew with a trait for scepticism. It may have been natural but the more obvious tendencies were visible after the Coca-Cola turning point of his life. He was once called the world's biggest sceptic by one of his primary school teachers. At the time he rejected the claim by telling her that as he believed the world was so big there must be somebody out there that was more sceptical than he was. His teacher laughed but Chris did not, having completely missed the irony, being oh so young.

-do these 'meet the character' beginnings to novels really work? Does the word boring ever mean anything to authors who use this plan?

He hated blind acceptance. Questioning was the corner stone of all life's events. At age six he had an argument with his television when the presenter of a show said that the first species on this planet were dinosaurs. He shouted 'How do you know?' out at the enthusiastic furry browed man talking on screen. Neither this individual nor the TV responded. He asked his father, who was too busy to have a proper conversation: response; 'The scientists, dey knorr', in his heavy Jamaican accent. What did they know? How did they know it? It did not make sense then and in the light of today's scientific methods being nothing more than predictions of the closest possibility under very specific conditions, it's not total sense now either.

-stop the preaching and sketching and start the story telling

(And to the present) - Chris thought taking a break would be a good idea and so ventured downstairs parked himself on the sofa and turned the television on (it was a different one to the box he had access to at six years of age). Half an hour of non-revision related activity would be better for his long term learning plan for the day. He was currently in his second year of study at South Bank University reading psychology. The end of year exam period was in affect, so if he passed, then he would be in his final year come September in four months time. There was not much thinking in his decision to choose psychology as the subject he wanted to have a degree in. It seemed interesting and he figured that he could find out a lot about himself by using psychology to study his own psychology. In terms of a future or career, Chris did not really think that far ahead. It was simply the satisfaction of a short term goal – to get into a university and do a degree.

-he sounds like every student on this planet. Is the tackiness not blatant?

Living at home while at university was not as annoying as he'd imagined. The people he met in the first year were very much easy going and they let him stay around whenever we wanted or needed. The convenience of a two minute walk into a 9am lecture after a heavy night of alcohol abuse is always a plus.

-real students do not make it to 9am lectures, with or without alcohol abuse

Having this nice riposte with his fellow student associates was not as advantageous as could be. Typically with students, his friends were into a clubbing culture which manifested itself on at least a weekly basis. Chris was not the biggest nightclub devotee by a stretch of any twisted imagination. He hated the whole process, from the queuing up in the cold (granted, that's only in the winter), being frisked by an extremely zealous bouncer, an inappropriate male to female ratio, the pressing up against other male clubbers (a very minimal chance that pressing up duty would be performed by a woman due to the heavy outnumbering proportion) and the overpriced drinks... Safe to say, Chris did not like to engage in the activity.

-or maybe it's the author who is not fanciful to the endeavour. Classic author – character transference that, in good written technique, is not usually sticking out

His university friends were obviously the opposite and, at first, when getting to know these people he would grin and bear. 'Concentrate on the music'; the phrase usually let him do this, though if the DJ was on a mission to disappoint, the task would be harder. Nights were spent biting his bottom lip and trying to avoid random limbs from coming into contact with his person. This was a build up that had to vent (and) as he got to know his learned fellows (and) they turned less random (and) more into friends, he found it easier to tell them of his peeve. Indeed, this resulted in a reduction of his clubbing schedule - at a price.

When one does not fit into the norm of a group then questions are inevitably asked. When associated with not wanting to 'party', Chris started to be labelled as boring or dull – that sort of thing. This did get to him (though he kept brave face) and he spent many moments contemplating aspects of his personality that would provide contradiction to the tags. It was hard to find them; he is well organised, punctual, thoughtful and overall, just a little too sensible. These times of deliberation (which usually occurred on a bus that travelled either way on the Old Kent Road, towards and from Elephant and Castle) ended with Chris dismissing the notions as derogatory and unnecessary. He had other qualities.

Being a little quiet but crucially not nervous, Chris was seen as quite a mysterious man to his female opposites and naturally this was attractive. Over his later teenage years and up to the present he was never going too long without some sort of female company. Normally, this situation is not something to complain of but Chris was a man who liked to keep to himself, hence he was quiet. The lack of talking kept issues that he had closer to him and this included feelings, which was something that did not really go down too well with the longer term partners, most of whom he did not really care for but there was the one.

-there's always the one

They met at his sixth form college but only started to date at the beginning of Chris' second academic year at university. Even in his eyes (and also the many people who knew them both) she was perfect for him; he did not like to talk about his feelings, she did not force him to. He liked his space and to do other things away from the relationship, so did she. It was fair enough to say they would spend the right amount of time with each other. In fact, the relationship was good and there was probably nothing major that he could think of that she faulted on either.

It lasted about five months. It was five months of bliss and heaven for Chris where he found himself questioning why he had got so lucky. There were times where the thought of his fortuitousness physically interrupted any pastime he was occupied in. At first this was a minor event and involved a rye smile exhibited towards a nice feeling of love (or at the very least thereabouts). Then it increased its presence, a little like the earlier description of his categorisation; he started to involve himself in mental debates on why he was positively lucky and then onto whether he deserved it. By the end of the fifth month the discussion in Chris' mind became too much to handle. The drive to appease his over worked processes was such a force he had to cave in and after a two hour phone call he had finished with her. It was almost as if somebody had taken him over and acted on his behalf (an interesting idea though not exactly one to be received) but he knew he had to take responsibility for his own actions. (Over the phone was not the best idea either).

1.2 Prophecy (3)

The doorbell rang and as it did so, the plastic outer case flew off the bell and landed next to Chris on the sofa. He rose up off the seat and walked towards the front doors. The Uranson family home had a porch with a glass panelled front door and a door to the hall threshold (the centre door) which was completely made of wood. There was no way of seeing who was at the front door until you have opened the middle one. If it had been any other way, Chris would not have answered the visit. Once he was at the front door, however, he had to open it being in full view. The option of peaking through the kitchen window had been bypassed too crudely.

"Good morning, son" The old African man said. He was old because he looked old and he was African because he was Black and had a heavy African continent accent. "I am David and I would like to talk to you, son, about Jehovah your lord and God." Chris hesitated; he knew there would be a point to intervene and tell the gentleman that he was not interested, straight away was an option but how rude would that have been? Still, he thought he may not get another chance... "Do you believe in God?" Too late.

"Yeah... My family is religious." Chris did not want to go into his religious (or lack of) beliefs and also decided at the last moment not to completely lie out right, he just decided to blur the whole truth a fraction.

-the second character introduced into this story is a random man who turns up at a doorstep? That is ludicrous! Surely there are many important people in 'Chris'' life that should have preceded a nobody?

"That is good to have a strong religious background, my son." David responded smiling peacefully. His batik traditional dress was extremely well ironed, white in the centre and purple at the sides. "Tell me, do you know who Jehovah is?"

Chris was unsure but suspected that the word itself is a pseudonym for God. He did not wish to venture this just in case he was wrong; however, the opportunity he had only to wait a moment for had arrived.

"Sorry, I think that I have to go." Was all that Chris could manage, again, no priority for false excuse.

"Oh so soon?" David started, tilting his head in an expected disappointment. "Well I hope not to keep you, my son. I know you young ones have plenty to deal with. Can I give you this magazine to read?"

Chris waited as David reached into the bag hanging off his left hand side and out popped a small and thin publication. While doing so, his bag swung knocking a stick he had previously positioned up against the side wall next to the doorway to the house. Chris bent down quicker and lifted the walking stick. A slick black finish with a grooved top perfectly comfortable for a hand grip. Chris noticed that it had a nice weight to it as he passed the rod to David who accepted it graciously. 'Thank you, son' were his words. On reception, the bag now fell from off of his shoulder to the ground with the slack handle staying loosely in his possession (due to a wedge created by his wrist and the walking stick he had just been given). Without looking down at the 'events' he kept his head straight and looked Chris directly. In the eyes. That is, once the younger man's head's direction came back up level, having hung from the distraction of the sudden movement.

"Importance," David started, his face losing the earlier gentle warmth. "What do you know about importance? If you are special then would you know it before it is too late? Is it really the job of people like me to iterate and eventually re-iterate what vocation really is? Ambition perhaps? If it is not what your heart tells you then you may not get involved in what can only be described as your providence. Do what sense informs you; logic coupled with chance is the basis to what you are needed for."

-a switch to absurdity so soon in the story. That does not wash

Chris did not know whether to laugh out loud or listen with politeness. He managed a facial expression that incorporated more of the latter but a little of the former; the slightest smile he found hard to control. Be gone! - An issue flew through Chris' mind telling him that this crazy man knew where he lived. It's one thing interacting with an estranged individual on a street somewhere (and South-East London streets are definitely full of estranged individuals) but to have the contact on his very own doorstep was quite an anxious situation. Still, Chris hoped not to promote such anxiety in lieu of being offensive and luckily David did not pick up on this. He simply got ready to leave; re-dressing his bag and placing his walking stick firmly to the ground with hand on the grip.

"You may not respect my words but understand for your future: when you see my presence next, follow me." David capped his final comment with a returned peaceful smile. To turn and walk away as he did; not only with bag on shoulder and walking stick in one hand but magazine also in other. As Chris quickly closed the door behind David, he noticed an orange pattern in the middle of his back. The design itself kept with the batik printing, but the colour was quite a contrast to the purple and white of the rest of the cloth. Happiness; the man had left but uneasiness; David's last words. He did not want to reconnect again since he might have to read the literature along with receiving it.

Look At My Passion

Kiss

"Look. Look at that girl over there. She cannot speak, she cannot hear. Would you still have the love that you are talking if I was like that?" A rhetorical question if ever stated. She smiled though and it was enough for the Tamil porter/waiter/all other to drag the end of a Silk Cut deeply into his lung and throw it away like it was poison that did him harm... and reply.

"No matter. I would kiss you and show you." There was not much subtlety to his game but he continued "You are used to seeing these Sinhalese boys walk around and pretend they have what you are wanting. When I kiss you then you will find out and feel the power." Emphasise on the 'pow'

The two looked ahead of them at the proceedings: a teenager dragging two bin bags to the skip in the alley behind the hotel. To the end of the slim way, a girl was signing with another gentlemen who seemed frustrated with her.

-and+ off

"Actually, you are only wanted to kiss me." She cut her eyes and sucked softly at the inside of both sets of lips. "Anyway, you are married... if all is wanting you go down to the massage. They taking you."

He stewed at her disjointed but obvious reference.

"Then why am I here? Tell me? If I am wanting the sexing then I just walk down the road. No. I am here to show what you are to me. You are Sinhalese, no? You not understanding the passion of the Tamil. We are looking like we want to sit and do our... nothing, man. But you are wrong. We are fighter and when we are seeing what we are want then you cannot say that I am just wanting the sexing."

.2 Propagation And Innuendo-Nation

There was some teeth baring but the maid was on her way to being convinced. What she had been told about Tamils was still an issue. They were thought to be callus, stubborn and above all very stupid.

There were stories and what could she expect; anything different from the images on television of her fellow race being murdered - cold blooded? How could she expect having been told how and what to think; she may just be a maid but the system still needed her approval.

Of the Tamil porter to whose smooth talking vice not only explained the current pursuit of the... 'sexing' but also the intricate nature of the want and desire of the Tamilan. To see only what is the belief of that in front of you. In this case it was a misuse but there lies the highlighted.

"That deaf girl. She is Tamil." Teeth were kissed "not looking but her passion. She is hard and wanting extra, no? No Sinhalese girl can angry like her."

Indeed, the girl was very irate but in a controlled manor. The man she was with could only try to console her. A confrontation that suggested no malice though the two onlookers would only intervene at a date passed such description.

-well... +++

"I don't care that she is Tamil." The maid brought up, this time speaking in her native tongue. "You are always fighting when there can be peace."

The porter realised the situation though only picking up the broken language version. His wife was at home sitting around no doubt getting even fatter than she was after the birth of his first child – a girl. In this instance the Tamil passion shall not be spent on convincing the brainwashed that there will never be peace between the righteous and the ill. It will be spent best on shorter term goals.

"You don't talk about peace," in English, "you talk to me about love." She let off a tut "That is what Tamil will see to. What girl? All these porters and you cannot choose me? The Tamil? But I am something different, no?"

Arms folded now she looked at him with un-interest. On the back of her mind: it must have been five minutes by now – the time allotted for their break. The porter misinterpreted the stance believing he was getting through.

"Different, if I want, then I like the Raj." The maid commented smiling cheekily and contorting her hips – to the left. The more she pushed herself away the harder the porter found it to resist her.

"He is not Tamil? He is not same. You must feel what is within us, not that Indian fucker. The Tamil man is the most passion you must feel. Nobody in the whole of Asia will have the dedicated of the Tamil man." He cursed in Tamil, smoothed the moustache on his top lip with the thumb and index finger on his right hand then continued. "Break is over now, when are you finish?"

She told him and barred more teeth. Crooked and yellowing. Slightly blotched skin, greasy hair but very slim. This was the important thing. Well, the second – the fact that she should keep quiet. Now that was the important thing. The porter had no reputation for the wrong though he might well should have. Another curse sailed this time silent. If he spoke better Sinhalese he could have seduced this girl by now. But then why could she not speak Tamil? It's not a mandatory language, my friend. If the simple man could work the language of another he could best receive the communications of love, hate, humour, fear, anxiety... through interpretation, the added bonus of a mask exists.

The shape of her form moved by his; choice frotteur, and faded through entrance to the inside. The porter imagined wooing the young hotel maid in the tongue of her, their shared employers and of the commercial capital at large. He would never have gained prohibited access to the job if he actually spoke Sinhalese fluent. He would have just got the job; no need for the granted favour.

Tobacco slid with effort up the tip of his tongue to the crux of two top front teeth. A little 'O' shaped lips et voile – the spit.

2. Homeland(s)

2.1 Developing

Having parents from Jamaica and living in Britain is fairly complicated when trying to trace a root or identity. Having a mother who is from South Asia as well starts to get quite problematic.

-Does this story have a destination or is it to merely flirt with a plot?

Chris' parents met in Jamaica about twenty-five years previous. Mr Colin Uranson, Chris' father, worked as a hotel manager in Montego Bay – a job he adored and took great pride in performing. A reason? The fact that he was born into a humble 'lower' class family that struggled to get him into the necessary courses. Not simply due to financial issue but also the favouritism of other individuals who could resolve the class-ist, biased attitude of the people in charge of the industry (leaving other industries aside for the sake of focus and simplicity). Being the only child in the family brought him the extra pleasure in showing his family that he had succeeded in hard circumstances and that all their work and effort with him had paid off

Mrs Lakshmi Uranson, or plain Lakshmi Kandiahnayagham as she was known then, worked as a cleaner in the same hotel.

-please no!

She was born in Jamaica to Tamil parents (originally from 'Sri Lanka'¹, rather than India) in the country after recommendation of a reported trade boom. The descendents of forced slaves communicated promises of employment for foreign (cheap) workers (the ease of the unmarked immigrant). Anybody can fit a shoe and it is unnecessary to their nativity to his/her land. Invisible paper, invisible ink, invisible all smiles all around.

¹(Since 'Sri Lanka' is the label name for an island that comprises of two separate countries, one of which is underrepresented due to the unjust dominance of the other, the name 'Sri Lanka' will be placed in inverted commas for the duration of the book)

Mrs Uranson had plenty of siblings (seven) all of whom had to share the wage earned by their father. Being the eldest, Lakshmi soon found in her early teenage life that she too had to work to support her father's income. This early wizened head met Colin while working her third job (all of which were in hotels) at the age of seventeen.

-tacky love stories mean nothing for originality, something that this tale lacks

Colin's parents were so so, though accepting with their son's choice of partner. The same could not be said of Lakshmi's. The latter set seemed hell bent on the idea that their eldest daughter (and for that matter child) would marry a fellow Tamil. To know what is known is fruit borne. The problem was: there weren't many Tamils in Jamaica. The [inverted comma]trade boom[inverted comma] brought over scores of Indians and a few others (Bangladeshis), but it certainly seemed for the twenty or so years that the Kandiahnayagham were living in (and for later part, just off ) Montego Bay, they were the only Tamil family on the island. It was a matter of time before her father gave in to Colin's proposal and it helped extremely that he had been offered a job in London. The young mature Lakshmi promised her father to help secure visas to forward her siblings to 'The Land of Opportunities' in return for his blessing. It made sense, so he gave it and, with honour, over the years that went by Lakshmi kept to her promise.

Indeed, Aunties have come and gone from the Uranson family residence from a very early age in Chris' life. They did not stick around for very long, however, oh no. Lakshmi managed to float three of her sisters travelling the seas and sky to get to, as once described, 'Elloween Dee-o-ween'. Another two immigrated to the United States of America and while doing so persuaded two of the three just new to England to venture once more to join them. Lakshmi's remaining sister in Britain stayed on for around half a year before moving on to Germany with a man she met on the first day that she landed at Heathrow airport. Chris never imagined he would have the ability to do what he had observed his aunties achieving; always wondering about the many different cultures that these women persisted with in order to find happiness (again, or at least thereabouts).

-this character is quite the dull boy

In terms of culture, what Lakshmi ultimately wanted to do was to teach her children about her original roots as a Tamil from 'Sri Lanka' and not Jamaica. It was not that she had anything against Jamaica or Jamaicans; it was due to her affinity with her mother and father's stories about their lives in their home country. Chris' grandparents would tell his mother, her sisters and one brother about what they used to get up to which included the jovial; family life and general environment, along with the malignant; the country was in the midst of an ethnic civil war where many atrocities were committed to her very own race of people. When she came to Britain she found her resources for learning increased and so she used these new found assets to educate herself and later on, her second child Chris.

At home, Lakshmi would tell him about her Tamil roots, people and the conflict existing in 'Sri Lanka'. It was a unique combination of lecture and storytelling that she would always somehow fit into a busy daily schedule. At school term time, her care assistant work time would be changed to an early day shift, getting home in time to spend a few hours with Malcolm and Chris while she cooked and tidied. During the holiday weeks, her shift would be a later one in order to spend longer hours throughout the day.

Malcolm was very disinterested in what his mother had to say and tended to escape to play with friends on the street at holiday times (his room at other times). Chris on the other hand liked to see his mother enthusiastic as she was when speaking about 'Sri Lanka' and its oppressive government. When with his mother, he was the pure Tamil son she saw with her own eyes; she called him 'Ura' (pronounced 'ooh-raa') a shortened form of his surname, which she obligated his first name, as if he was traditionally Tamil named. Technically, he would still have been called Chris but Ura felt nice to the lady.

***

If it was love lost to an open sea

If it all were split where would that leave me?

Basking on independent colony

When on to this whole living I am free

Rather than to death for my heart to flee

Us and them to make two and never three

We fight as one, within Our true decree

He was not ever successful in remembering everything she told him. In fact, it would mostly sail out of one ear no sooner did it enter the other. Chris knew of the conflict of Tamils and the government of 'Sri Lanka' but could not go into more detail than it being a country where an ethnic population sought independence through a separate nation (of course there is the separation of state issue that Chris was not versed in). He knew that many Tamils were killed prior to the early eighties, through no other reason than them not being Sinhalese. And that a Tamil rebellion waged a war for freedom and independence soon after this point. Names and places were difficult; Chris had the island split North with some areas in the East being Tamil fronts and the rest Sinhalese. His mother always mentioned the Freedom Tigers for Eelam's leader, Niyaghan (pronounced NY-Yah-HhuuN), but aside from he there was almost nobody else he could pin point. (Eelam being the shortened form for the name of a separate Tamil nation/state – Tamil Eelam. For those un-kept to this issue)

In the first of the three and half years that he spent at his sixth form college, Lakshmi spoke a separation of the main Tamil solidarity. This, in the East, led by a man called Zuels (pronounced with S, rather Z). She was angry at the treacherous nature that the former colonel of Niyaghan showed to the leader that had shown faith in his ability, giving him responsibilities and even Zuels' own troops. In seeming resolution of the divisive situation, the contrast; she became happy, that the FTE had drove him away to flee island soon after his public admission of defection. (This still left plenty of followers, however, including splinter organisations like Zuels' Group).

The in-between (from anger to happiness) was a spell drilled firmly into the mind of a busy teenager. A lot spilled casually away to nothingness but in the back of his developing brain, the colonel's name stuck.

***

Obviously, teaching the child the Tamil language was an impossible task that Lakshmi eventual gave in to quitting. Her best effort came with repetitive shouting one summer week when the two of them played a test match of cricket in the back garden. It could have been the Windies against 'Sri Lanka' but the rather young Chris picked England to represent and Lakshmi, indeed, 'Sri Lanka'. In particular one Mr Muttiah Muralitharan. As she would 'bowl' (a rather lame underarm light throw as opposed to the elbow injury induced over-arm throw of the aforementioned Murali) she would yell 'Uddee, adaar, uddee!' Which roughly translated to 'Hit it, man, hit it!' 'Man' being used in the sense of an expression rather than 'Mani-sun' or 'Aarle' which are used when referring to an individual as a man. Chris learnt these words well and kept them with him to impress both mum and aunties.

-a language lesson will not help boredom. Putting this book down and doing something else might

2.2 Identity Parade

His elder brother had a darker skin colour than he and also had Afro hair whilst Chris' was curly and straighter. He was too Asian to be Black and a little too Black to be Asian. Malcolm was only a year and a half older than Chris but it was a crucial time period since the age of the younger generation living in the area were in Malcolm's academic branch or in a couple of years below Chris'.

Trying to hang around with his older and only sibling was something that Chris tried. One trigger event that stopped him from further endeavour was an incident whilst he and his brother were playing football in the area outside the front of their house (enclosed by a gate). A couple of Malcolm's friends strolled over to ask the boy to head down the street and join in the same game but for numbers. Malcolm was about nine years old at the time and was interested in the proposition so inquired into the acceptance for the by-product that was his younger brother. Chris looked up at his elder with his adoring seven year old eyes then transferred them over to his friends. The taller of the two took one fleeting look and with all the ignorance, insensitivity and thoughtlessness a child of this age could muster, stated 'He can't be your brother, he's a Paki.' Chris spent the rest of the afternoon playing indoors, something that he did a lot that summer.

-cute sob stories do not make a whole novel

Even primary school was fairly difficult to negotiate and once more due to his inability to find peace with his identity.

-is this not turning melodramatic? It's been a while and the story does not seem to be leading anywhere

As a child, this is always a complicated issue anyway but Chris' situation seemed harder due to the class he grew up with being full of Black, White or mixed Black and White children. There were no mixes of ethnicities. To Chris their seemed to be clear boundaries with every one of the other thirty-two children in the class; they were Black, White or a mixture of the two. He was different to this and the subject of Chris' different shade of skin and different type of hair (to the Black/White mixed) cropped up every so often. Chris had answers; it changed almost all of the time; 'I'm Black... I don't know what you're talking about but I am' was one typical response; 'I'm White, I got a good sun tan' was another. His skin was a tone (and being a young child he had a softness in complexion) that seemed to pull off a plausibility to both statements, coupled with none of the children who questioned him having an understanding for a child of mixed ethnicity anyway.

Secondary school brought about a dawn of reality and even easier route to personal truths. The array of children from different communities increased and so with it Chris' awareness for his own cultural background. As the years in his second educational institution progressed he became quite unafraid to explain to people the truth behind his ethnicity. He still wanted to receive his mother's teachings and really started to enjoy the depth to his skin and character. He may have found the Tamil words somewhat difficult to understand but he did not the passion; it was obvious in his mother and it translated easily to her son.

As easily understood as Chris' feelings for his father's background - he did not share the same enthusiasm for Colin Uranson's heritage than with that of his mother. But this was not due to his resentment for it, simply circumstance.

-is this the sign that there will be a similar length of rubbish about this boy and his father as to that with his mother and he? It is possible to stop reading. Just a thought...

Colin Uranson was quite the workaholic. The man's long working hours were not entirely to do with his passion for hotel management. England was a more expensive place than Jamaica and he needed to commit to his position in order not to lose it. He did not have a shift flexibility (like Lakshmi) since the scheduled times he worked at were long day to evenings or maybe even call outs at night. He would get back from work quite tired with a little energy for the collective of his children.

For a while, the family was very traditional in this way; father earning, mother being the housewife. Having always wanted to pursue her interest in nursing, she only started her care assistant career after she felt the children were old enough to get to and from school by themselves. Colin's hard working nature did not relent even when the financial burden was reduced but then his work ethic was always geared to showing his commitment and dedication to his employers. Something that he had shown purely and from the start of his immigration, even when faced with harsh, emotional decisions.

The premature death (it mostly ever is premature) of Colin's parents accounted much for the distance to Chris between the two sides of the family. A car crash almost a year after Colin had began his life in England put paid to their lives along with the senior Uranson's only aunty. The latest generation of the family (which consisted only of two at the time) did not find out until six weeks after, by which time Colin had missed the funerals, though if he had of got word earlier he would not have been able to travel due to visa issues and work commitments that at the time would not have let him attempt, even on compassionate ground.

Initially, Chris' father put the spare non-work energy he had in bonding with his first child when he was born a few months later. This father to eldest son relationship grew from there on in and Chris had to settle for a shared second place (or even a third since his mother was easily pleased with her share of husband's love). A stronger bond with his father was something he missed out on but what he gained with his mother's love filled the void left.

-can a whole book be a void? There seems to be evidence

Hence Chris' 'Jamaican Jamaican' roots were not as accentuated as what he received from Lakshmi's ''Sri Lankan' Jamaican' one's. Of course, the death of Colin's parents only a year after he had arrived in Britain meant that both Chris and Malcolm never got to meet the grandparents on their father's side. Holidays for the family were always in Jamaica but consisted very solely of visits to Lakshmi's parents and the two remaining siblings; her only brother and youngest sister. For Malcolm and Chris, these holidays were always a less intense version of their mother. Their grandparents were very interested in telling them stories about their lives in 'Sri Lanka' – just like Lakshmi did of the roots she had been told (and was still learning of). These tales were without pressure, however, and were told with a jest that the two boys' mother could never manage. Malcolm was always more interested when his grandparents told the stories just because there wasn't the haranguing factor involved. Chris on the other hand did not mind either, he was always interested, seeing that 'Sri Lanka' was always a nice subject anyway and especially in the Jamaican/Tamil accent that it was presented in (parent and grandparents). It was a simple relaxed family atmosphere where stress and pressure were left in England, as it should be on holidays.

2.3 And So On...

It was getting dark and the lowered guise that is tiredness had crept in – a long day of revision and little else. A welcome break in the afternoon brought only the annoyance of a crazed Jehovah's Witness that disrupted the rest of the afternoon's review. Chris had to admit the evening session was good; developmental psychology was not as interesting as other parts of its parent subject but the lecturer had structured his notes well, making it easier to take and invest.

-the background analysis that keeps interrupting this story is off putting. Frankly, the pace is too sporadic

The decision was this: relax a little, maybe television or simply straight to bed; benefit to the latter: an early rise. Not the most fun of variety though the necessity that is option. Another choice he knew he needed to make was a venue change – the last week had been a slog. An adjustment of site was a priority; something other than his room and any other place in the house or garden (front and back). Chris had scheduled himself to go over to his friend Dwayne's dormitory and revise with him for a few days over the weekend starting Saturday afternoon. But since it was Thursday and owing to the amount of revision he had put himself through over the last couple of weeks he needed an earlier semi-escape. The study-man's mini-break. University was an option, having not been there for a while since term end. Maybe the campus library or even a room that was not being used.

A decision in favour! (Lazily, without going over any of the other options). A rejuvenated feeling spread across him; at revision times even the smallest event can cause over exaggerated happiness. So a metaphorical push then to sleepy demons... Chris thought a movie before bed would be a good treat before another hard day of study tomorrow. He quick stepped the bedroom's beige carpet to his fairly large DVD collection on the shelf; realising – ugh! This was another big decision.

Three Whom Govern

Who Sees Beauty

"...No apologies. We cannot speak of apologisers and scope that would be used to describe this type of behaviour. Can you see that? The outline of the mountain perimeter. The beauty is the way in which it hides behind the cloud and re-appears in your view."

Who De-Scripts

"You are so dramatic. This has been written in every book holy or non, benevolent or not. We must not be distracted by its beauty for we have no knowledge as to the way she would behave in our extroverted stages. Will she defeat you or become you? You will never be known until you heed all warnings and stop with your souled heart."

Who Speaks in Poem

Souled heart of never

Your sensibility is clever

But we will never be able to remain with calm

Or guarantee no harm

We must act like we have not thought

For if our presence is taut

We cannot flex to save their demise

And thus never see what has prophesised

And So On...

The three waited.

"We all know that I may not see beyond my landscape." Said the one who reads beauty. "Why do you continue to believe in my ability?" The sense did believe in itself, the poetic one interrupted.

Why speak of ability, we know you have love?

Why speak of humility, we know you have love?

Why speak of rigidity, we know you have love?

"The poetry that exudes your being is pin-point in its dissection. If you were capable of emotion I would have sworn cold that you were fishing.

Here is your fish:

You are a value that we cannot place pocket upon; you have single abilities that we cannot achieve; visions that we cannot ever visualise; you offer our clique the needs we desire – if we could such desire."

"Well, a mountain and its contiguous is all I note at this very moment." Beauty refuted.

"It would almost sound as if you had emotion – but you can not make a noise nor have feelings." Description described. "It is of time that the world we exist in moves to another point of departure. If this movement is not governed by us then the fabric of it will diminish and thus the responsibility we have undertaken would be spoiled as to our honour.

Look, the landscape you have described is only the tip of the beauty that you will see as the many minutes pass this, currently and only currently, forsaken land/water mass will become what you see - Beauty."

"Though your account is appreciated it is not entirely warranted. I have no feelings so there is no need to use your power of description to appease those who can not be unappeased. The limits I have are an expression of the beauty I cannot see. Blessed is not I when beauty does not exist." Beauty remarked, unaware of a need. The Descriptive sense knew it had to compensate.

"Truth is what you have tabled. Let us know what we need to progress with – a plan. This I may table to the two of you. The path of one so significant is a higher mapped soul event. The connection of all beings is how we have worked for the time period of our and others like us. The plan is merely the push of the one human to the destination we chose because it is what has to happen. If it does not then we have failed and so will the world we live in."

Destination are destined

To believe in a collective power

Beauty is blessed in

Not quite for the present hour

A plan is to be preached

We shall listen to all

When the human has reached

Then shall glisten to all

Beauty is once more

Destiny; a destination

Truth heals our core

Un-failed is sensation

3. Lucky Find?

3.1 Detour

The thought of the empty university room... To peace, quiet but mainly - difference! Empty but for one hard working, grade zero hair wearing (gone the soft hair of youth). Maybe even; (and at a tempting stretch) an empty room but he and one extremely beautiful woman. The flow of this notion in Chris' mind slipped easily. Even while distracted he slung his dark green (an army type green) bag on to his table rashly and a blue pen flew off on to the floor. The floor could not stay in this form, the pen needed to be picked up at some point in time. Straight away was the overwhelming inclination since, firstly, the movement and process is anti-the initial disappointment which creates an appeasement; secondly, Chris liked the idea of using one pen for as long as he could until it ran out (who does not?), though he never managed it (whoever does?), it was the turn of the pen on the carpet for the latest effort.

-ah, the crux of a mindless tale

The biro entered rucksack, Chris went out through the bedroom door, tip-toed down the stairs and swung around the wooden stake holding the bottom end of the staircase. This exaggerated manoeuvre hurried his arrival to the shoe-rack in the area underneath the stairway. With his indigo jeans on some white trainers would go nicely, so he picked up his only pair, sat on the first step and slipped them on, without undoing the laces. A quick check in the hallway mirror (chin lowered, eyebrow raised... smile!) and he was ready to away. Walking towards the front he shouted out to his mother saying 'goodbye' and opened the middle door.

The salient focus is a blessed moment (or series of) that would rather be absent to reality. Detoured thought causes an automatic motion to events; just like Chris was experiencing. His mind was on the whereabouts of his keys, wallet and MP3 personal stereo, the process of which slowed his reality based actions down. On realising that he had all the above items, reality remerged in the form of audio; a voice. He heard his mother say... what did not sound like goodbye back to him. He wondered whether to ignore it and walk out; it would ruin the pleasing closed door = closed mind formula. Just in case (sensible!), he went back in and to the kitchen.

-there seems to be a lot of nonsense here, in both description and technique. Is popularity come to this? The reading of such that should never be attempted, blasé in character, holistic (paragraph. Chapter) and individual (sentence. Words)

"Can you buy that milk from the Sainsbury's?" She said chopping an onion. Though she was not going to eat the onion nor any food containing the vegetable at that moment, she liked to prepare for full cooking as early as possible.

"Nah, I'm not going to Sainsbury's, ma," Chris responded while taking some pretzels out of a jar, "I'm going to university so I'm going the other way – to Elephant and Castle." He hoped that the that milk (condensed, in a can and not the normal variety) was not urgently needed because he knew he would have to get it and there would be no leniency.

"Oh no," She exclaimed, letting Chris know that he'd be venturing an extended trip before saying so. "I need the milk for the cake I have to make for the temple tomorrow. Can you get it I have to go work and have to make it early in the morning?"

The important temple group. Hinduism as part of the British Lakshmi's identity. Were there any temples in Jamaica? Chris kicked his heels and slowly replaced the lid on the jar. Condensed milk is available anywhere but his mother really wanted the one from Sainsbury's and would not accept anything else (trial and error ago). The ingredient irreplaceable. Branded thus by thus being branded.

A less awkward journey (according to Chris' knowledge) was the Sainsbury's in New Cross which was in the opposite direction to where he was on course. His mind raced through scenarios that reduced the travel time, so much so that he re-entered the salient focus mode his attention was at just a few moments ago; he even failed to realise saying goodbye and was bound for the door. Heavy problem solving processes was something that his (well, humanity's considerably) brain clocked into overtime when faced with situations that forced flexibility, but then rigidity was a trait he was constantly labelled with.

-and repetition a character that of the author

Chris always tried to control this inflexibility by doing the opposite to what he sought to do. In not telling anybody of a decision making process this made it seem as if the flexibility came natural. Still, this may not have ever worked as a good disguise since he was never depicted flexible and neither did he feel he was.

Walking down his street, Southampton Way, towards the Old Kent Road, Chris thought about the problem solving results he had figured; it had him taking an annoying trip back down from Elephant and Castle (returning from study at university) to New Cross and then back again home. Such unnecessary travel just for a small can of condensed milk for his mother. Instead of one bus to and from his destination he had to stay on further for the last leg and then get another bus back after securing the holy can of milk. Literally 'holy'.

-what was that said of repetition? Need not be repeated? Need then nor now

It would be fine if he was heading the same way. There were two Tesco supermarkets on his route but none of which were viable because his mother could not work with anything else other than Sainsbury's condensed milk.

Then it hit him

'It would be fine if he was heading the same way'. Instead of going to the university in Elephant and Castle he'd go straight to the library in New Cross, revise there and then go on to the Sainsbury's after in order to make the purchase. Perfect. This not only equated for the gauche travelling but also reduced overall timing; New Cross was closer. He felt the surge of adrenalin associated with clever thinking.

-that's not particularly clever

When zoned into the written word the library (public ones and not the university's) would bring about points of fortified interest. When life got a little too rhythmic and samey, Chris could always rely on a trip to the loan-a-book store to bring forward an opportunity to live his life in the story of another, or others. There was not much he had actually read (fiction) for a good while now so onward the second reason for public institutions over academic! The usual such trip was to Lewisham library, however, since it had a greater array of fiction as opposed to proximal New Cross or even closer East Street. Given that Chris' primary intention was to revise and that journey time/tact was to be considered, the medium ground would have to do on this occasion. (To be added: East Street Library was still closed on a Friday. How archaic.)

-rather unimportant and disjointed information.

The journey took Chris over, having him collecting a ticket and then joining a bus towards Lewisham. His necessity was really not to be on this road. He should have walked the opposite direction he had come from; it was quicker in getting to a route bound for New Cross. Still, if one walks two steps forward, then two steps back, the more tiring of the two is the reverse. More energy had spent; along with that 'thing': alienation.

The red double-decker had started its journey from Moorgate, which was a while back and unlike most of the other buses going down the Old Kent Road, did not take in Elephant and Castle within its journey. Boarded onto this '21' route did the young Uranson. Chris could have walked but the carrier was seen from good distance and the student convinced himself that the extra time revising would be of benefit. And truly, an empty bus was always a nice carriage to a quick destination.

-empty words, soulless wondering around in circles not really convincing anybody of either authority or acclaim. The decision of the reader is one of ease (guess, will thy?) at this moment but then foolish is as one would measure

Once arrived, Chris dedicated a good two hours to his first exam's topic of abnormal psychology. It was not only an interesting subject but also a good source of 'Psyche Delving' as his lecturer had labelled. This was simply the process of self diagnosis that every student of abnormal psychology goes through when studying it. This due to the vast assortment of mental disorders, syndromes and diseases and the rather loose definitions of them. Bipolar disorders, such as Manic Depression, are always favourites and if personal analysis was to measure, the counts of such ailments in the student populous (at least) would be astronomical.

As he read through his notes on the last condition for the presence of Korsakoff's syndrome, Chris stretched his neck muscles looking up around the library. He caught the detailing of a sign describing the opening hours specifically stating a lunch time closure of an hour between one and two o'clock. Out of all the things for Chris to forget it was this critical piece of information, especially considering that this library only recently became open on Fridays. To blame? The salient focus; the imagined woman in an empty uni room; ma and her choice of cow syrup? A cruel game to blame for there are always options. Staying on the bus he caught earlier could have seen him in Lewisham 'enjoying' uninterrupted study. Bigger library, better rules! Now he would have to move on to Lewisham losing rhythm and familiarity... perhaps even a seat? There was no guarantee of getting a table at this time in the afternoon, or even worse, the time in the afternoon he'd actually get there. Another detour was imminent (oh? Where? There is only the one back up). And with that, it would be an afternoon of revision in a house in Southwark for Chris. In positivism; approximately two hours out of the house was better than nothing.

-nothing is better than the something of these words

3.2 Unequal Music

-another 'witty' title that fails to provide adequate information of its chapter

Chris took a trip around the fiction section of New Cross library roughly half an hour before it closed for lunch. He was determined not to let the disruption of the deficient travelling and timing he had tolerated be the scourge of his day. Instead, the concentration of his mind moved on what tasty foods he could get from Sainsbury's (as he was heading there to Rome... sorry, ROAM, and it approached lunch time).

His navigation skills lost out and he found himself not centring on selecting books as he should have been (fortified interest). He wondered aimlessly missing whole alphabetic sections of the fiction mapping; starting in the middle of the six sets of shelves (in between J-N and O-R) he walked towards his right (ignored the S-V shelves) and found himself staring at the W-Z.

-?

Shaking his head, he set himself up for some increased attentiveness by reading off some of the names in front of him. The absorption lasted but a few seconds as his thinking locked a book his mother was reading; 'A Suitable Boy' by Vikram Seth. At least, rather than read, she was going through it and trying to pick up a continuity of story. He turned 180 degrees to the fifth set of shelves which was set to house Seth under S-V. It contained two of his books; the aforementioned item as well as 'An Equal Music', which was a book Chris was curious about after having it recommended by his last girlfriend (as told; the one).

-always is

Before reaching for it he thought back to a night where he was invited to her shared student house at around 6pm for casual dinner but generally to share time. He received a text message at 5pm telling him to turn up later and to eat dinner before he got to her abode. He sat patiently at home taking her advice in consuming the evening meal before hand but received another text at around 8.30pm asking him to delay even later. When calling her and questioning her strange requests the reasons were plain; she underestimated her reading pace and getting near the end of this book she felt she needed to finish the Vikram Seth novel by ASAP/the end of that night, whichever came first. It was a quirky event that others may have been irritated with, Chris on the other hand found it rather cute and this coupled with the patience he mustered was rewarded.

-well he never would have hated the behaviour because that would be more normal which is obviously too much to ask for

Handling the book on the shelf was tricky; it was vertically balanced, as with most in front, but next to it were two, on top of each other and horizontally shelved. The books were not balanced evenly and it looked likely the removal of Mr Seth's novel would cause a miniature landslide. Chris carefully picked out the first of these two vertically challenged items and discovered something quite different.

The front and back pages were made from the cardboard that one might find lying around the house; grey, thin but fairly resilient. A4 in size and, in fact, resembled what may be used to re-enforce a ruled and lined pad of blank, white sheets for the same dimensions. The pages inside were held within these enclosures by three treasury tags though some sheets looked likely to fall out if incorrectly handled. It was obviously hand made and again, obviously, unpublished; what it was doing on a shelf in a library was a mystery drafted and compressed, worthy to another set of shelves. Looking at the front of it, Chris noticed a roughly drawn pencil sketch of a pattern that looked like an out of shape wrist bracelet – the type of wristlet that is not a complete circle but instead having a gap small enough not to fall off a hand, capped at each end using silver (or other) ball bearings. Quite bizarre with interest in it's predicament; left alone to fend for itself against people like Chris.

-it's just a book and not wildlife

Looking around himself he noticed no body. The closest to him was the librarian who was at the front desk stamping another man's out sourced book and passing it around the detector... The detector! Did the A4 cardboard secret have a library security tag on it? Quickly sifting through, he could not find one and realised the only place to put such would be on either of the heavier covers, front/back. All others were too thin being normal A4 sheets of standard factory produced paper. These covering enclosures did not, either, contain a tag, so he favoured confidence in the alarm not to ring.

In order to rub ointment upon the flare of suspicious activity, he picked up 'An Equal Music' and motioned to take it with him towards the front counter. To un-motion. What was he going to do; hand both volumes over to the librarian and ask her to stamp return appointments on each? 'Is that three weeks from now? My younger sister's friend's mother's brother's step father's son's... birthday falls on that very date!' No magic distractive choice phrases could abscond with a dismissed and simple hand off. No. The cardboard folder thing had to disappear into Chris' bag before he reached the exit - in between the S-V and W-Z shelves was where the event was going to happen.

-the event is called stealing

The three people left in the library were involved in separate activities and it was the point in time when the other two interacted that the third, AKA Chris would have his moment to move.

-steal. Moment to STEAL

He looked down at it briefly and glanced around; the non-institutionally employed (this building, at least) man was browsing the music section in search of a jazz CD and; the female librarian was busy logging a very large stack of books. Occupied in her work (she seemed), Chris thought possibly that the 'Book' was her working. Whosever it was, they would most definitely miss their creation if they knew it lost. Not only in affinity to tie but also judging by a half hand written status (the rest typed). Sickly guilt influenced Chris into a second thought about physically raising the book away from the shelf it once rested on.

-physical raising? Is there a problem with the word steal? Romantic language and the iteration of critical design. Difficult. To be tried by only the best. I.e. others

However, he found himself replacing Seth; no second thoughts. Perfection in crime now: reason 2 - he was more traceable with the withdrawal of a novel that leant almost on top of it. Chris moved to the opposite shelf and picked out the first book he could grasp at; 'Heading Inland' by Nichola Barker. What this was doing in the W-Z section Chris was not sure, then it was a perfect book,

\- (...for the perfect cliché)

the writer's correct shelf was far away from S-V.

The jazz man took his selection to the librarian and she immediately had a problem with it. In discussion with this man (a short, portly gentlemen heralding an over one shoulder side bag hitched far too far up his right hip), Chris carefully placed his rucksack on the floor and bent down to unzip it. He placed the handmade book into the main compartment while looking up at the interaction ahead of him. The librarian appeared miffed (concerning her situation) and by shaking her head in gesture (mousy brown hair rigidly staying firm though aggressed) she caught Chris' attention. (Being slightly behind her but quite the way to the left.) Half knelt on the ground he diverted his gaze to the shelf on his right putting his hand on books at this level. Eek! Gritted teeth with annoyance; he may have got caught out after he had actually completed the deed. No, no - it was an almost concluded job. Which Chris acknowledged (with the jazz man's exit) by walking to the librarian. In doing so, keeping his eyes fixed worriedly on the security detectors which were ever so unfortunately not leaving with the gentleman.

Handing the legitimate book to the lady he stepped up to walk between these sensors.

"Can you believe that man wanted to take five CDs?" She said to Chris while receiving the collection of short stories. He halted his step. "The maximum is three, he should know that."

Chris turned to face her and shook his head apologetically. Once more he motioned to venture on.

"The sign is up above the section he got his CDs from," she continued unaware of Chris' nervousness. "I mean, why is he in a library if he can't read? And he had the gall to argue against it. I mean, what am I supposed to do, change the rules just for him?" Chris had stopped once more.

In replying to her rant Chris muffled a 'Yes' response and waited until she looked like she had finished. On this indication, Chris turned and went for it (again); placing his left leg first, then bringing his body exactly in line between the two parallel plastic capsules, no doubt filled with wires and thingies that led to the sizeable RED LEDs on top of each (alarm speakers not in untrained view). If frozen in time, he was now in a position with his bag (held off one shoulder) hanging just behind.

"Oh this is a nice book," She called out causing Chris to pause, flinch and jump back slightly. Not consciously knowing it he moved closer to the front desk, only realising a difference in stance when he turned to acknowledge the comment: "it's very funny."

He was still unaware of his bearings but there was now a need not to delay as oppose to the earlier mere want.

-the author might want to take his own advice, all this annotation for what boils down to be simple piece of walking

Stepping through the security barrier was now the priority for relief of anxiety and Chris went for it, this time with the belief that even if the lady said something he would turn around only when he got to the other side, past the sensors. False confidence high, he walked assured and ahead, blocking peripheral situations from his attention so much so that he missed noticing the bottom of his rucksack clip the highest book of a stack just behind him. This caused the volume to part slide, fly off and land in between the sensors. Needless to say (and with pun intended), the noise that the machine produced caused Chris great alarm.

-if it's needless to say then why was it said? Needs knowledge in description express the need for exact?

The librarian looked up as both were silent; she then peered down at his bag which was on the floor as a result of the deflection and Chris' jerked after movement. Or was she looking at the flown, floored book? The moment was short but dragged on as one of the longest Chris had ever experienced. Stretched time, like a rubber plain pulled at each end. Is that possible to do with an abstract such as time?

-if it is an abstract. Tackiness abundant; move on, skim really. Short is life not are joined words

She spoke.

"Sorry," she started, (a promising start for Chris' sake) "I'm always being told not to stack them so high but I never listen until somebody gets hurt. Are you ok?" She began to scale around from her desk in order to collect the book. Chris spotted the journey as rather needless and decided to help her.

"Here, I'll get it." He bent down to pick up the fallen tome grabbing the strap of his rucksack in the process. He passed the book to her back through the security gate and once more the alarm sounded. She thanked him and ushered him across the desk for a safe hand off (that's one without alarms) and Chris placed his chosen piece (Nichola Barker's text) with the other unauthorised work he had already carried on person. Saying 'thanks' and 'see yaw' he left feeling a very relieved sensation.

-the prison sentence for taking a book out of the library that does not belong to the library is not as serious as the author and his character seems to think

4. The Book of Non-Soul

4.1 Introduction

If you are reading this with an air of scepticism then please go ahead as we need some objection and questions in our time.

This manual/prophecy/interpretation may not be complete when you receive it so be patient and try to believe...

Along with animals of the world live us. If we disclude plantlife, humans and all animals are suggested to be the only entities on this planet. This scripture renounces that theory. There are more entities where some are good and some are bad. The many will not be addressed here; we are concerned with only one. That of Non-Soul.

If you believe my words are dramatic then be aware of your nonchalance. These Non-Soul beings feed off of your very living. They have countless ways of making you more receptive to their prey. In the end will they reign above us? – it is our duty to stop them.

4.2 History

We do not know where or how these entities originated. Our sources begin from the journal of one John Beckett; a rich but very 'polluted' son of an evil industrialite living at the turn of the 20th century.

His father, Senior John Beckett, owned many factories which purposes were endless production lines of metal (such as railway track) and also ceramic items, mostly in the northern states of America and Canada. He had one sister but never mentioned a mother. He was English and was in America by it seems opportunity rather than chance or mishap.

He and his father treated this sister of John's terribly. According to the diary she was chained to a bed post in her room and given just enough food to survive. This seemed to have gone on for a very long time but was not specifically stated as to when and how long. Beckett describes routines that included cleaning the floor that she would use as a toilet. Supplying her with her food, which was on a dish that she could only eat off of using her mouth like some sort of animal. Beckett's words and moods were extremely sadistic and he seemed to enjoy the torture he submitted on his sister. From what he wrote of his father, it was seen that the sadistic nature was with him too.

To get to the issue, Beckett discovered activity in his attic – an attic that was shut and padlocked. There was a small glass panel with a slider that allowed limited sight into it.

"...I would walk to Sarah [John's sister]; her face I imagine is sad. She does not die nor does she cry – why? I am to her, her master and too her servant. I did not believe in the shell of such. Then there it was. Like a light from up above ready to take not another..."

He caught a reflection from the glass panel and climbed onto the ledge that gave him easier access to look through. What he described was a small dot which was a ball of light in the corner of the attic. It stood where it was, hovering and glowed in and out; from bright to less bright.

Beckett decided to close the slider fully and keep this discovery to himself, at least for the time being. For weeks he looked at it, marvelled at it watching it for hours each day. He believed it communicated to him – telepathically.

A little background about Beckett (from the reading of his journal) is that he was not, mentally, at full capacity. He must have been aged at around nineteen years but he did not work; his father was rich enough. His education was unclear but his written word seemed very eloquent and bordered poetry at times. Near and at the end of the diary Beckett reveals patterns of devil worship and a real desire to delve deeper in to fearful fantasy that may have eventually killed him.

"...My eyes blessed to hold it before me. Does it rise? Does it grow? Its size does surprise my eyes initialised by rise fall from cries that I serialise. It asks me of written praise. I have to oblige otherwise my size will revert to sighs..."

After weeks of hypnotically monitoring the entity he noticed a pattern to the growing and shrinking. Every Wednesday the entity grew brighter staying strong until the afternoon but then shrinking throughout the evening and back to a dull glow by the night and following day. The cycle would only occur on a Wednesday and for the following three weeks this was exact. Beckett believed it was something to do with him and his activities and so studied his own behaviour throughout the course of the weeks.

Going back to his sister and as said earlier, in the course of Beckett and his father's mistreatment of her, the food they fed her was administered by Beckett Jr. twice a day; delivering the food and cleaning away any toilet mess. Occasionally he would tidy parts of her room but that's as far as it went for a single day. From his journal, it did not seem that she knew much else in the way of life. He did not speak of any events where she rebelled, she seemed to accept her situation with only the occasional long shrill that could be heard from John's room at night. She would accept the limited two interactions daily. Though this was actually almost daily – there was one day of the week where this did not happen and, yes, that was on a Wednesday.

On a Wednesday the cruelty of Beckett was increased due to his father's persistent absence on this day. John did not bother with his cleaning duties and only laid out food once in the day, being in the evening. Beckett experimented with this finding.

At random intervals he continued the malice by withholding meals earlier in the day and skimping as much as he could with cleaning duties without alerting his father, who could not stand any bad smells. His theory was correct and the entity did respond accordingly to the torture he submitted. It glowed brighter on these days and especially when and a few hours after the wrongs where subjected. As the evening meal approached it moved back to it's less major self. Beckett put a quick two and two together and believed the entity was growing stronger due to his sister's hunger. He wrote of how he wanted to starve her in order to provoke and investigate the entity fully. For this action though, he needed his father's permission.

During his intense descriptions and explanations to his father (of which he wrote several pages detailing what he said and the beating he received for the lying and deception) Beckett knew he had to show the entity to his father. In doing so he unleashed a more powerful threat upon his sister and other more unsuspecting people...

Beckett senior instructed his son to carry out more tests and in fact devised all sorts of new methods of deprivation and torture so much so the Beckett's sister's next few weeks would be her last. The combinations of withdrawals, beatings and other things that she suffered ended her already meagre existence. As predicted, the Non-Soul entity grew at the pinnacle of the suffering; in between beatings and during starvation.

4.3 Minor Conclusion

Conclusion 1: A major part of Non-Soul growth is due to anxiety and fear

The experimentation did not stop as Beckett senior lured hapless victims back to his household for further assessment subjecting these individuals to similar tortures. John Beckett thoroughly enjoyed his work as the administrator of the schemes thought of by his father. However, it was not until a new factory was built that the real breakthrough developed.

John Beckett never mentioned the building of the new factory until it suddenly appeared later in the diary. But indeed one was established and built almost adjoining to the house. By just before this time Beckett senior had employed a team of scientists and scholars to study the entity and John Jr. was very much dropped into a second bit part mode but he still managed to keep involved in recording results of tests and efforts etc. They kidnapped more people but with careful manipulation of smaller details they increased their ability to cause fluctuation in the Non-Soul entity. They had it down to a tee but then a strange thing occurred which coincided with the finalisation of the factory.

"...And I do not know what have done or lost. Life is now not to me as life felt when I was happy. If a light can leave me now then what of my glee? But the same if not different to the reason. You leave my life and so shall I..."

John wrote that a few weeks after the factory got going. Just before, Beckett senior ordered the team to be downsized and eventually out of the house in order to concentrate on his new business ties. He was not as enthused about this illegal project since it involved countless murders that could easily be linked back to his chain of command. The house was empty (except for John) but not silent due to the new factory and its production expectancies. He wrote of his loneliness and boredom that was only countered by his now found freedom to once more engage in the hypnotic gazing of the entity. These few weeks were the last in the diary and for the simple fact that it was the last of the entity's stay at the Beckett residence. It was growing now and at a rate greater than any he had experienced over the last half a year. It kept increasing its glow and size until the light shined brightly through the window panel – even when shut. On the final day of his journal John mentioned how the panel looked suspiciously dark. He checked it and realised the reality of its disappearance. His written words seemed dark and depressed and though we are not sure it would not be so surprising if he had have killed himself by that day or soon after.

4.4 Major Conclusion

Conclusion 2: Loneliness, boredom and alienation is the main factor in Non-Soul growth. Though this was evident with John alone, the introduction of the new factory and the alienation and boredom that the people who worked there felt everyday. All this negativity fed the entity and allowed it to recover from its seemingly injured position.

4.5 Last Words

So you see the grave danger that we are in – our existence is jeopardised by our very negative emotions and thoughts. Our group's research is not only dedicated to the entities themselves but also to the people who dedicate themselves to helping the entities feed and become something that we will find hard to contain. This

4.6 And So On

The book ended there in print and what was left, pen scribed.

-what book? That was a few pages of non-grammatical filth that quite simply did not make sense. The idea was stupid and so was the way in which it was presented. It also should be mentioned as to how unoriginal the whole concept is; beings feeding off negative emotions – done and dusted. Put this novel down and live life with innovation

Chris felt a smile creep across his face that was possibly of embarrassment as well as amusement. Embarrassment in terms of the overall drive of the written work; the author was very much convinced as to its truth. The passion was not so much in the story telling but in the point; to get across the existence and problem that are Non-Soul entities. It was not a literary masterpiece – it suggested a first time writer trying something beyond his depth.

-that seems about right... en grand plan

But then who would believe such rubbish? Chris knew that it would have to be some writing for a comic book. That could explain the intensity along with the badly written dialogue (too critique!). A sharp on set of guilt travelled through his body aimed directly at his tactlessness. He should not have taken something that somebody was clearly working hard on. The pages he had just read were the tip of the iceberg; the book was filled with loose pages, scripts, photos and drawings. These were neatly packed at first; until Chris got hold of it. He needed to put it back and forget that he ever had it. Perhaps in a few years when the comic was released he'd have a rye smile for himself and the history he had with it but for the time being, it needed to sail comfortably back to it's perch just west of 'An Equal Music'. A task that had to be performed either later that afternoon or the next day i.e. as soon as possible. The thought of getting ready, then back on the bus and down to New Cross library, replacing the article and coming all the way in return, crossed his mind. The smell of his mother's cooking moved it's way up the stairs, to his room and crossed his nose (yes, it was now time for the use of the pre-chopped onion – and others). Tomorrow was always the option.

The Planned Execution of Purified Chaos (1)

Anybody Order A Plan?

"It is almost time. Is this correct?"

By words and intent

We may sit back

Mine and Beauty spent

'Commentate', you will attack

"To you all I comment, but it is of sound judgement and precision that my actions must pass."

The sun of Papua New Guinea would have been unbearable to those human.

"So the sea creeps onto the sand. Would this slight tide be your capacity?' That which tales beauty prepared itself for extra commitment to commenting/description.

"The will of all creatures that move and mood would be governed not by symmetry and beauty but by that of a higher order. The picture, though you paint it wondrous and alive – would it be there without comment?"

The Poetic Sense interrupted

Though the beauty in word

Can always be heard

Eyes closed adrift

Visual shift

The Comment took pause, but started once more.

"That you have interrupted can only speak for aesthetic pleasure. What is offered by my speech is the order explained without the need for beauty, Poetry. If this is understood then the essence of nature is made clear; how is beauty to explain the way landscape stuns your vision or the way in which words respond to emotions and as to why.

Plans are whereby a commitment to the order. This scheme is the fruit at which the description of those chosen should abide. Impossible it is to define an exact fate but ushered and what have you? Unexact order.

Enough.

Translation is not sense anymore I shall stop my claims and tell you the order of the current time. Chosen or not (he) the path will be constructed and to do so the map of beauty needs casting; this in request for my energy is spent on chaos. The power of comment is in your charge, Poetry. Speak in rhymes, or what you will, tell the story as a pledge to a universal understanding."

Hail To Prepare, Prepare To Hail

The Sense mustered its clout and readied itself. The beauty reader scanned the mountainous regions looking for the area that was described to it from the annotated Sense long before the Plan was an actuality. It remembered back to what it was told; a suitable mountain with a suitable rock. Of course, what suitability is remains firmly as a definition that seems no translation inter-beings.

"There," It 'pointed' out the region it felt was suitable, "The jaded shadow of the smaller grained earth in respect to the larger principle mound of the rallied assortment of five. The gentle and pure river moves easterly and attaches itself to a destination that the once diminutive ground will choose."

"Then, it is time to act."

Execution at High Tide (Oh, and Others)

+By definition in tale, the following is the best natured translation (from the universal un-coding via the poetic sense) coupled with an added description of events:+

As a pocket of swirled wind entered the chasm area the Comment/Descriptive Sense 'sent' it to the boulder. The force of the air-stream itself may not have been enough but the 'manipulation' as administered by the Sense helped the huge stone roll onto a sloped level of gravel and eventually it descended down the mountain (collecting grit) and landed in the river at it's foot.

The easterly direction ensured that as a blue and white coloured Birdwing Butterfly, an unqualified drop of river water (fashioned from the splash created by the boulder) attached itself to the tip of the creature's wing. The force caused it to lose its direction which was originally for a minute gap between ranges that led to a small rainforest on the other of one side of the chasm. Instead, it continued along the river bank heading obviously east, being aided by a Walliwaw type wind. Just as the butterfly exited the chasm it moved across a small area of coast out to the sea. On joining, the poor beauty was crushed and ripped apart almost instantly by a wave.

This wave drew back creating a wind pocket heading Northerly to Micronesia. The pocket grew in size with every movement of the sea but stayed flexible enough to magically slip in between the islands on the way to the Northern Marianas. Once there, the pocket had grown to a good gusto causing the Churada Monsoon (which was in season at this time) to have a direction. The shape of the monsoon originally enabled the high wind heading in from the south to stream through the west area but being attracted to the precipitation, the current of air pushed the rain in a more easterly rather than a concurrently northerly direction. This extra water in the Pacific Ocean (just right of the Marianas) created the kind of turbulence that had only one objective – to reach another shore.

Hawaii had already experienced a recent Kona storm but meteorology experts on the islands could not pinpoint another explanation for the blustered weather that hit the isles. It was harder than the storms that were usually associated with Kona and it continued at great pace across in order to maintain momentum; the rest of the Pacific is a hard sea to influence in a bid to reach the Americas.

A combination of typhoons and cyclonic activity continued the force, taking on the Pacific with fair ease before arriving at California. The energy spent was too great to cause any humanitarian disaster on the west coast of America – extra impetus was necessary. The night breeze of Coromell and a Santa Ana type wind carried the exhausted power over some land mass where it picked up ascendancy driving on to Nevada. The winds were beginning to cause a fuss mainly due to the fact that now the dealing was with land and not water; more damage can be done this way. The predictions of the higher Diablo canyon wind speeds of 60mph were surpassed. This was no plain Diablo, though the name did fit.

Considering the scope and determination of this air-stream, mainland America was surviving with out desolation. This was thanks mainly to the perfection of the force applied. The wind did not gather pace geometrically; it wavered in and out collecting energy from the natural phenomenon it passed by. Unison was at work and continued as the brave wind took on the Atlantic, once more in the fashion of how it challenged the Pacific. Needless to say, it made it. Bearing North-Easterly from around South Carolina all the way to the lonely county of Cornwall. Again, perfection ran through as a not too dangerous, but larger size than usual, wave hit a coast right on the Lizard Peninsula.

The Resulting Finale ('Present Time' Minus a Fair Few Hours)

"Oh eye, yeah. It's 'bout mile down road." John Leyton, truck driver 'extraordinaire' claimed. "No problem. You have a nice day, you hear?" The couple he had just given the information to thanked him and set off in there two door car. He bent down to pick up the goat he had just purchased from farmer Johnson and gave its head a ruffle. It stirred but remained calm.

"They're quite early for travelling... now, where was I?" Johnson asked. He was an extremely absent minded fellow.

"Nor, man. Where were I is more lik'it." Leyton corrected. "Eye, reason why they call this place Lizard is 'bout myth of dragon in sea. They say..."

"-and they say a lot of things!" Johnson cheekily noted.

"Eye, smarty. They say that it rose from the ocean and scared the living daylights oow-tta everyone. But it didn't do nowt. It was peaceful. Ss'why they call it lizard and nort dragon." Whenever farmer Johnson heard Leyton use a 'the' before a noun (as in the way he used 'living') he knew he was excited and very serious.

The two stood overlooking the sea as it crashed and corroded the land that lay beneath them. They were some distance up, fenced in and were not in immediate danger of any sort of ocean related trouble. Then a peculiar thing happened. A good size (about a bucket full) of water sailed over the protective fence and splashed farmer Johnson, John Leyton and the goat.

"By 'eck!" Leyton exclaimed, "I aint staying round for this. We must be what ten metre up? Take care, Joe, Newcastle's a lit'le less under attack." Hurriedly, he put the goat in the back of the gate enclosed truck and said his goodbye again. Farmer Joe Johnson was probably a little sad since he did not get to speak to many other men often (he lived with his wife and four daughters). Leyton was happy; he was bored with the conversation and needed to drop the goat off near Peterborough – which meant a lot of driving in a very rickety truck. He opened the latch, placed the now rather hyperactive goat in the back and closed the back gate replacing the latch.

"What's that in his eye?" Johnson enquired as Leyton moved around the perimeter of his vehicle to get to the front. He was not interested in anything in the goat's eyes, ears, mouth or any orifice.

"It don't matter," Leyton said not waiting or returning back for inspection, "Some Frog wants it for eating. Poor fella, his eyes are the last thing on 'is mind." He realised what he had said and chuckled to himself. "Get it, Joe? Eh? On 'is mind. Fuu'king funnay, man"

Somewhere before Peterborough ('Present Time' plus a Couple of Hours or So)

The goat was irritated and managed to upset a few chickens. The noise was deafening though Leyton could only hear rather muffled events from the back due to the racket his engine was causing.

By rubbing its face against everything in the truck, (including chickens) the goat believed it could get rid of whatever it was that was in its eye. In doing so, it grew more and more frustrated. One vent out from its predicament was to run (within the limited space) and jump bashing its head against the wooden fence roofing. On the second occasion it did this, the goat managed to forcefully lift the roof from the gated end causing a temporary opportunity for the latch to be defeated and the back to be open. Its flailing hoof did just that, which sent the mammal out and rolling onto the main road.

Feeling something wrong, Leyton looked in his wing mirror and saw the goat bounce down the dual carriageway. His whole life of animal couriering flashed before him; major roads were always a 'no no' for farm creatures. It was the lure of the Frenchman's pocket that created this extra journey. He decided to pull over once he saw the third chicken roll along the asphalt and act as if nothing threatening had occurred whilst it lay on its side for a second. Chickenfeed pouring almost perfectly from the truck, it got up and ate handsomely.

The Goat ('Present Time' plus a Couple of Hours or So)

Still irritated, the goat trotted off the road and then through a gap in a fence to proceed to rub it's eye on a tree. Positioning itself on loose leaves it slipped and fell, sliding down a very steep hill. No matter how hard it tried to grip the earth it carried on tumbling until it reached the bottom. The goat fell on to a train track, but not fully; it's head hit the first live rail and as it was electrocuted it flew two feet up into the air and then landed dead, body on the ground, head, miraculously, once more on the rail. This time it stayed put, albeit for a moment, just as a train bound for London St. Pancreas drove across its skull, decapitating it and in the process de-railing, crashing into the trees and hilly area the animal had previous descended down from. There was little the driver could do after he tried to brake having seen the goat 'jump' up previous.

With the wreckage settled, the overhead view of the disaster was of a snaked train, the front of which was on fire and buried within the trees. At the apex of a 'V' shape created by the third and fourth carriages was the body of the beheaded goat covered in blood. A patch of its waist was clear and something rested upon it. It was small, fragile and blue; a suitable expert would have realised that it looked very much like part of the wing of a large butterfly. However, not the type one would find in this country.

5. To Catch an Author

5.1 Stereotypes and Observations ('Present Time', Of Course)

The library was quite busy for the time that he had arrived. 9.30am on a Saturday at New Cross Library was a place of tranquillity and could quite easy be used as a point for meditation. On this day, however, all that was seen were parents and children.

He wondered what the author of the 'Book' looked like with his preferred vision being a man resembling the comic book obsessed geek from the Simpsons. Long pony tailed hair, glasses, fuzzy beard, big and flabby stomach poking through a t-shirt and pretty much ugly. The young Uranson scanned the open plan library in search for this image realising the unlikelihood for surface.

-that realisation is quite similar to one which is felt on the reading of this piece of writing. Expectation of something great (if that) and the realisation of something not

In the idea of the piece being fiction (other ideas need not apply), Chris thought best he initially try to discover the identity of the owner. He could make up some tall tale... or simply the truth about having found it and he being a curious individual; so had to indulge. How angry could they be at him? If unsuccessful, on leaving the library, Chris would replace the artefact, where he found it.

Satisfied with this idea, he continued the look around. Isle four, adult fiction. A beautiful woman stood reaching for a book and in doing so pouting out every asset of her sumptuous frame. Her denim jacket and plain cotton top raised up together to reveal a midriff hosting a mock diamond belly button ring shining coolly against the contrast of her dark brown abdomen. Chris inaudibly whispered a silent prayer that the only item not belonging to him within the main compartment of his bag was hers. It was never going to be; luck was something that happened to other people. He figured out that walking around the room would not lead him to success; so he needed a new tactic.

5.2 Bait

Tip-toe then strike! Side step, bent knees. He moved in quickly to secure a seat at a small table from a teenager moving on. Taking the 'Item' out of his bag he placed it on the table and grabbed a newspaper that was already situated in front of him. Just about to participate in a swift browse of the broadsheet, he noticed a conversation between a man and a woman around the white steel frame shelf corner at the music section.

"...it helps. Everything you do for them at this stage of their lives is so critical." The woman said as she leant rather invitingly against the 'Pop and Rock' section.

"Really? Please continue." The man replied motioning closer to her as he did so.

"Oh yeah," she nodded sincerely, "I want the best for Pete and he is incredibly smart and by taking him here all the time... and including every Saturday." She hesitated purposefully and looked him in the eyes. "This way I can further his goals and aspirations."

"You know," The man started his response leaning in towards her (a little more). "They say that parents too have their own goals and aspirations and by helping their children's ones they can... help their own... to their own benefits."

"Oh and... what benefits may those be?" She reached forward and spinning the top button of his off white shirt.

"Marr-umm!" A 'smaller' voice cried out, "Tom slammed my finger in his book."

-soft porn and cheap humour is for a shelf, just not a library shelf

***

The role of Jean Piaget in the development of play within a child... or is it the development of a child through play? Unconcerned. Just read. Notes notes! Two dolls, a child, a psycho-dude. Can one doll see the other if the big man in the white coat covers one of them up? Does a Black man in a green t-shirt exist if he goes to the toilet and thus away from view; out of sight, out of universe? Is it you? Is it you? Never mind, back to topic. Developmental... wait? Wrong subject according to timetable. Don't worry continue and replace cognition over developmental psychology at next session. The child shouting his head away. He sits. A clear example of pre-development. Egocentric nature. Piaget was right, that kid doesn't care that people have exams; he's only interested in himself. Nobody is anywhere near the jazz section. Friendly lady librarian is not working today. Weekend off to do her hair; it needed doing. Damn that girl is fine. Wonder what book she's got. That belly button ring is hot. And there she goes with her book, outside the door and walking up the high street towards Lewisham. She must be local... right? Anyway – CONCENTRATE. Damn, that Piaget was a fucking idiot.

It was 10.30 now and Chris had spread his revision notes and textbooks taking over most of the desk; more likely, the area he had taken possession catered for two people. The 'Book' was still visible even though Chris' notes and papers somehow wanted to encroach its viewable surface area; the student had to change his messy organisation once in a while to counter.

Being in a bent position for at least twenty minutes (the table did not allow for comfortable seating for someone just shy of six foot), he stretched his legs out and in the process his neck also, thus taking opportunity to once more scan. There were a lot less people now. It took about half an hour for Pete, his mother, Tom and the admirer to leave the premises and it also seemed that the rest of the library followed suit. Chris took another look at the cover of the book. He guessed that the symbol on the front was the calling card for the group, gang or team of people who wanted to exterminate the Non Soul entity things. He realised that it looked a little like the Ghostbusters symbol and while chuckling to himself he noticed (heard – ear; saw – peripheral vision) a library assistant drop a book onto the floor. He wanted to look over but resisted this almost automatic reference to sound not wanting any awkward eye contact with the man (as what always happens when somebody embarrasses themselves in proximity of another). Pretending not to notice always helps the individual regain self esteem a lot quicker, though the individual in question was on his way towards Chris. No chance of eye contact avoidance now.

"Excuse me but where did you get that?" The assistant asked pointing at... it.

5.3 Confessions of a Serial Peacemaker

"Er... I found it... er... yesterday. It was..."

"-You mean you stole it." The assistant accused, interrupting, "I have been looking for that everywhere and... well have you read it?" His face was turning red.

"Well, no... I took it by mistake."

-there is nothing like a lie to clarify a situation whereas the truth... the truth is and would be the way to reduce the extra 'fat' this novel is picking up. It makes reading so near a longer and tiresome activity than it could be

"Excuse me?" He was working up an agitation. "By mistake? How do you take something that is clearly not yours by mistake?"

The man was unequivocally upset though he was respecting library rules by acting quite subtle in his argument against the foul play. He did look like he raged inside; still he knew that his job was at a level of importance that he could not afford to just give it away by causing the excess of a scene. Chris sensed the assistants' predicament and somewhat played to it, whilst also trying to appear calmer than he was.

"Ok, listen," Chris approached believing firmness would establish himself in the conversation. "I took the book because nobody else was near it and it looked interesting. I'm sorry I took it but there you go I did it and here you go it's there." He could not think quickly enough for the collected speech that he wanted to deliver.

"Well, your apology is not accepted. I thought I would never see this document again. Do you know how much trouble I would have been in?" The assistant gasped a little as he spoke, his words frowning heavily with his eyebrows all the time. There did not seem to be any progress with the anger management so Chris decided to switch the subject.

"Er... you didn't write it? Who did? It's very creative." Creative! He suddenly realised 'Creative' might not be the appropriate word in the instigation of peace.

"Creative? You don't know what you're talking about. Listen, just be on your way and I'll take this." Looking more frustrated and now with the added detail of being somewhat defeated he motioned to pick up the book. Chris did not want the interaction to end like this; he reached out to intercept the assistant's efforts.

"What do you mean I don't know what I'm talking about? Is this fiction or are you insane?" Chris countered, again in his vein of switching tactics, this time going for aggression.

"Listen, sir," nothing like this calm and he simultaneously unnerved Chris with his choice of courtesy. "This book is not yours. You took it without asking nor without any regard for the consequences that the action entailed – I was worried sick." The truth of the situation pierced Chris' new found boldness as he let the book from his finger-tipped grasp. The man turned away. That was not to be the end.

-no, that's too much to ask for

"If it is not fiction then what's it about? Tell me." Chris thought he had lost the opportunity but the man stopped and turned just before a set of shelves to their right.

"You don't seem like the person who would understand. You live your life and I will live mine." The assistant turned again and walked on with book in his hand, Chris got up and followed him.

-it's conversation like these (involving two foolish characters) that ruin novels. Not that this 'novel' needed extra facilitation for its demise

"Look, man," Chris tapped him on the shoulder and forced the assistant to stop just at the end of the same book section. "We got off on the wrong foot and I know you have a job to do but... we need to talk." He was not sure exactly why Chris only needing to talk represented the 'we' in his dialogue. "The book... if it's not fiction then maybe I need to know about things... you know? If I'm in danger or anything?" Chris' face and even internal emotional responses appropriated the concern he voiced. He almost immediately felt guilty for doing so, telling himself that this would be his last effort at pressurising this poor man.

"Hey, we're all in danger, sunshine. It's people like us who are working towards a solution to stopping this." He was very calm and a shadow of his former irate self.

"Listen, let me just talk to you and your group or something. I'm sure they won't mind and it will get me involved. I mean, I'm already involved having read the book." Chris felt the nervousness associated with doing or saying something wrong.

-embarrassment. It's called embarrassment

He was not interested in the group (and it had to be a group since the book and assistant referred to a 'we', rather than just the author) but instead the desire to appease and to rectify what he had done wrong; it was overwhelming. At least a degree over any control he had on top of himself had surpassed and he could not help but become involved in this obsession with correction. To remove a little of the desperation hinted within his request he leaned on the shelves closest to his right; thankfully it did not collapse.

"Ok look." The assistant responded, looking a little more nervous now. "I finish at 3 o'clock... meet me outside and we'll meet a few people. I suppose you know a bit from what you have read so I guess it makes sense. Ok, three outside, yeah?"

"Er... ok... erm... yeah." Chris stuttered his response knowing that he was getting himself involved with something he did not want to but he had no ability to simply walk away from it. "Yes, 3pm outside. See you there."

-life is this easy and so is the artistic expression of its 'children'. Why would the movements of a man be told in completion? Let's see; to engage the reader in a world? To apply an ability to annotate in description and forest a network worthy of view? All of the above and more but then how would such be endeavoured to an author incapable of making things move smoothly? Or simply too smoothly

The assistant turned, walked away and this time was successful. Chris remained for a second still leaning against local government funded shelves and noticed an on looking man who quickly diverted his gaze as he was noted. Chris looked at the shelf that he was leaning on and moved his hand to reveal a label of the category 'Gay and Lesbian Interest'. He went back to the desk to collect his things thinking how poorly luck (again, this overseer) chose the surrounding for his argument.

5.4 Lunchtime Philosophy

At home now, since staying at the library was a pains taking task of avoiding the assistant and anybody who thought he might be gay, Chris had just eaten a bowl of noodles along with some salad and fried chicken left over from the day before. He was not a stickler for entertaining his taste buds but more for the satisfaction of his bodily needs.

-more useless information

Being it too early for his arranged meeting, Chris rested on top of his bed with hands behind head. This was his thinking mode and it was clear to him that thinking needed to happen especially as the assistant seemed so adamant in belief.

Could souls or non-souls exist on this planet? Soul has always been a description of 'that something' within us all that drives us to live and be. Perhaps there is a collective soul; an energy that moves us all, or the human battery as it were, but it is not highlighted in many serious ideas that it is a separate being or entity. At least, those ideas have been rubbished by scientific principles into the existence of other energies (e.g. gravity) that control the beings and their surroundings of this planet. The romance of the soul and the nature of soul has been lost (possibly misplaced) for a very long time.

If soul is the life carrier, then it needs to know that it is so. Soul cannot govern with principles if it does not know what those principles are and what they are to be used for. In soul terms, these principles are for life and the order of life. If there is no knowledge of this order then soul cannot perform its function and so the consequences of an order-less universe will affect. This, of course, is the end of existence and so cannot happen. The soul must have a knowledge of itself and its principles otherwise it would not know that the death of soul is not an option in life and the order of life.

-a lecture on soul. A little depth in a novel this trashy will still not save it. Even so – will the depth of the depth be at a relevant depth?

In realising that knowledge is a pertaining fact in the labour of soul it is not far and away to suggest a form of intelligence within soul. In order to use knowledge to good effect, thought is needed. The translation of knowledge using the principles to obtain a goal requires intelligence. In other words, the soul needs to know the principles at which it can work (the order and rules that govern life) and what goal it is working for (the maintenance of life and its order) and in order to do so it requires this intelligence.

-circles come to mind

Can a higher being govern soul in such a way that it does not require intelligence? A human being writes software to let a computer do tasks that are more controlled and accurate than the same tasks done by a human. It's also a way of doing tasks that do not need the presence of the human(s). In this same sense, a higher being (God, of course) can simply 'run' soul to do it's job as if it has already been programmed.

-comparing a natural phenomenon to a man made utility is hardly truly pure thought. Thinking. It's something that can actually be achieved without reading. Perhaps worth trying. Maybe now

The reason why the question above answers to 'no', requires the main pro and con of the computer model of soul.

-if there is such a model

To a degree computers have intelligence. It may be artificial and not as accomplished but it is there and necessary for the automaticity of tasks. The soul's automation is similar and it crucial needs a level of intelligence in order to lead continuance with its principles and use of knowledge. However, the soul's automation is also vitally different to that of a computer since a computer has no innate knowledge of the principles it is working on and no natural knowledge of itself.

So, if it has intelligence and a knowledge of its own principles then it can be perceived as a separate being. A being of soul that governs the other beings of this planet using it's principles intelligently for which it has full knowledge of. Soul may not be the most diverse or dynamic of beings; in that, it cannot afford to be, given the outcome if it fails at its job. Still, in this representation, a lot can be inferred from the structure of soul. It does not have to be one being and there maybe many of them working in series with each other. The aforementioned intelligence promotes the fact that communication is possible (due to linking an intelligence and language connection) between any of the different souls that can exist so it is quite feasible to have souls working in tandem for the success of life force.

-too many arguments and too quickly briefed over probably leading to a ridiculous assumption

The manifestation of these beings as entities (possibly visible) is very much to do with the separation of energy. If soul is split into different, standalone beings then it is very possible that the structure of such a separation is somehow solid. This being would then need to sustain itself and that is done with a form of fuel or energy supply. Inferring what this is would be guessing, but human emotion comes top of the estimation list.

-and now for the truth. Non Soul is fictional tripe made up by an author who seems to be confused with what is real, imagined and completely theoretical

Chris had a few questions that raced across his mind, the first of which he expanded on. What was the link between soul and Non Soul? The definition of soul as Chris knew it was very much to do with a life force but not necessarily a positive one. If soul fed off energy then Non Soul would be the opposite of soul. But that is not the case; Non Soul, according to the book, came in entity form; soul, as far as Chris knew, did not. But then in what way did soul 'feed' off of energy? Soul is the life energy which does not feed (or does it?). It (Non Soul) was an idea that was aesthetical in make up and totally un-falsifiable. It was created by people in search for an answer that they had no better looking resolution for.

-was this not covered in the nonsense preceding?

His brain continued to speed at huge volume to which all he could do was sit up and try to distract himself. It was a combination of solving the Non Soul mystery along with the nervousness of meeting with the assistant and his cronies. Looking at his watch, Chris needed the release of tension and decided to leave a little earlier than he would normally to get to New Cross at a certain time. The sheer extensive combustion of thought coming out of his near capacity mind had to be appeased by being on the move.

5.5 The Early Bookworm

Chris remembered an independent video shop a little further down the road from the library and decided on paying this a visit since he was rather early. He probably needed to spend at least half an hour in there.

-and on to the fine decisions of a fool and his ways. If the plan was to miss the travel sequence between this boy's house and destination then why mention irrelevant facts? Turn up at the correct time in verse and deliver a sequence related to the general story

Alighting the bus he walked towards the library squinting his eyes;

The process of form recognition starts with a blur. Then less of a blur and more like a form... something that one finds familiar; the search. What is it similar to? Is 'it' an it or a 'he or she'? In this case, a he. Who he? A man walking. Ok a man walking means nothing; that is a form recognised but to no significance. This man is familiar so now it has; repeat: who he? Hmm...

He caught sight of a familiar assistant across the way. Chris only needed to traverse a road and walk but less than a minute and he would be at the library. The assistant was at the corner of the same road that Chris needed to cross, but was heading away. He was walking down the adjacent pavement and not seeming like he was going to return since he had a rucksack, was wearing a denim jacket along with fashion statement sunglasses. It looked suspicious to Chris (it would to many) and he knew that he could not stand idle by in a video shop that he did not even belong to expecting this man to turn up as promised. The decision he took was to follow.

-as in all tacky thrillers

On the side road now Chris made sure he stood across the street and a little behind him (about two and half parked cars). The assistant walked with his bag off one shoulder; it bobbed up and down as he strolled oblivious to prying eye. The bag would move precisely opposite with his rhythm; torso down, rucksack up and vice versa. This movement made it hard to get an idea of how tall he was, (adding to) his shoulders being hunched which compacted his frame. The man's stance was crying out for him to put his hands into his pockets (for a less tense and forged body shape) but he did not do so.

The assistant reached another side road (parallel to the main road that the library was on) and turned right onto it. He may have been going to the library via a back entrance? Chris hurried along the street (that's the original side road he was on) so that he could get a view of the assistant and what the potential liar was doing on the new road. The man was waiting outside a premises.

A shot of rage encompassed Chris' body and mind. (And rolled straight from instinct and automatic thinking;) was this man shirking his promise and responsibility to meet with Chris, outside the library in what was now only fifteen minutes? Probably not. He calmed slightly as he realised that it did not take anywhere near that time to make his way back to the point of convene. The assistant was probably leaving his items of weight at home in his flat, relaxing for ten minutes and then leaving.

There were a few problems with this;

-there always is

firstly, why was he waiting outside his own flat, would he not have keys?

-maybe he forgot them

Secondly, his stance did not suggest that the place he faced was his home. He looked nervous and removed his sunglasses with haste.

-it happens, keys are forgotten; which is usually greeted with gentle harrying (from a housemate) that can lead to a little edginess

At his angle, Chris could not see who opened the door but the assistant entered and the door closed behind him. The young Uranson thought back to what the assistant had said to him. Perhaps he was discussing Chris with the others and results were not going too favourable. Perhaps this was his home and it was an escape route from the proposed assembly. Whatever the excuse, Chris had an overwhelming desire to walk to the door and open it.

There was another option; he could wait around and continue with his original plan of sifting through DVDs in the video shop, perhaps even going through books in the library. Of course, if there was a no show outside the library at 3pm it would result in a knock at the door.

But then what if he just skipped all that and turned up at his doorstep with nothing but a cheeky grin? He was not really interested in what this Non Soul business meant anyway; it was something made up by a fool who has convinced that beings exist whom feed of negativity. So he might as well turn up and get the whole situation over and done with. Chris looked at the door and hesitantly crossed the road towards it.

-or he could just go home? If he truly was not interested in the 'Non Soul business' he would simply about-face

As he walked across he felt his body give in. A helplessness had encompassed him and all he sought to do was please this instinct – the aim of which was to knock on the door and see what happens. He approached it and looked for a ringer or a knocker and upon finding the former he pressed it not hearing a sound. The door itself was entirely composed of black coloured steel with similarly coloured bolts lining the perimeter within a frame. Chris noticed that it opened outwards and so stepped backwards in anticipation.

It took approximately thirty seconds for the door to open.

-it takes exactly ten words to waste a paragraph

5.6 Long Time No See

"Hey... Preston, right?" A large man, wearing a tight fitting Italian football replica t-shirt (that the Euro 2000 finalists Italy wore for that particular tournament) said once he had opened the door. He spoke with an American, New York accent and looked on enquiringly towards Chris, who managed to grumble a response that he thought was never understandable. "I'm Maurizio. How was your journey?" He beamed a broad smile as he asked the question. Haplessly, Chris had no idea as to how to answer and stood frozen to the spot. Maurizio shook his head and frowned. "Sorry, man, my manners are out. Come in, come in."

Big Maurizio led Chris into a small front room area while holding the door open with his right arm. The door needed a strong arm to hold it open while Chris squeezed passed Maurizio's bulging pectoral majors. Chris wondered whether Maurizio was a part of this Non Soul clique; the size of the man phased him because he thought that the type of people who went for this cult activity were a lot less stocked in frame.

-etc. etc. description, new character, etc. The size, the scale the realisation of a task befit for others (if necessary) seek and remove an eye gaze. These words are not receiving the effort that is put into reading due to the bereft of tangible spirit, passion and working. Where is it mentioned that dedication is a requirement? Never so, do what will with what has been willed. Freedom ensues choice – use it

The small front room area had only two exits/entrances one of which was the front door. The other was a flight of stairs to the left (when facing from outside) and on the wall opposite the door was a coat rack nailed to it. Chris did not bring his bag and he figured he'd keep his green (again, army green) blazer cut denim jacket on in case of a quicker exit than the fast exit he expected.

The staircase twisted around as Chris climbed it followed closely by Maurizio. He felt obliged to answer the question set to him earlier.

"Yes. It was ok, the traffic was fine." The significance of this answer – it bordered on the edge of innocence; mistaken identity or blatant fraud. Chris told himself to keep his responses as general as possible.

"Oh... didn't you get here by train?" Maurizio queried. The sinking feeling felt was quite contrary to his ascendance up the stairs.

"H-huh... yeah... yes." Chris stuttered and managing to compose himself he continued "Train traffic was fine, I mean. You know how it is with delays and stuff." The line had been crossed now. Mistaken identity had been replaced with blatant fraud and whatever happens now he had undoubtedly lost the excuse to play dumb.

-well he was quite successful up to this point but then maybe he was not playing

"Yeah, it's not as if New York don't got its fair share of delays." Maurizio anti-boasted, letting out a gasped laugh while doing so.

The pair got to the top of the stairs and Maurizio nipped ahead of Chris leading him into a spacious room. If used as a residence, the label would have been the living room; however, Chris was never to be sure what it was really used for since it was quite sparse from homely furniture. Plain white (off white, really, seeing as nobody had painted in a while) walls and ceiling. A small wooden table, a chair, some stools and a dark brownie-red two-seater sofa were the only inanimate objects of the room. The carpet did not exist and merely floorboards that were old and unvarnished. Inside the area sat three other men, though, none of whom was the library assistant. They all stood up as Maurizio brought Chris to them.

"Here's the gang," Maurizio started with a smile. Most probably by chance the three arranged themselves in a triangle that pointed away from Chris and Maurizio introduced the man on the left hand side first. "This is Mark Carter... Carter is correct, right?" Mark replied that it was; he and Chris shook hands, "And this is 'Kurn'." Cyung (i.e. 'Kurn') extended his hand and spoke. 'Hi, I'm Cyung Li.' These his sole words.

Chris turned to the final gentleman, furthest away, in between Mark and Cyung at the apex. The way he stood and approached, showed he was in charge and a leader of some sort. He was a White man with a full (but trimmed) beard that was salt and peppered in colour. His head hair was white and thinning in the centre. The apparel he displayed; a nicely cut dark suit with no tie.

"And I am the man you have been chatting to over the internet, Tim. Pleased to meet you." He extended his arm as he spoke and Chris shook it, noticing the firmness. He also noticed his heart beating extra hard and through his chest. A vision of a scene from an unrelenting slasher/horror film passed by Chris' mind's eye showing his small, plump, blood pumping organ penetrate dark wheat(ish) skin. He may have fooled Maurizio and the others but this new man, Tim, has admitted to knowing him albeit limited.

Over the internet? Not so bad. Chris told himself to keep nodding and smiling and perhaps he might just get an opportunity to leave without losing face (and teeth, judging by the size of Maurizio's fists). "You look a lot younger than you type, but then, looks can be deceiving," he smiled appreciatively, "Anyway, you are going to have to forgive me for dispensing with the formalities as we had better get to it." Tim was definitely in control.

-so the author is going along with the unbelievable assumption that not one of these individuals has not seen this 'Preston' character before - even the man who claims to have had communication with him already? Not a photo or even a description?

Chris' internal bodily alarm system eased down as he found a seat on a nearby stool and Tim went back to his seat (the two-seater sofa, shared with Cyung) picking up some papers and a file by his feet. The rustle of leaf and Tim started to sift through his notes in order to start speaking about Non Soul (or whatever). Within this short space of time, Chris thought of an extremely easy plan to get away.

"Hold on... er... before we start can I... I'm just going to nip to the loo," Chris thought about the word he used, 'Loo', he had never used that term before now. Nor had he pictured this rather easy purge. "Where is..."

"-Through the door and first on the left." Maurizio interrupted informatively and Chris climbed off of his still cold stool and walked towards the door. It was a stride that was purposefully slow in order to let his mind trace anything that he may have left behind (aesthetically and abstract). Good thinking to dispense the bag chez-moi. And now to the door that would lead him back to such... though an obstacle. A man walked into the room and froze, staring at Chris.

"You..." The assistant started with disbelief written firmly on his visage. "Er... hi... how are you... doing?"

The room was silent and Chris realised that. Either this or he had become deaf as a result of panic (more organ jumping!). Right, the need for response... which tact? The situation was flying by and being completely unsympathetic to Chris' need for thought.

"Er... Hey, how are you...? I'm... good." Chris managed very nearly incoherently. The response did one thing; it placed the onus on the assistant to expose Chris' fraudulent movement, rather than Chris himself.

"You know Preston, Stu?" Maurizio said intercepting the conversation.

Chris knew now that he was so close to an exit but unfortunately never made it. It was an 'almost' in his life. No breaks, no luck here. This was the first time he ever tried anything like this; the rigidity and boring nature he had been labelled with was shot out of a cannon as soon as he pressed that doorbell. What he had done was exciting and using only his instinct he acted out every behaviour he had just performed. However, all this was to come crashing down in a heap just as soon as 'Stu' says the word 'no'.

"Yes." Stu said, looking a little surprised himself. "Er... Yeah, I didn't realise you were a part of this Non Soul thing..." directing his gaze to Maurizio and then the others, he continued, "we know each other from way back... in Leicester. I grew up there with him. It's great to see you."

Chris was completely taken back by the rambling and even almost lost his footing. A nearby chair helped him out with this while everybody else was more interested in the false connection.

"Wow! You guys really know each other? Grew up together?" Maurizio was not questioning the whole relationship but was merely speaking out of surprise and amazement. "That's so coincidental that it aint! It's fate, man." Chris was not quite interested in fate or anything other than exiting the flat.

"Where did you say the toilet was?" Chris asked Maurizio breaking up the chorus of elevation quite bluntly. Stu interrupted any comment that could have been retorted.

"Here I'll show you." Stu practically dragged the denim out of the summer jacket. Into the hall closing the door behind him, he continued, whispering aggressively. "Listen, I don't know what you're playing at but... what the fuck?"

"Me? Why did you tell them I knew you?" Chris replied starting off loud but reducing his volume as he finished.

"I panicked, you prick. I haven't got a clue what you told them... what the fuck have you told them?" Stu was a perfect mixture of angry and worried.

"Absolutely nothing," Chris responded trying to ignore the name calling, "I blagged my way in after I saw you come in earlier." Chris decided honesty was clearly the best policy in this circumstance.

"So you haven't told them anything about you stealing the book?" Stu queried looking much more relieved.

"No, mate. Listen, I'm off so laters" Chris turned to the stairs but Stu aggressively grabbed his arm. Being from South-East London, Chris did not like this type of contact and sized his opposite up believing that if it came down to it he could dispose of Stu in full fist combat. The library worker, however, was very uninterested in Chris' thoughts and was not thinking that far ahead.

-what was said for the conversation of two idiots? Annoyance, annoyance

"No. You can't," Stu insisted, reverting back to his earlier apprehension, he also let Chris go. "They think I know you so if you vanish, then... then I'm done for."

"Yeah," Chris rather blurted out trying to maintain ascendancy "and if the real Preston guy turns up, then what? Have you thought that through?" Chris was quite happy with the quick fire thinking but not with his reduction in aggression – he wanted to stay hyped but felt too sorry for the guy.

"Well... no..." Stu told Chris honestly. "I don't know but if you leave now I could get booted out too. I've just lied to them and I can't believe it. This is my life and I can't let you leave yet. I'll think about what to do when this Preston guy turns up but until then just... please just come back in there with me."

Stu turned and opened the living room door to re-enter. The wider the door gaped the less time Chris would have to act in response. His old hardened angered reaction had softened due to the desperation and pathetic nature of Stu's plea and so his decision was almost already made. Stu walked through the threshold revealing the figure of Maurizio stood arms folded. Sizing up the assistant was one thing, Maurizio was another.

The door shut slightly ajar; the toilet behind him, the staired exit to his left, Chris stood for a while starring at the creamy mix of light and dark browns of the fake marble work under the resin of the 'living room' door. Whirly, yes, but almost symmetrical. He noticed how all the doors of the flat had this same image – was it a pattern or the default factory setting pre-varnish/resin addition?

It was quite possible to leave. This was the easiest decision of his life (ok, the exaggeration falls firmly within the present) yet why did it require such thought? Was it even considered thought when options are simply ignored? Chris walked into the toilet and flushed it figuring that the time elapsed was enough for a real trip to the 'loo'.

-and then the author ignores the natural movement of a story starting out in the direction of difference to what is before now. Be not fooled by haste and the preposterous

5.7 Cult Flight

"Ok Gentlemen," Tim, the leader, began. "Important news. We have a lead through my contact in Seattle." Everybody in the room (except Chris) looked utterly flabbergasted.

"Fuck, this is great!" Maurizio added, positively beaming.

"Yes, indeed," Tim continued, "actually... well I've jumped the gun somewhat... I should not have started with that as I have a few other bits and pieces to get through first. Firstly, the list of polluted items I promised to categorise has been done as comprehensively as possible." Tim reached down to the pile of papers now back by his feet and passed around a three page A4 size document to the members of his clique (as well as Chris). Once received, the young man took a quick glance:

Items that reduce Soul

...Brick

Concrete

...Radio waves

Mobile Phones

...Repetitive order work

"So read over this and make sure you quit anything on it to the best of your ability."

Only a glance, but Chris' mind cooked on what this document meant. Non Soul fed off negativity and boredom; therefore somehow these products have been associated with the same traits; by this Tim character. This leader i.e. a man with responsibility. And so intensity started to grow; here was a man, who looked and spoke quite sanely, yet he was dictating to some very susceptible looking people that they should avoid the things on this list because each item 'reduces Soul'. Assumption, but in Chris' thinking, a worthy one.

Tim continued as he was satisfied everybody was ready to receive his words. "I know it will be hard, Earth knows it was hard for me to stop my regular tipple. However, it has to be done." Chris gritted his teeth (grow intensity, grow!) "We all know about Coca-Cola, so we are all steering clear of that, yes?" The nods were unanimous and even Chris appreciated this one; the mere mention of the name brought about a double breath which he quickly swallowed and controlled. "I hope so and I also hope you all have had time to submit some sort of piece to the 'Non Soul Bible'... some sort of contribution?"

-Non Soul Bible. Tacky

Chris assumed that he was referring to the 'Book' he read a little of yesterday and calling it a 'Bible' just seemed too over the top and tacky.

-no comment

"That was very difficult and I was not sure." Mark Carter replied after intercepting Tim's gaze. It was hard for Chris to establish exactly where his accent placed Mark's land of origin. "What I mean, my descriptive English is not best and I cannot live up to your beautiful words." The comment convinced Chris that his accent was Nigerian having heard the words 'descriptive' and 'beautiful' spoken by an old school friend who he knew this land native.

"No, it's fine, whatever you write." Tim told Mark quite sincerely. "I mean, I can do some editing if necessary and we can sit and go through things and really get some genuine philosophies across," Tim was focusing on the whole of the group and not just Mark, "Yes, this 'Gospel' needs more than just one voice to emphasise it's power."

Chris looked across the room. The earlier heightened state of arousal had now firmly diminished and the thinking/feeling was of frustration. Everybody in the vicinity was being sucked in by Tim's crazy ideas.

"I...er... I noticed you talking about soul and Non Soul but... What about a positive soul." It was an automatic response that seemed to bypass the realisation that his conscious self had on the predicament he was in.

-i.e. it was out of character and the author should take responsibility for losing track of this part of the story as well as most probably the rest of it

The nervy comprehension of a million eyes (well eight, to be exact) looking directly at him. His 'character' Preston might not be the type of man to say such a provocative statement and in fact, judging by the people in the room, Preston was most likely (definitely, to be exact) a person who would not. The heightened state of arousal hardly had lost the time to be missed.

"That's a good question," Tim responded looking enthused. "A question I can only answer by saying a positive soul has not been seen yet and we have the evidence for Non Soul.

-a testimony through an ancient diary from a half wit

We know about the soul that is our life energy and now of Non Soul which effectively works against that life energy and our soul – feeding off of our misery

-perhaps there are no entities of this kind and life is a cycle of ups and downs...Is it not that easy? The complexity of adding entities to a life that is explainable by birth, death and motion in between furthers the human need for answers to questions that should not be answered in the first place. Why? Because it is a waste of energy better spent on living and enjoying instead of wondering and guessing

and sadness. In short, we have no evidence for any other soul other than Non Soul, which just haven't got any... substance." Tim finished rather looking for a word to do so.

Chris wanted to say 'And what substance are you expecting to convince me with for Non Soul?' or even 'Why are you insane... I mean, you look and smell quite sober?' Alas, the best get away from this cult and its leader was to sit this argument out, weather the storm and leave quietly after. The vision of the fake marble doors haunted him.

"Oh, ok. I suppose so... only a matter of time, suppose." Chris stated, biting his lip.

"Well, try to look at soul as a governor of life," Tim seized the ascendancy in order to preach some more. "If human existence is happier, soul is strengthened and more positive. If human existence is sadder, soul is not as strong, more negative. It is from this negativity that the entities have been created and developed accordingly."

There was plenty more that Chris could have responded. At the forefront of his mind was that if entities were created from negativity then would it not be the job of entities created from a positive nature to counter act them - i.e. not humans?

-unless humans are used as a medium for the balance of soul. It would make sense since the happiness/sadness of human beings is the sole affect on soul. Not that there are any other creatures on this planet resembling Non Soul. Simplistic author writes about simplistic character beliefs; it has been done before and will sadly continue

Instead, Chris nodded understandably and looked directly at Tim avoiding everybody else in the room; he could feel the stares and especially that of Stu's. He was seething; sharing Chris' interest of getting him (that would be Master Uranson) as far away from the place and as quick as possible.

"Anyway, that was a nice distraction." Tim's voice came back in. He did not seem to notice a silence as he was busy sifting through his notes in order to get back to where his speech originally finished. "If anybody else has any questions or queries, please do not hesitate to bring it up so that we can discuss it."

Chris was not convinced about Tim's generosity of ideology and felt the earlier animosity towards the man. This time there was extra snarl. This was not entirely fair, since it was Chris' predicament, rather than Tim, that stifled the younger one's argument. Still he felt the loss of a dispute (and publicly too).

"Back to business," Tim continued switching from the tangent. "Folks, we're going away. Technically, Maurizio, you are not. You see, Seattle is our destination and I know that I told you all to pack some things and was very closed about where our destination would be exactly but I just wanted to get it all correct." Tim looked over at Maurizio. "I know you have come all this way but I hope that it has not been a complete waste of a journey, I mean, we have got plenty done over the last two weeks anyway."

"Exactly," Maurizio boomed with a smile, "We've done more than enough and I'm totally happy with travelling the world and getting rid of these parasites. I just hope your credit card's gonna hold." His laughter almost filled the room.

"And when we are rid of those accountable it will hold... Now... on a serious note," Tim turned his attention back to the rest of his audience, "we have been together for a while, some more than others

-oh, the irony... please

admittedly but we all have to realise that what we will be doing now will be dangerous. We will be dealing with people who want nothing more than Non Souls to develop. You have to be aware that there are serious people out there who want to stop us from interfering with their ambitions. Those ambitions are to feed the Non Souls and let them engulf this planet."

The drama actually hit home and Chris felt a little anxious; it was unnerving hearing about other people involved in this Non Soul fad. Confining the cult to a living room in New Cross, London was about as much as Chris could take but this guy was talking about the involvement from people across the planet.

"Wow!" Mark shouted causing some alarm with the others as they all turned and faced him. "What do we have to do?" He used the word 'Wow' but it was very difficult to tell if he was excited or nervous; there seemed to be an air of over compensation in his enthusiasm.

"In order to answer that I need to ask a question;" Tim looked and sounded like he'd been expecting to use this line to get to his point. "Have any of you noticed anything when reading a book in the last couple of years?"

-more nonsensical bizarre rubbish not worthy of print

The other five looked slightly puzzled and remained silent. "Ok. When you read a piece of fiction, has anybody noticed anything different? Something that makes you not want to read on." Tim continued iterating and re-iterating.

-yes. Bad writing

There were now serious questions to the validity and ability of Tim's mental competence. Though, Chris did realise that he had not really read anything fictional for a very long time. Hence the extra zeal towards the library trip. Sitting up, he suddenly remembered why – he just could not read a book for longer than several pages before putting it down. Originally he had thought this was due to the pressure of his course and how he needed to be going through texts that were on his college reading lists. Now he actually remembered not really wanting to examine any of the fiction he had got out from the library or been given as a present. Chris shook his head of the thought (physically) and looked over at Cyung who had something to say.

"Yes well I think I know what you are talking about," He started while adjusting his chair and steadying himself. "I like Christopher Brookmyre. He is my favourite author. I read his latest." Cyung pronounced the word 'read' as in to read rather than have read. "I didn't read it. I didn't want to keep read it."

-indeed. A cult that shares hallucinations. It would seem that the lemonade was spiked with something other than a fatality inducing poison. Shame really

"Right," Tim spoke eyes widening and body shaping and moving closer to Cyung. "How exactly were you 'not wanting' to read it? Can you be specific?"

"Well... It's like, every so often I feel bad about reading it; I feel silly like it's wrong but the thing is it's like I am telling myself not read it." Cyung seemed cool enough through out his duration in the room but got quite excited when speaking about his experiences.

"What were you telling yourself? What were you saying exactly?" Tim was quite weary that Cyung was leading him precisely where he wanted.

-and where is this whole section leading? Nowhere. So, again, it is not even worth the eye energy it takes to process it

"Yes it was weird." Cyung continued, "I was thinking about the words and the sentences and the plots and it was making sense and it was quite good but I just kept being so against the whole story. In the end, I give up."

"Exactly!" Tim proclaimed almost interrupting Cyung's speech tail. "In Seattle a few masterminds working for the Non Souls have found a way to draw negative energy from humans via the process of reading. We think that they originally did not know what it would effect but found out it effects reading." Tim rushed his words out being too excited.

"Sorry, Tim," Maurizio started, "I don't understand, what's this, something affecting reading?"

-affecting reading. Let's see, video games, DVDs, computers... and now Non Soul. Break out the award ceremony champagne

"No, I apologise," Tim took a breath. "What is happening is that there are a few people in Seattle connected with Non Soul that have tapped into a way of generating negative energy that feeds Non Soul entities through the reading of fiction. So people will pick up a book and read but what is happening is Non Souls are feeding off a reaction of negativity from the human soul because the reading process is being influenced by what the people in Seattle are doing."

-he's not talking about...is he? That's ridiculous

Chris' face screwed up in the rather universal 'What the Hell?' position. The man may look and smell alcohol sober but that did not exclude the use of drugs. Either that or he was certifiably insane (and not just possibly, as thought earlier). Chris felt embarrassed for even slightly going along with Tim's idea earlier and firmly put the excuse for his lack of fictional reading down to his increased university workload.

"Why just reading though... how does that work?" Stu asked seemingly emancipated from his earlier shackle.

"Well, Stuart, it's to do with the brain and what happens chemically when we read. It's a reaction – a chemical reaction. That reaction is picked up by the signal and then it somehow taps into the readers' mind and puts that person off what they are reading by telling them about problems or flaws in the writing.

-so he is talking about... Well, still, this book is not worth reading and should be placed on a bonfire and set alight, ASAP

The amazing thing is that it's such a minor operation that produces such a major effect. There is evidence that it can even put a writer off his own working.

-et voile – the excuse!

The signal is being broadcast from a warehouse in Seattle and what we need to do is get over there and stop the signal from going out." Tim was calmer but still had a firm edge to his tone.

"You serious that they can get the signal across from America all the way to London?" Cyung was not exactly disbelieving but just needed extra explanation.

"Yes and to my knowledge it has travelled well into Europe and effects people in Russia. Beyond that, it's not so reaching." Tim rolled the information comfortably from his memory. "And if we do not stop it soon it will develop and get stronger. The people behind it are at a real amateur status for now but when it gets wider spread then there most probably be issues with powerful people trying to muscle in and do evil things." Tim looked at his audience who all seemed to have lost him (said the blank faces).

"I digress," Tim continued trying to get back on to the topic and back with his listeners. "My informant has told me that they are having a big meeting on Monday which will expand their operation, so we have to act fast."

"Ok. So how fast exactly?" Maurizio had a determination that showed he was ready for whatever and whenever.

"Well actually we fly tonight."

A furore entered and encompassed the individuals in the room. Chris would probably not admit it but he was caught up too - it was exciting in a pathetic way. These people were going to fly to America because some nutter wanted them to go. Did they not have jobs? It was nothing short of fantastic to see such impulsive decision making based on a combination of hearsay and a fool's judgement.

Technically, however, out of everybody in the room, Chris most likely had the best opportunity to go; no commitments other than revision, for which he needed a break from anyway (self made prognosis) and; he has an alibi having already told his family he was staying elsewhere i.e. at Dwayne's Halls of Residence. It was probably too good an opportunity to validate his 'ability to be flexible'

And queue the frustration...

Chris became angry with his persistent need to prove himself. What total stupidity could hold a man to believe in the power of false identity? He was lucky to be involved at present but this surely would be the extent. It takes only one cog to bring down a machine and this cog was somewhere between now and soon. With the rush, externally, it almost looked as if the excitement meant as much to him as it did to the rest.

"Ok. Ok. People," Tim hushed the crowd, "I have all the documents we need, including passports as I've taken the precaution of changing all our names so that we can not be traced to travelling together... and we have people in Seattle just in case we need some other bits and pieces. The flight is at 10pm and so with time being eight hours back we should arrive at around one in the morning when we will need to leave for the warehouse straight away to get a lot done."

-the rush? Of course, due to the fact that the world revolves in a few days

Tim handed out some items to Cyung, Mark and Maurizio and approached Stuart to do the same but discussed something with him instead. Chris' earlier state of anxiety had returned to him but this time in a nicer way. Although there were plenty of problems with this idea: he had the slight chance to head to another country seemingly on another man's credit card (or whatever he used to pay for everything). The frivolous excitement just continued to grow within him and was only ruined but its bordered arguments. The main; the Preston guy was bound to turn up sooner or later and spoil the fun. Standard, his delay was no way an indication of no show. The necessity was not even for pride of face; a call, perhaps by proxy and all is blown.

This aside, the general alchemy of the situation really drove at great pace and incision through to Chris' sense of interest. It was an adventure (thus far) and he did feel the want to get on board for more. If only he had more time to iron out intricacy - away from this bunch. Chris saw Tim approach and made a very quick decision.

"This was all very last minute," Tim started. His general aura was quite different now that he was speaking to Chris in person. "I won't be able to get you a passport... anything else I could probably handle but the passport itself would be near impossible owing to our lack of time and the fact I had no photos of you. I mean, I would have asked – I was going to sooner but I only just realised we have to travel tonight"

"Well... er... I have my... er... sources also," Chris managed to spit out thinking at lightening zip, "And I can get a passport... well... I have a passport with my picture on it... well, the name doesn't read Preston on it."

And there it was: a free purchase of more time. All with the tight grip around the issue that, technically, he still was not lying.

6. To Think, To Folly

6.1 The Belief of Right

In his own room, Chris noticed that his bed was made even though he had left it in tact as he woke in the morning. Hatred is a hard word but will be used in description for this invasion of privacy. The guilty party (i.e. his mother) would not understand. Another person cannot walk to the 'area' of another's and violate the 'sanctuary' by making a change. A private room is a disclosure when left alone; everything is left out and nothing is to be let in until the owner arrives or gives all clear. Otherwise, 'peace' of chamber is desecrated by disruption from originality and individualism. When these forms of influence are lessened it is almost as if the control on the self is also diminished; the sense of losing this control is very similar to that of violation, vulnerability and even anger.

-this is nonsense. It has no relevance to the plot and has no worth within this novel. How can the author justify the use of such form?

Chris sat on the edge of an orthopaedic sprung mattress that flattened air upon a wooden frame. The individual to each and his own. He could get so wound up about a little thing like this. Christ, it was a favour even! The pure subjectivity of passion. Passion was what drove Tim and the others to seek out their Non Soul journey. Passion was the difference between a very rational Tim and a very fanatical Tim and this whole saga merely represents his passion for beliefs – something not too uncommon with many religions.

Feeling a little better, Chris still cursed himself and made a mental note not to get too carried away with his own attitude. Many times he had had heated debates about different subjects including the mentioned religion. More closer to his heart: separatism and the state. He had many passionate rants at people who could not understand (to comprehend, to grasp... to commit? Think again) the need for a minority to use 'terror' tactics (such as suicide bombing) in attempts to secure or shift closer independence. Albeit, most of these discussion occurred after a night out with an infusion of alcohol (and possibly marijuana use) but the intensity and belief of right was so striking within Chris that he just had to tell his audience (usually fellow students of university/college) about the basic appropriation for freedom and the fight for it.

The first incidence of this 'fire' pushed birth whilst speaking to a foreign exchange student at his secondary school when he was fifteen. Chris innocently asked him which Spanish football team he supported expecting the boy, Asier, to answer either Barcelona or Real Madrid. He came back with the response Athletic Bilbao and once off the subject of soccer proceeded to tell the young Uranson about the Basque fight for individuality from the mainland of Spain. Chris threw in the limited information he knew about 'Sri Lanka' and the pair became quite good friends for the rest of the year.

Since, Chris would not give up the opportunity to be controversial. Not to mention the rants, the young Uranson participated in anti-war marches and demonstrations towards the last Anglo-American invasion of Iraq. Chris' mind set was definitely in detest of the whole attack and the idea of a takeover which was always going to leave the 'victim' country in disarray and fragmented fashion for the future - just like most of the developing lands of the planet. 'Sri Lanka', as an example, was taken over and released by British rule causing the channel of ethnic insecurity; there are many instances of the same in Africa, South and Central Americas. Chris found out too late the futility in trying to convince selfish men with power that what they were doing was wrong. The embarrassment of such defeats masked by relaying reason to college friends of his participation in assembled rallying. For the eyes of a beautiful (but rebellious) Islamic woman, another on his course. The folly of attraction seemed a better excuse to that of a naïve feeling coveting collectivism or the frustrated feeling of nothingism.

-and that's a real word. 'Nothingism'

Over the years, the fine line between passion and fanaticism had been stepped through, in and out; so how could Chris really judge Tim and his idiosyncrasies? Cursing to himself (that, in count, would be two in few moments), Chris just about heard his own voice over the radio in the background.

An American rapper. It was a doubt that the artist came from Seattle; rather New York. Still; American. It was to this man's 'native' vast land that Chris was in the decision of heading toward. It was a 'he shouldn't really, but...' choice. Tim had bought the value for money routine. The contacts of a man who hunts internet chat rooms for joining up with cults. Apart from Stuart the librarian, everybody new to Chris' life for the past two hours displayed blind ignorance to a charlatan. For the taking was the load, Freddy.

Ludicrous! A part of him really had to argue in justification of efforts to travel with the Non Soul crew. Very hard; he felt he some how was exploiting his mistaken identity for a quick trip to the United States. Quite obviously, he was. They thought he was somebody else and he was using that thought to go on to escape. Tim's seemingly endless wealth (and confirmation that not only tickets but any expenses were all to be paid for) was all to be stretched by this sinner in guise.

Who was this original member 'Preston'?. This man must have been a sad and lonely internet chat room freak (touched on previous)

-repetition... touched on previous

whose life needed something important. Something to hold on to and believe in. Tim showed him this light, whether this was the correct thing to do or not. In one way it was nice to offer hope to somebody so low but on the other hand Tim was definitely doing some exploiting of his own: in regard to Preston's insecurities. One exploitation surely cancels out another?

But then if the real Preston turns up the bubble is truly burst anyway. However, if he was expected at the time that Chris showed up then surely[scrape!] he would have turned up[scrape!] with the young Uranson still present? Convinced[scrape!]? Well, sometimes one does silly things.

-like write a novel thus

6.2 Decision

Tim had assured Chris and the others that the trip would last only until the next day. Sunday. One day in Seattle. Twenty-four little hours in Seattle. Chris Uranson's one day excursion to Seattle. Whatever called, Chris needed to pack appropriately. Standard – two pairs of boxer shorts and socks (not inclusive of those worn) for 'just in case purposes'. Deodorant (not anti-perspirant). Paper pad and two pens. Personal stereo - MiniDisc variety (his MP3 player was too limited in capacity); MiniDiscs (compilations of radio recorded Hip-Hop material, R'n'B and Hip Hop collections copied from CDs). The current month's edition of Empire magazine (feature on Hollywood's love affair for the femme fatale... again) along with 'Heading Inland' by Nichola Barker (yes, New Cross library copy). These latter items were vital in order to test the delightful fantasia that is the fiction reading hypothesis.

-that thing again

For the moment, that seemed to be it. One day is a short time and, well, all expenses were paid for. There were a whole host of trust issues that Chris was skipping but figured that flexible thinking would see him through (to dismiss, to folly). That and a credit card (just in case). Chris zipped his bag and threw it to the floor, went to his desk and picked up the notes given to him by Tim. Back to the bed and lying down, mattress giving way perfectly to cause no creak from wood, he went through these with the aim of being more thorough than he had achieved at the flat and on the bus back home. The first page was mainly what he had read before, the second started an expansion.

-so more of the writing within writing has to be endured? No, not quite. If reading is stopped then this whole episode can end here. Hint

Items That Reduce Soul

The more you use these products/items the more Non Soul grows. It is of great need to lower one's association with the following listed items:

Normally, Chris would have winced but having read the earlier Non Soul piece he was desensitised/(sing) to it. Why did Tim use this approach with his words since he seemed quite well spoken and better at the written word than he displayed?

-Coca-Cola

developed by friends of the members (and subsequent major members themselves) of the original Non Soul coalition. However, the company is not controlled by those interested in Non Soul, the drink was corrupted in factories by intermediate management. The situation was found out and rectified mainly by one of our more elder members. But the new taste was rejected and so the formula was reverted back and our man on the inside fired. Note how people who drink it always look lost

Chris reflected on this and concluded that the last sentence was about the only thing he and Tim agreed on so far.

-Dieting

Not quite an item or product but a process involving hormones and neurotransmitter activity that disassociates soul, creates a soulless feeling which promotes Non Soul

-Work

Once again it is a process. Slightly different in that if one enjoys their work the soulless nature is hidden. However, it exists in whether we like work or not as it is the loss of control over our own living and security that adds to the Non Soul growth

-Traffic

Another mundane process associated with the soul disassociation. There are many out there and this is an example

-the sociological concept that is known as 'alienation'. Mentioned previous. This script is merely highlighting what humans find annoying, boring and repetitive and offers no evidence to Non Soul entities. The types of things above have been said by many to have negative effects on lifestyle, energy and mood; this text is not mentioning anything new and original

-Brick/concrete

Back to man made substances. Tracing the roots of the product does not seem to throw any fruits as to who started it and so it's quite possible that it is a naturally occurring phenomenon. The effects are evident just by looking at it but the perplexing thing is you really want to stare at it even though it is so plain. This is why walking tall is good for confidence – you are not looking at the asphalt.

-TV/monitors

Not only is watching programming taking the viewer away from reality but developers in the 70s and 80s introduced the radiation emissions from screens themselves to produce a soul reducing emanation...

***

It was clear from when Chris finished his reading that the undergraduate needed to continue contact with this group for reason relating to his psychology course; not only did Chris link all the negativity of items and products on the list to psychological and sociological factors but the people involved in the whole situation were a first hand experience with insanity – it could not be taught nor purchased.

-and the insanity joke has worn off now or was that before the first time it was written?

On the positive side (and not so humour related), Chris thought that Tim had improved in the writing department, though only ever so slightly. He placed the document into a compartment in his rucksack while shaking his head (the familiar disenchanted way). It was incredible what people could believe and with what little evidence they needed to be convinced of it.

The radio had switched from its DJ broadcaster to a news bulletin which attracted Chris' attention at the announcer's first word.

"...Leicester to London train." The announcer continued as Chris looked up at his hi-fi system; as if it would help him listen. "It is not yet known as to the extent of the tragedy but it is understood that several are dead and many more are injured. We will have more at the half hour full news round up but if anybody is concerned about friends or relatives then this is the number to call..."

As the announcer presented the contact detail, Chris instantly thought of Maurizio's comment that almost caught him out before he had even met the mad man Tim. Maurizio knew Preston was arriving by train and Stuart mentioned he was from Leicester also. Two plus two is...

It made sense that the delay Preston experienced was to do with the crash. A phone call would have drowned the mystery? Preston had to have had an accident on the train severe enough not to be able to call.

-coincidence... perfect written transition... or just simple laziness?

A worried type of panic spread across Chris' mind which he tried to revoke by not associating himself with the Leicestershire dweller. He did not know who he was and Chris certainly was not responsible for a train crash. The next feeling that hit him was a strange mixture of guilt and excitement. If Preston was not able to make it to London to uncover his impostor then a clear steering to Seattle was very possible. Or maybe he was dialling right now... ring, ring. Good afternoon, Non Soul helpline, Tim speaking how can I help? Chris breathed in and chose just to ignore all his thoughts and feelings and turn up at the flat in New Cross with a mind clear from anything.

Anything = EVERYTHING. That meant concentration. To flex is to be correct... or was it a sign of inflex – no thought? No. No thought, just go. No! Go! Don't think – GO! Preston, lies, liberties... Allow it. Just move. Blank. Blank.

Besides, it was not even confirmed that Preston was dead or indisposed. Ring, ring!

Reaching over to his desk, Chris picked up his mobile phone (what could have reminded him?). Knowing that he had virtually no credit on his 'Pay As You Go' line, he rung his friend Dwayne cutting the call off after one ringing tone. To his surprise, Dwayne called Chris back almost immediately, something he almost never did.

"Hey D, wha'ssup?" Chris started, "listen, man, I aint gonna make it..."
B. The Evil in Seattle (No, Not Starbucks)
7. She Says Route (He says Route)

7.1 Indian Chain Predictions

The sachet of sugar had ripped. Not as a result of being opened purposefully to be placed into the cup of hot chocolate but by chance. Perhaps it was the rubbing of all the sachets in the bowl causing the tear; maybe a piece of card from the side of the original factory box had splintered and caused the problem. The young woman sitting at the table picked the broken packet, tossed it into an ashtray and picked up another. She was wearing a cyan blue top, dark blue (faded in part) jeans, white sneakers (not visible pop socks) and accessories (earrings, neck chain, two metal rings and several thin plastic bangles, right hand only). The upper garment shaped her bosom which not only worked for added compression but also as a hold up (these two interacted for laboured increase in perceptual anomaly to her small chest size). The hold 'suspension', helped out (or vice versa?) by twin matching straps across bare shoulders/upper arms/neck. The 'boob-tubey' nature of the garment showed off the tattoo she displayed on her right shoulder blade – a Chinese character reading 'courage' or 'breathe' depending on how you read/visualised it.

"You know," she started while shaking the brown sugar vigorously, "my Maddy laps these up if you spill any. I was putting sugar in my coffee last weekend and, ok, I spilled almost all of it. She just ran up and starting licking. Licking everything. The table, the floor. She was on a mission for sugar. She even started licking me but I was like 'No, no. Hell no you don't Maddy' and she backed off. She knows when I'm not playing and when I aint in the mood."

Her accent was a unique blend of the whole country of her residence (not Deep South or east/west coast, a mixture, these and more). Then included the hints of other. Yes, residence but no, she had not lived there for life term. Indeed, she was a habitant of the United States, exampled in her mannerisms being very modern day American; excited and over enthused. This habitation must have been for the longest of all her tenures. A dotted early childhood in several countries before settlement in the one; aside to accent, her skin tone was a little beige-er.

Her hair; jet black, and a type that liked to obey its owners command. Not the fine, silky hair that one would find on somebody neither native to modern America nor even to the sleeker, slightly thicker of one native to previous America. The style of it could not really be considered a design as such; it centre parted quite naturally holding light and bouncy but very (as stated) tolerant and not fly away. Safe to say, she had the ancestry of another nation (if only one).

At the end of her speech, the young woman smiled over to the man sitting adjacent to her left with a look that suggested typicality (i.e. this type of event happened regularly). The sun glared off of his big sunglasses which did not suit his skinny frame and long face. His white shirt had a bold blue pin striped pattern and did not suit him either. Somehow, it seemed as if it did not matter to him.

-who are these people? Why are theses characters being introduced so late into the book? The fool and his brethren had only just departed

"Celina, darling," The man said shaking his head, "you really need a man in your life. You're talking about your dog licking you. Seriously, you need a man if not forever... but for a temporary service at least, girl."

-more cheap smut. As if this book needed more reason to get rid of it

"No way, Ray." Celina said smiling: prude. Her own rhyme knew that the man she faced was not called Ray. "I'm still waiting for my man to show himself, Ronnie!"

"Oh yeah," Ronnie sighed raising his eyebrows, "it's that horoscope business again, huh? You're still going on about that stuff? What was that again? Some holy Indian guy? I fucking hate Indians."

"That's a bit harsh, Ronnie," Celina remarked a little offended. "I'm half Indian, remember?"

"No... sorry, honey." Ronald backtracked, "I don't mean... I don't hate you honey. What I mean is that... that country is leaching off our fucking country, trading God knows what. It's so fucking corrupt, man, there's all sorts of shit happening. It's all buddy, buddy but they are so trying to gain alliances so that they can get their hands on the Asian 'produces' and... and link Asian pipelines and shit..."

-more political rant nonsense... escape... ESCAPE!

He stopped, realising that he had lost Celina. She was screwing her eyes in an expression of a perplexed nature but loose enough to let him know it was not due to his content but from the direction he had come from.

"Sorry, honey, you know I get really political." He told her calming somewhat.

"I know you do." She smiled: truce. "I always thought it was because of what you do... I thought you were justifying your... well, shall I call it 'creativity'?" Celina was referring to his 'occupation' of forging official documentation.

"I hate what this country does and who it team's up with." Ronald told with sincerity although his thin frame reduced the menace that he tried to couple. "This is why I do what I do, I hate the fucking system and I'm not gonna be part of it... But enough about me! Enough of this politics over coffee! What about you?"

"Okay." Celina retorted (elongated; oh-kaaay) disorientated with the tangent "Yeah, maybe in the crazy future I'll understand whatever you say, already. For now though I'll leave an international relations lecture into your capable hands."

"Yeah, well I don't think these colleges wanna hear what I think. Maybe they would rather you talk about crazy Indian palm readers instead."

"Hey!" Celina stretched her back and gasped. Her eyes stayed looked to his; both being big, bold and brown. Eyes that added to a smile more so than to a frown; it was easy to see her sentiment within each, but a sadness would be demanding, given their bright charm. "Maybe I will be a lecturer," She stuck her tongue out, "and I reckon I could get away with talking about old Indian guys – easy!" The young woman re-found her interrupted groove and settled back into stride also realising where they had left off. "And eff-why-eye, he wasn't a palm reader, it was from a proper book or chart as it's called in the East.

-and FYI, simply noting an abbreviation would be acceptable in a proper book

And I know I've told you this kinda going back a little but I'm gonna tell you again."

"That's fine, sweetie, you never told me this entirely anyway. And anyways, I got all the time for your words."

"I had this... thank you, Ronnie." She smiled: awe. "I had my chart read by this holy man in India, when I was there, yeah? And he told me that I would meet a man that I would spend the rest of my life with in a 'surprising situation'" Fingers/hands up and all. "Basically, I would not expect him and he would come outta nowhere and hopefully... whisk me off my feet!" Celina expressed happiness in an excited way; showing her teeth while scrunching up her nose and face; currently, she was fun lively whilst sat on a chair.

"Honey, he was just telling you what you wanted to hear. It's every girl's dream to be whisked off of their feet by a tall and dark man... well every girl's and mine." They both laughed and took almost simultaneous sips of their respected beverages. "But you get what I mean, yeah, honey?"

-a gay man to add to the minority count of this effort. Stereotype rife and riddled

"No, Ronnie, this was different." Celina maintained preparing herself to work hard in conviction. "He and me were alone and my dad was outside. This guy read me like a book. I mean, you know about my chain, right?" She waited for Ronald to nod though Celina was going to remind him anyway. "I was sixteen when I started wearing it. My parents got the locket as a wedding gift but my mum never wore it." She started playing with the piece in question; a bright silver chain with a small silver heart shaped locket that would open to fit an appropriately wrought photo. "So it ended up in my room at my family home for some reason or another and then when I was sixteen I thought I would wear it. So anyway, I really wanted to put somebody special inside it. You know how it is when you're that age and everything is romantic." Again Ronald nodded. "But the thing is, I didn't know who. So I thought the best thing to do was to not say anything to nobody about what was inside and when I found someone I loved then I'd get his picture and put it in there." Ronald smiled and placed his hand on hers.

-there is a plot in this book? It's a shame that the author has forgotten about it

"Yeah, I know it's sweet aint it?" Celina continued with a reminiscing gaze, "Sweet sixteen. Anyway, I went over to India with my dad a year later and met this soothsayer guy and he took one look at my pendent and said everything that I just told you. He knew all about that and I never told a soul about anything – for the whole of that year that I had first put it on... He knew that nobody was inside and the reason why. Admittedly, now, I'm a motor-mouthed bitch but back then I was a lot quieter."

"Hard to imagine." Ronald interrupted cheekily and upon doing so he received a playful hit from Celina on his upper arm. It was firm and tough with Ronald wanting to rub the landing, though he did not. "Come on, Cel, what else did this 'Guru' say?"

"Just that I should wait for this guy who will surprise me and I pretty much have. I mean, there's been a few guys who I thought fit but they did not feel right. The chart reader guy said I'd know who it was after spending a little time with him and I aint felt that yet with nobody."

"Nobody?" Ronald queried stirring his coffee with a wooden stick provided specifically for the task.

"Apart from you honey, nobody" Celina retorted sarcastically though Ronald was not really searching for such a comment.

-obviously

"So that's why I've never seen you going steady with anybody and I've known you... what, three years?"

"Exactly, I'm waiting here patiently."

"Look, I don't wanna rain on your romance or anything but what if this guy is wrong?" The look on Ronald's face was of sincerity and concern rather than impertinence.

"Well... I firmly believe there's other forces on this planet and I'm really confident this man knows what he is talking about and ever since I met him I've really looked into other aspects of life and things that this world has to offer and I'm sure there is more to life than you, me and just human nature."

7.2 She Says 'Rout'

"Yeah, like that magical mystical tripping that you do." Ronald smiled causing the return of a previous cheerful reaction in Celina. Bright charm.

"You make it sound like some illicit drug thing." Celina stated with an exaggerated look of disappointment.

"Ha! Yeah, well that's all I can call it," Ronald pleaded innocently. "Has it got something to do with your worldly spirit knowledge?"

"Listen, Smarty Marty, my magical journey have little to do with the planet's secret forces and everything to do with my super imagination. Which, since you have brought up, I am going to display for you now... oh and by the way, this route changes all the time so what you heard before will change."

"Hey, chica, that's the way I asked to hear it." Ronald was getting excited waiting for Celina's description, the last time she gave one he got really carried away with the scenes she set and was deeply captivated by her inventive metaphors. "I love this shit you come up with."

"I'll ignore the 'shit' comment." She started taking in a breath in obviously readying herself for purposeful intention. "Well here's my journey to work in my own special way," Ray sat up in his chair and clapped his hands, holding them together. The joy on his face was neither hidden nor subtle. "First, I go to... the lesbian's house."

"Really?" Ronald was taken by surprise with that start.

"Yeah and she hollers at me and tells me to look at all her precious things, which she is so proud of because she doesn't use any artificial stuff. Everything she owns is 100% natural... Apart from... her lover... who's in fact... Her clone!"

"Oh my God! Scandalous!"

"Yeah it is! So I move on quickly, turning her down nicely, of course." she winked at Ronald, "So I go to grab a coffee to go... from this place, of course."

"Of course."

"Of course! And guess who serves me?" Ronald did not answer the rhetorical. "None other than Freddie Mercury!"

-the move to a weird children's type description in the middle of a novel... great technique

"Wow! Freddie. Sexy but deceased... Next!"

"Well next... and because I'm so gorgeous, the police and the FBI come out to chase me down the block. It's not because I've done anything wrong, it's just simply 'cause I'm the sexiest twenty-two year old alive... and that's a crime!"

"Well you're just lucky that I'm twenty-eight, girl."

"Ha! Yeah right." Celina leant over to deliver another playful blow to Ronald's same arm. This time the man responded by grabbing the area and squeezing it, motioning back in a defensive (but jocular) stance. "To get away, I have to find my beautiful white horse that I've called 'Rain'. She's parked at her castle just around the corner and as soon as I'm on top of her I ride into the sunset ready for... work... damn it!"

"Oh honey," Ronald sighed sympathetically, "I guess we all have to go there sometime."

"Ugh," Celina also sighed, "yeah, I know and unfortunately it's time for me to get going. My white horse awaits me."

8. He Says Route (She says Route)

8.1 Prophecy (4)

Chris had never travelled business class and he found it in a sense; rewarding, the leg room was impressive and more so were the stewardesses.

-not a perk of business class only

Cyung looked ready to fall asleep and he was sitting/slumping next to Chris – the boy who was really too excitable to do so himself. In mysterious circumstance, Stuart was not available for the trip. Why he did not come along, 'officially' (Tim made an announcement at the time of a second meeting at the flat), was due to he having to work the next day. The next day was a Sunday and New Cross library was not open to the public on that day.

There were many innocent explanations; not open to the 'customer' though a library has many other functions, perhaps Stuart had to involve himself in some organising and filing. Librarianship to one moment, maybe he had another job? Government funded institutions are notoriously not the best paying. In crux, there was no need for Chris to delve any deeper but it was quite suspicious in knowing that Stuart had a passion for the group. It seemed he would do anything (and anything included the really easy task of calling in to work sick) for Tim and his cause.

Paranoia had the Uranson pushing about a theory that the leader may have found out about Stu's lies in knowledge of 'Preston' and was punishing him. Well, then why would Chris be aboard the flight? Above suspicion. Chris had to shrug it off as one of those things but at the same time needed stimulation for his fleeting mind.

As a child on holidays to Jamaica, one of the most interesting things he could do on a plane was visit the toilet. It was a chance to get away from his parents and explore something different than his non-reclining economy class seat. Perhaps on business class the toilet may be as plush as the surroundings and since Cyung was enjoying his rest the opportunity was probably best at this point.

After shutting the door behind him and then clicking the small twisting knob (as opposed to sliding), Chris stared at the toilet lock from the inside and it was indeed red so it should have read 'Engaged' on the outside. It was these little securities that helped Chris in his younger years understand the actions and reactions of events, situations and articles he came across. He felt his heart stir; not his typical nervous rate, more like a lull. He was in a small confined space (and yes, economy class toilets were almost exactly the same as these) which Chris found comforting. The prior bustle of the airport and even earlier travel to the airport was a very stressful time seeing as how he did not know the people who he was with and the fact he was trying desperately not to be found out as a fraudulent Preston.

The nervousness had currently settled in his stomach and gave him the feeling that something wrong was about to, or had happened i.e. guilt and similarly general anxiety. It had set in now that he was getting away with something that he would not have dreamt he would even be involved in. Chris felt he had escaped the situation even though he was not even near the midst of it and this was owing mainly to the blindness of the group. For most of the others this was acceptable, since it seemed as if the Preston man had never made contact with them before. For Tim, the leader and by a mile the most intelligent of the bunch, this was bafflingly too easy. Chris could not discuss and so clarify the relationship between the genuine article and Tim, for obvious reasons, but he assumed there was enough in it to tell the difference between Preston and himself. It was possible that Tim knew who he was. Then why would he spend a lot of money and take him around the world? Surely a South East London beating at a flat in New Cross was cheaper? The double crossing theory could not be the case.

-of course Tim does not know – dumb characters make easier story telling for lazy authors

A piece of tissue paper lay on the floor almost behind the toilet unit itself and without really thinking he motioned to pick it up, stopping in realising that it was not the toilet at his home. The extra mind traffic jamming Chris' brain had clearly unfocused him and he left the cubicle disorientated, so much so that he almost walked straight into an Indian man wearing an orange, full length Swami dress.

"Hello." He spoke. His head leant towards his left shoulder as he did so. "Do you have any idea what you are doing?"

-another weird man - there is not a normal character in this novel

"I'm sorry... Do I know you?" Chris replied thinking that he might have a link to Non Soul. Perhaps he was an assassin sent by Tim to throw him out of the nearest exit chute.

"No, you do not." He continued in his Indian accent, restoring balance to his head and neck. "But as I saw you and touched you I had to tell you my religion awaits you. This is where you will begin life, end life but most important, have a middle period in between that will be of satisfaction and achievement."

It did not take all of Chris' higher mental functions to realise that this man was not a highly trained killer. He also did not want the lecture about how fantastic a religion could be. He readied himself, for the second time in two and half days, for the art of pause interception.

"The beauty of my preaching is that it easily tells you that lies of deceit are not necessary – it is only the greater dishonesty that will be your folly. Unfortunately, it is not your fault and merely that of destiny's.

-destiny. Storytellers' paradise, easily manipulated and thus easily sold

You cannot know how special you are, so you are told you are special." Chris queried this sentence to himself; since it did not make sense. However, itchy feet interested not arguing and more into retreating to his seat. "Maybe you will have learnt something from my words but most probably not. Hold on to your homeland as you head there; only a few hours left, now. Take care."

The man smiled peacefully and moved passed Chris towards the toilet just vacated. The whole speech was a little surreal and disjointed. It started off as if he knew about Chris' charlatan activity but then turned into unfathomable destiny explaining rubbish. It made no sense to his earlier claim of religious virtue and what was furthermore; his accent seemed to change after only a few sentences. The swami tooting Indian was also not very clued into other people's enunciation; Chris was not heading to his 'homeland' through this flight, but instead to America.

8.2 Dare Devil of the Simple Thinkers

It seemed there were many people dissatisfied with their car hire experience. Red faces and sweaty individuals just kept walking away from the customer service area a company had secured in the airport. It was not a good advert for Chris and his fellows but being so close to their persons, the easy option outweighed that of behaviourally acknowledging the loud, aggressive, angry and swearing voices.

The team held back as Maurizio went up to do the hiring duty. Chris looked around the airport searching and mentally picking out the people who he thought were criminals travelling with fake or stolen documents. At this time in the earlier morning/late night, the figure should be higher than during the day. Or perhaps the anonymity of a bustling international airport might have the crooks passing through that little easier.

-not really an issue that this book should deal with. Still, it is very consistent with the other useless aspects of the story

"Yeah, they have a car waiting in the lot." Maurizio returned looking puffy cheeked and frustrated. "Let's get on the road and roll."

And they walked, observed, talked (a little) pushing through smaller crowds than the norm. Some looking more stressed than others – maybe a determination, stress was not the word; excited determination. Eager beaver. Though this was some and not all – so: the duration of the stroll took longer for others than the some. However, they all made it... eventually.

The car was squashed though it was a spacious model; this being caused by the wide legged sitting positions of Messrs. Carter and Li. Chris was in between the two at the back whilst Tim took the passenger seat next to the driving Maurizio. The darkness of night meant that it was not a problem for Chris to be in his spot in the middle since there was nothing to see other than signs to 'Downtown' Seattle every so often on the side of the freeway. Chris reverted to the old game of guessing the mileage between signposts as a form of entertainment. Unfortunately, there seemed not to be anymore signs after an initial two in quick succession. He had no choice but to tune into what Tim was saying which was a repetition of what he had said at the flat, at Heathrow airport and on the plane. yada-yada They were all heading to a warehouse to destroy some computers/machines that were sending out signals that tap into the human brain convincing the individual that any book they happened to be reading was not worth reading. Fairly daring stuff.

-hardly

And yet Chris went along with all the risks. With what excuse? For mainly unexplainable reasons. Ok, he had the urge to shed the constricting/mundane/(even) sensible self that he was but this was no excuse for travelling in the vain manor as executed. Neither did he possess any love for Non Soul nor for that matter machine destruction; so why was he here? It was a disbelieving situation as a whole but what was more doubtful (and to Chris, annoying) was the small series of unlikely behaviours (on his behalf) and parts of the whole (other) that brought him so. Why did he knock on Stuart's door and why did he pretend to be somebody that he was not which could have failed easier than it succeeded (for that matter why, when he could so easily have left never to return, return?)? Even the little coincidental things; a cake that his mother wanted to make needed a type of milk that had him re-direct a destination and effort for a day. The ingenuity of flexibility. Both the conspired and his own lateral twisting from the normally rigid Chris. This new daring nature was unlike him. To think back to the moments where he engaged in the activities - what was he thinking? Was there actually any thinking? It was more like temporary possession.

The conspired. If the workings of the mind of a man were questionable then there is the issue of the beyond control. One being Preston, who must have been caught up in the train wreck otherwise he would have shown himself in person or by message. Maurizio had quizzed Chris about this on their second meeting and all the young man could respond is that he had caught the earlier train. The extraordinary coincidence that Chris had shown up at the correct time to replace him? He also made up a story about being held up in central London by seeing an old friend at a flat and hence he had no bags/luggage. Yes he had to scrape clean a few edges but events seemed to be whitewashing their own main sides. One of the biggest sceptics (according to Mrs Brown, Year 4 teacher) began to doubt his own involvement in his current position; sat in a car between two men who both had very wide leg spreads.

No conspiracy. Luck. The four letter word that had propelled Chris in his motions. There was no other explanation for his present situation: random good (though it was still early enough to revert this to bad) fortune.

No. This luck coupled with the foolhardiness of the individuals he was sharing a carriage with. But mostly luck. He definitely needed a lot to get away with what he had done and it seemed he had received that on a plate. Ala carte to follow?

Chris wondered how much more he would need and get. He looked around at the strangers in the car. Could he rely on these people to stay simple in order to get away with the imitation? They would believe in conspired events because it was more plausible to simple thinking than just being lucky. Their crazy beliefs were simple and if these continued then there was a good chance he would too. The men that surrounded Chris just had to keep believing that world's conspired and that Non Soul entities exist and that questions were for others and that even though the evidence presented so far was thin, the complexity of Non Soul's disprovable nature was too much for the simple thought that circulated their intelligences and that... and and and... and for all not to doubt anything...

Guilt regained a hold; he was using and taking advantage of simple thinkers. The ability to deliberate beyond what was given to him on a piece of paper by a man named Tim gave Chris the conclusion that he should have known better than to wander to another country by lying to people who were more likely to accept the falsity.

-Non Soul does not exist because Chris Uranson can not prove it does. Who really is the simple thinker?

8.3 He Says 'Root'

The car came off the freeway and into a more visual and so interesting area. After a couple of turnings they stopped at a set of traffic lights. Chris looked out of the right hand window (next to which Mark was sitting) and noticed a sign that he felt compelled to read since it was something other than darkness or road markers. It was hard to make out but Chris gathered that it was for a national history park which made him think of the National History museum in London and the fact he had never been there. As the car pulled away Chris turned his head over his shoulder and caught the name 'Klondike Gold Rush'. A strange designation.

They drove past a café and though fairly quickly, Chris had a good enough sight of it to note its name – the 'Bohemian'. It reminded him of a café he used to go to accompanied more often than not with his 'five month' ex-girlfriend.

-reminiscence is expected; skip a few paragraphs to save annoyance. Skip the rest of the book to save sanity

He always paid for every date they went on; it made him feel more like the man in the relationship. This concept was based on the diet of American teen movies he fed himself on in his younger years. The captivation of the ever-present goofy nerdy guy who ran around scrambling change from his parents, a friend or by getting an odd job. Then, failing like clockwork to date the girl he wanted, he fortuitously discovers the virtues of another (the aforementioned friend). Jumping bipolar, on the other end of the scale, the jock bully seemed to have all the money to throw around anywhere he pleased. Usually on expensive dates but more than occasionally, also on the humiliation of the same goofy nerd, while he might lay forlorn in a crumpled heap on a floor.

A smile crept onto Chris' visage as he felt the warm feelings come back to him. It was soppy and something that he'd (or others... come on now!) never admit but teen movies and feelings for woman often overlapped... And on the case of memories crossed over with the loneliness of a long distance traveller, the mental questions followed to keep his company: 1) was she not the only one for him? 2) Why did he let her go? The standard answer applied (for both questions): for reasons he was not sure about. He felt he needed to let her go and had the strongest compulsion to do so. The desolation and utter solitude that possessed him after the break up seemed worth it in a strangely masochistic way. Maybe this was the self loathing and punishing acts that Chris read of in psychology text books.

Chris used the introspective[buzz] look on his relationship[buzz] to do a quick piece of revision into the psychological phase[buzz]s of a relationship[buzz] breakdown[buzz]. Steven Duck wrote about phase[buzz]s which start when an individual realises something is wrong enough in a couple that s/he cannot ignore. This 'Intrapsychic'[buzz] phase[buzz] was very appropriate to Chris; 'something' was wrong. The exact details... he didn't know. However, she assumed that he was scared[buzz] and that it was a commitment[buzz buzz] issue. On entering the next phase[buzz], the 'Dyadic'[buzz] phase[buzz] of relationship[buzz] breakdown[buzz] (which is the actual requesting of the break-up[buzz]) the natural progression was for both partners in the couple to listen[buzz] to each other and discuss the situation. The trouble was Chris had already made up his unopened mind.

-no, the 'trouble' is this author insists on following this side draw

There was nothing she could say (even though everything she did made complete sense). He wanted to stay with her but needed to leave her due to reasons undiscovered during Chris' Intrapsychic phase.

-what's wrong with 'commitment' issues?

Perhaps an explanation for what was missing in clarification lay in Freud's Thanatos theory

-was only a matter of time before he was mentioned

\- the representation of a destructive and death instinct which is subjected to the self but, of course, in this case as a by-product, also affecting his partner which was a fact he felt extreme guilt and sorrow for. Though in a seated position, all within him felt like it was on it's way to his toes; all that is, except for the single statement/question:

"Why the hell did I do that?" Chris said, initially loud but fading under his breath. He looked up to see who had heard his outburst.

"Do what?" Maurizio stated laughing and looking at Chris through the rear-view mirror while adjusting it. They all were looking. "Well over there are the 'Feds' so if you wanna turn yourself in for something then now's the best time."

He continued to boom his laugh while Chris looked over to the building on his right that according to Maurizio housed either the FBI or just an ordinary police station depending of what colloquialism could be inferred from the term 'Feds'.

"No, that's fine," Chris answered trying a fake smile. Leaning back he continued "I... I was just thinking out loud, that's all." Surprisingly to Chris, in the moments that followed, those in the car did not want to pick at what Chris was thinking.

-and surprisingly, it saves a bit of paragraph leg work. The easy way out

He calmed and kept his eyes on the outside trying to take in sights through the darkness. Only a few decades of seconds and into view fell a huge tower that seemed to slim as it got to its base. The size of it was quite phenomenal (though possibly an angle phenomenon) and it was a perfect platform to squash the silence and overcompensate for his earlier verbal eruption.

"What's that building, Maurizio?" Chris asked, suddenly wondering if people ever called him 'Mo'.

"Which one?" [Hearty geographical description] "I think that's the Rainier Tower."

"Yes it is," Tim added, "and another good piece of architecture, though your country does have this... crazy obsession with great height."

-and if Freud is not mentioned here then humour may not be the authors good vice

"Er... it looks like parts of a castle." Chris incorporated, believing now to vanish reversion to the previous conversation.

"Hey you Brits are the leaders in castle making, with your draw bridges and... moats and... white horses and things." Maurizio concluded along with his usual chuckle. "So we turn left here into 6th Ave. and it's a long, long stretch but a straight one to our nightspot."

"Thanks, Maurizio." Tim answered since Maurizio ended conversation obviously talking to him.

They did as volleyed; turned and drove down the new street. The night lights reduced significantly leaving very little for the naked eye to capture.

9. The (Not So) Order of the (Not So) Rainy City

9.1 House. Ware?

The car slowed to a standstill in front of a steel gate that had a very large chain and padlock on it.

"This should be it." Tim spoke looking down at the map he found (previously) in the glove compartment. "It certainly looks the part."

Tim alighted the vehicle, which effectively gave permission for everybody else to do the same. Maurizio stayed in a little longer to park more suitably.

The gate looked like a typical entrance to a haunted house; big, magnificent and only held together by the one lock (though this was a huge, chunky item).

"And now our latest problem." Tim announced looking directly at the gate while the others were somewhat behind him closer to where they were dropped off. Though Tim's thoughts were re-iterated with a little jest, the situation was difficult considering the vertical height of the gate and fencing that it was attached to, the top of which was fitted with barbed wire making it climbable only for professional thieves.

-as a opposed to professional idiots

After a little debating, Maurizio joined the gang, parking the car behind the only other motor vehicle on the street; a very old, extremely bruised but brilliantly white Ford. This particular warehouse was situated at the back of an industrial estate and very segregated from other buildings; it would have made more sense for the owner to have parked a full two blocks opposite. However, the other reason for the car being there could quite easily have been due to abandoning. Only the mercurial paintjob told otherwise.

"Ahh, Maurizio." Cyung said introducing the man to the gate. "How do we get out of this... or should I say, how do you get into this one?" In his excitement with the joke Cyung missed out slightly on possessive grammatical correctness.

-the magic word 'Abracadabra'?

"Well let's see," Maurizio started confidently, "how 'bout we just push?" He looked at the others who looked back surprised. Almost simultaneously, they all realised the deception of a visual illusion and before they could even turn back towards the situation, Maurizio walked to the gate and explained. "Look, the chain's not attached to both doors on the gate," he demonstrated this by opening a gap big enough for a man to fit through. An annoying dragging noise was created by the bottom of the metal scraping against the concrete ground. "There's a lock at the floor here but that's only if you wanna fit a car through."

-as good as 'Abracadabra'

"Do we all go?" Mark queried possibly a little worried. "Should some of us stay behind for a quick get away?" He looked over at Tim who took a little consideration for the suggestion but ultimately dismissed it, though not giving a reason. He was distracted and so were the others.

After all had squeezed through the gap, Chris took a good look at the premise in question. In the picturesque world there was little warehouse; more like the mansion that it must have been in a previous life. The residence of the Beckett's came to Chris' mind and for a moment the young man felt the feeling of enlightenment: i.e. this was the dead industrialite's old house. How that would be an addition to the interest of the mission was beyond him, still, it would have been a comfortable fact.

-description, description. Go through the motions

The entrance, compared to the gate previous, was a lot more easy breaking and entering proof. A two door opening that collectively was only almost as big (but certainly, as grand) as one of the gates at the front. On scanning the face, there was only one smooth way in, which was via a window open at two stories up. The building was towering but only three levels in official height (that is, how many windows were vertically rowed) and from the outside, the only way to compromise for the discrepancy was to assume that each level must have high ceilings.

"This will be a bit hard. Does anybody have a ladder?" Tim spoke with sarcasm thinking that the only feasible way in was to break one of the lower windows in a hope to squeeze through the fairly wide glass separators. Cyung's smaller size maybe.

"Well if I know these American buildings then I know there must be an escape route around the back," Maurizio countered, starting to walk the perimeter. "There must be a fire escape."

-yes there must be and so should there be clever and thoughtful literature

Following Maurizio, the team headed to the right of the building and slowed in mimic, as the big man had reached a halt at the corner to the front and right side of the warehouse. He was looking up at the open window and at the edge of a fire escape which was on the flank of the structure rather than around the back as he thought previous.

"Cyung, you're the smallest guy here." Maurizio began with the look of a man with an idea. "I'm going to need your help."

9.2 Order 1: Maurizio and Cyung

To be able to climb the black tin escape, though never to away – to in, the first ladder of a set of two needed to be unlatched and dragged down from its resting point just shy of the bottom of the first floor. Awkwardly too high up for the reach of any of the men on the ground... but not for a combined height of one and a half! Maurizio hoisted Cyung on his shoulders and the latter reaching out, pulled the suspended mixture of hatched parallel bars and (with the help of Chris) attached it to a fastener embedded in the concrete ground. A see without the saw motion. Vice verse, naturally.

Maurizio and Cyung climbed up and hurried with fever to the second level paracetamol, walking right to the edge closest to that only opened window. The big man's route to goal was the ludicrously simple - to hang Cyung over in order for the small man to climb in.

-not much of a plan but then what can really be expected from an author without much of an imagination?

A voice from the ground shouted 'A little closer' and so Maurizio leaned further over the (matching his 'n' hers) black metal balcony. Cyung's legs were wrapped in Maurizio's arms and he mustered every ounce of his muscular power to make the extra stretch. Cyung's hand gripped the window edge but after a short moment of contemplation he requested that Maurizio bring his puppeted body back to the fire escape.

"The latch is clicked on so it won't open." Cyung told Maurizio rather flustered from excursion. What he meant was that the window was open but restricted in angle so as not allow the likes of Cyung into the building. "What do we do?"

-go home and get proper jobs

Maurizio stretched his arms out in an antagonist fashion to the contraction that his muscles were being used for. He then looked to stretch his hamstrings but instead crouched down and removed a shoe from his left foot. Though he was obviously the biggest man out of the four that by no means assured him of having the largest feet. Chris (or Preston) seemed like a worthy competitor but it was rather inconsequential to ask him for his footwear seeing as how he had now already removed his.

"These old building have really easy to break glass and all you got to do is really whack it with the hell there, ok?" As he spoke, Maurizio did the action of a 'whack with the hell there'. Cyung's insecurity did not think his 'whack with the hell there' (was it not 'hell yeah'? Oh the excitement!) would be as menacing but he had to try if to fail.

Once more Cyung hung off the edge with the aid of Maurizio and his arms. The voice from the ground continued, 'Hit it at the corner... more likely to rake' or more likely 'break' (false choices for voices). Cyung focused on the area of the window that he was going to smack. And. With as much gusto created from the backswing he could store as a physicist's assumption of 'potential energy' with his left arm (his good arm) he drew the shoe back and brought it firmly against the glass. Die, crocodile, DIE!

Though it was essentially free to move, the grip held by Maurizio was around his waist and crotch which restricted the full power his small body could congregate, under more normal circumstances. Cyung took balance very much for granted, as he found himself moving his dangling legs in order to get a foothold on a none existent floor.

It did. The crocodile, that is. A stretching of Cyung's t-shirt (he had removed his mac) caused an equated action to the emblem branded over left nipple area. This was a colourfully green reptile/mammal (as appropriate) with red eyes that mirrored in the glass.

That aside, the window broke on impact. The sound was louder than the little man expected but it did not over disturb him; he just blinked longer and flinched a little. The grip that Maurizio held was always accounting for the movement and most probably even more. Throwing the shoe into the building, Cyung grabbed the window sill and dragged himself inside hearing another voice, this time shouting 'Careful, its grass'.

From the still night air and now to the inside. Cyung was almost immediately faced with a steel ladder that led to the ground floor. Night lights were enough for him to determine that he was on a massive balcony spanning the entire upper floor. The balcony ran around the edge of the warehouse and a series of ladders gave access to and from the ground floor which was the main and only mass area of the site. Cyung stepped towards the ladder, flipped himself around it and descended down slowly trying not to slip. For a second realised; he was somewhat hungry. He closed his eyes and imagined a plate of spaghetti Bolognese sitting 'jelly' in front of him. At a restaurant. The smell of the meat hovered above the slight odour of boiled wheat that sat underneath the red/brown steaming mass. Waiter comes over, right... and offered the traditional salt, pepper and lashings of grated parmesan (a memory is good, here). Breathe in (through nose and diaphragm) and now... open.

A dull light caught Cyung's eye coming from above both he and the tier he had just been on. Another balcony existed in front of a door but this time the level did not continue the extent of the whole of the warehouse perimeter. But merely a small area in front of this glass panelled door. The access to this level came through a ladder almost right next to the window Cyung had broke and entered through. He cursed his unobservant manner since he missed both this ladder and the fact that the building should have a small box the size of a room or office sticking out three floors up on the front side of the building to accommodate whatever was behind the door. Only awkward angles and blind-spots could have explained the miss.

-unobservant characters as a representation of deprived description

On reaching the bottom Cyung ran straight to the grand front entrance and discovered it locked from the inside, as well as previously discovered, from the outside. However, within one of the set of two doors was a smaller latched and hinged opening – a sort of cat flap but very much intended for humans. He opened it, popped his head, arms and shoulders through and called out to Tim and Mark turning his head up to the sky. This to visually confirm the existence of a single room - without an entire floor, sticking out from the front wall, three floors above the ground. Not a blind-spot.

9.3 Order 2: Chris (a)

The classic key in the sun visor theory. In the films, breaking into cars is a generally easy task; hotwiring and driving it away seems even easier. That's science in two minutes, forget that, the real deal is the all inspiring comic moment: the criminal speeds down the freeway with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pulling down the visor to not only shield his/her eyes from the glaring LA sun but also to discover a set of spare keys for the ignition. It's a smirk rather than a laugh, a sort of culmination to events.

-neither here nor there

The moment hit Chris like a bullet. For all Maurizio's clever work and good intentions he forgot about the door – the second floor fire escape door. It was possible that it was open and just had not been tried yet. He swivelled just his neck over at Tim and Mark. Very interested in the proceedings going on above them, they were, and were even shouting instructions like 'A little closer'. Cheerleaders without the rhymes! Chris diverted his gaze to the action to see Maurizio with the crux of his right arm firmly between Cyung sprawling legs and left arm around Cyung's waist, for balance. It was the positioning that represented for half a sumo mawashi - arms for cloth. Chris moved his gaze back to the second floor fire escape door; he was miles from home and with people he had just met (who even paid for his ticket) – of course he had to try it.

The ladder was surprisingly easy to climb; not really much of a ladder, more of a staircase. A mixture of skipping and dipping/ducking later; Chris made it to the second floor.

"Hey Pres, what you doing up here?" Maurizio bellowed quite excitedly while, of all things, taking off his shoe.

"Er... I just wanted to help. What are you doing?" Chris directed his question to Maurizio's singular disrobing activity.

"Huh? Oh. Hey what size are you?" Maurizio started, looking down at Chris' feet. Before he could reply, Maurizio fobbed him off. "Never mind."

The two Non Soul entity believers turned and went back to their activities. Looking down, Chris acknowledged Tim and Mark's undivided attention to Cyung and Maurizio's adventure, take two. If Chris was to move it had to be now; he approached the door and tried to slip his fingers into the gap created by the door and door frame – no luck. Look lower. Noticing a chipped piece of wood on the border, Chris was able to stick his index finger into it so as to create a pivot with an ability to pull hinged heavy steel or iron as long as he pressed hard into the wall with the force of the back of his hand and forearm. All that remained was to see if the lock was in effect (and thus preventing him the pulling action), it was not; the door opened. He sneaked in and shut it speedily behind him but with a controlled quickness that was appreciative of any noise that could have been made from the task. Unfortunately for all the effort, just before the door had settled a large crash made him physically jump. Owing to his position (or predicament), Chris thought best to crouch down and use the general darkness of the warehouse's dimly lit ambience to his stealth advantage. Excitement will always be the same childish feeling throughout one's lifetime.

-childish. Yes

From a broken window (the loud crash), Cyung came through and looked around quickly. He discovered a ladder and started to shimmy his way down and just as Chris was about to rise Cyung stopped and looked up, above and in front of him. From the angle, there was no way Cyung could see him but body over brain, Chris knelt down once more anyway. The small Mandarin man continued his trip down and Chris found himself wondering why he carried Maurizio's shoe in his mouth via the laces (in fact, why did he have Maurizio's shoe in the first place?); the ladder did not need the concentration of two fully free hands as just one would have done.

To break glass; and brain is back.

-hardly

After wincing at the possibility of being so close to a rather large man's cheesy smelling foot (hard cheese, naturally... memory, that's it!), he looked up at what Cyung had paused for. A room on the third floor with a blurred light emanating from the frosted glass panel door. If there was any place in the warehouse to be that Chris had used his guile to gain an advantage for, it was this estranged room.

-guile? Avoiding one's fellow criminal accomplice is not dexterous

Tip toeing via his trainers, Chris moved quickly to the ladder that separated the balcony he was on for the smaller landing above him. He wondered how Cyung had the ability to resist taking a peak inside the strange room since he had entered the building almost right next to the ladder that led to it. En passant the framed hole next to the steel contraption, he heard somebody call out to Maurizio from outside. There was no physical sight to his fear but worry came to the young Uranson; this shouting person (and others) could suddenly appear from the opening. Chris moved closer to the balcony edge (the walled side), bent down and virtually crawled across to the ladder being careful not to let smaller pieces of glass embed his palms (his hands were not to touch the floor). A thought for Cyung: who may not have been so fortunate seeing as how the sill contained a sizeable amount of shattered glass that could not possibly be avoided.

He climbed up, all the time aware of audience eyes, paranoid or nil, if those grounded were far wide enough. To ignore is to proceed. Once onto the platform Chris went straight for the knob on the door realising in hindsight the ill necessity to a secretive nature; all very elaborate! They were all here to break in to the warehouse and he did not need to hide it.

-too little, too late

[Click]. [Sque-insert e's here-ak]. Into an office. Grey, steel cabinets were room height and lay plush to the walls on his left and right. A mahogany desk graced the area opposite his person and just behind it was a high black leather chair ominously facing the window in the wall it was in front of. Before he could even imagine it turning (or even the purring of a cat), the chair swivelled in an anti-clockwise direction stopping as it's occupier looked straight at his face.

9.4 Order 3: Tim and Mark

Tim looked up to see Maurizio excited back down at him. It's funny those expressions; all seems in the outbox category – the done, the dusted. He could also tell what the big man was going to do merely from that expression on his face. It was dangerous but nevertheless, to get into the building it seemed that this was the only way. Secretly, he wished that face would be saved for a later moment.

The fire exit balcony protruded out at this corner of the building slightly, but not nearly as much as the room 'stuck' onto the front of the building third floor (obviously built on after the construction was erected, an adjoining feature). The extra length of the escape tier meant that Maurizio could really lean well over and with a good stability, while holding Cyung in the unorthodox fashion that he chose. However, since Maurizio was still technically rooted to the right hand side of the building and the window that Cyung was to enter was on the front face, Maurizio could not tell how far he needed to swing Cyung.

"A little closer." Tim shouted. A curse insulted himself. Maurizio's perception and therefore meaning of 'closer' would be different due to his positioning. Tim was to correct his terminology but saw Maurizio move in towards the window and Cyung actually get a hand on the sill. Nerves had Tim jittery. Then a few moments later Cyung was dragged back to the landing.

"I think I should go up there." Tim directed to Mark though still looking up at the balcony.

"No need. Preston is going now." Mark replied. Tim looked over to Chris scaling the fire stairs. Not being in the thick of the action made the old man edgy. He knew he needed just to wait a little before he could get into the building and get back to it but for an adventurer – this is a very big ask.

"Is there anybody inside?" Mark started distracting Tim's anxiety. "Anybody that is dangerous for us?"

Tim looked at Mark and tried to re-assure him that the bad guys were at home in bed. His confidence did rub off onto the worry-wart Mark but he still had to point out the fact that triggered his initial doubt.

"Is that a light in that window there?" Mark put forward pointing to that third floor obtrusive oversized, bricked cube. Tim looked at it and sighed, it may well have been a light but it's not a new technique to use in scaring off predators. Neither is it new to forget. There was also an example of a little too close emergency night light near a ground floor window and though these were tinted or frosted it was possible to make out such a lamp. He explained the latter.

-rounds, circles, rings... familiar? Well, since a plot has been sacrificed for the authors' insistent need to re-visit the same rubbish then maybe those words should be also

And again, Maurizio hung Cyung from the edge of the balcony. The two on the ground's attention diverted back to the two on the periphery of the second floor fire escape action. Tim saw a shoe in Cyung's hand and did not clock exactly what it was going to be used for until he saw Cyung's dramatic pause. For some reason not obvious to those on the concrete ground, Mr Li had to break the window in order to get into it. The stupidity of such a feat; if they had to break a window to get in, why on the second floor and at a dangerous leaning angle? It would be logical to come back down and shatter ground floor sand instead. Tim to voice his concern but Mark to interrupt.

"Hit it at the corner, for it is more likely to break." Not obvious to all those on the ground. Mark managed to miss affair some more and in a stronger Nigerian accent than he had ever previously managed.

There was distain in the look Tim gave to Mark but before the foolish activities could be stopped a loud smash erupted and the windows' glass in it's lower section smashed almost entirely leaving only a few pieces around the edges.

-and Tim is the character with supposed leadership qualities

Cyung scrambled in through the entrance making sure that the shoe went in ahead of him. Well, Maurizio's hands being quite full, though he could have quite easily thrown it to the ground behind and under him. In was as good as any.

"Careful, its glass." Mark shouted the obvious almost as Cyung had already entered the premise.

"Hey Maurizio," Tim called out trying hard to put the folly behind him. "Why the shoe? It's open isn't it?"

"No. there's a restriction... thing on it that means it don't open further than it's open." Maurizio replied, distracted, thinking of Cyung.

The reason Maurizio gave seemed to ease some of the idiocy associated with the break in. Tim suggested that Maurizio should come down and that they could try another window a little lower in order to get everybody else in. He did this in the 'nicest possible way' so not to belittle Maurizio's preceding entry efforts. The wise old man felt maybe that he could have let slip his underlying desire to voice his annoyance at the event (grumble, grumble) but the foolish young man was too pleased with the accomplishments of he and his Chinese counterpart. To concentrate on better balance, he started to remove the other shoe.

"I don't know about going in through a window." Mark told Tim, "I do not fancy it, getting stabbed by the glass."

Tim paused on his thoughts and realised he needed to give Mark some extra attention; not everybody (connected with cult phenomenon) was cut out for gung-ho, deal with anything on the fly situations. Tim needed to home some management skills to help him work with an individual rather than the collective organisation he had pretty successfully dealt with so far.

-successfully?

"Listen, Mark, why don't you stay out here and warn us... or be on the look out for anybody that comes? What do you say?" Tim was not doing a good job at convincing the man that this was not a donkey's job. Additionally, the words 'warn us' signalled a look of perturb on the younger's face. Tim was saved by a loud 'clank' that came from the front entrance. Part of the left door came away and Cyung popped half his small frame through it.

"Guys, you can come here." Cyung enthused and then looked almost directly above his head after doing so. The angle was not quite correct but Tim thought this for Maurizio's attention and in aide, called out to him, telling the Italian American to join both Mark and he at the front entrance. No Preston, however. Where?

9.5 Order 2: Chris (b)

"I've been expect-" She cut herself off just as the chair came to a stop. Facing Chris now she continued, "haaa... I've not been expecting you!"

The woman looked Chris directly in the eyes. Heartbeats had increased further even though he did not think this possible; already at a considerable summit from all the furtive sneakiness. An extremely attractive female was not the order! His charms worked better without pressure.

"So what do I owe the pleasure of a cutey like you being here?" She was not actually directing a question at Chris and showed this by not waiting for much of a response. "Was it you I heard breaking windows? You don't look very cut or bloody; very impressive. What's your name?"

Quick-fired! The questions threw Chris. A barrage of such but all related until that final. Thinking away from the woman's obvious beauty and a potential impression, Chris knew that it would not be the wisest decision to give her his name. She was most likely to be the enemy whom he needed to keep distracted for as long as it took for Tim and the gang to do their business. Nobility is for the righteous! Besides, he wasn't quite sure what his name should be anyway.

Something witty?

"Well..." and there was not much to follow, he was interrupted.

"You're about my age, aren't you? Are you British?" She kept to principle: volley, at a taken aback Chris. He noticed that indeed she was young, in her early twenties. Her skin was a possibility to South Asian original since the tone seemed browner than that that could have been tanned. All aside, how did she know where he was from?

"So," he started while folding his arms, looking right back at her eyes with his eyebrows slightly raised and just generally in the vein: to be as sexy as possible. "What do you know about me then?"

The rhythm of the conversation suggested that the woman should be mysterious and coy about her knowledge. She was not. Instead, a pleased smile, she exited her chair, walked around the desk and stood, leaning against it but still facing this strange inquirer. As her face lit up with that smile, Chris was certain that the room did too.

-and then the author left Mills or Boon to act in continuance

(To him) she had engaged in the perfect type of confidence; however, it was not in her physical beauty but in her erudition. She was going to tell Chris about a piece of her knowledge that she believed would enlighten him. At this moment in a woman's behavioural activity of a fact speech, the audience is almost oblivious; and although she is the centre of attention, by not being fully aware of her spectators she is free to be at any level of intensity with her chosen subject until she realises that she is in the spotlight. This is the moment that a woman is at her most attractive.

-it's called enthusiasm. Something that it is not associated with a reader and the want of the reading of this book

"Well, I told you, you were from England and your accent tells me that, so I'm right." She started, lip corners escaping even wider now. "You came here with your friends and you're here for a short time... er... maybe the weekend?" Wrong with the friends part but Chris was never to cut her off in prime; "and...er... you dress cool and you're sexy with your really tiny hair."

It was Chris' turn to smile now, while gliding his right hand over his South-East London grade point five skinhead (zero at cut origin). He had to respond fairly quickly for two reasons; firstly, he did not want to appear nervous with hesitancy and; secondly, if he did not, he may not get another opportunity to talk since she was extremely motor-mouthed.

"Ahh... well, how you are so accurate I don't know but... well... what are you doing here...? Who are you?" He was clearly affected by his racing mind for the clever, flirty things to say to retort earlier compliments. "What is... a... an attractive girl like you doing in a place like this?"

It was tacky, lame and nowhere near intelligent but going by her smile it must just have worked.

"Well... an attractive girl like me is working the nightshift and looking after this place... and you're here to steal something. Now, what is it?"

There were a few replies that fizzed across Chris' mind. 'Your heart' and 'the earth below your feet'. Ugh! His quota for tacky come on lines had already maxed out. Instead, something direct but with the opportunity to question was needed, since he was still working on the art of distraction and not just attraction.

-working on the art of writing would not go amiss neither

"You're a little too pretty to be a security guard." Chris told her stepping forward slightly as he did so. There was a conscience awareness of leaving enough room for the woman to move closer if she so wished. The line he pushed was a bit tawdry but at least it was a topic change from breaking and entering.

"Hey! I may be pretty but I'm also pretty tough, now tell me, what do you want?" The woman had a look of suggestion attached to her façade and her words moved slowly to accentuate this. Chris was almost hypnotised AKA besotted, but he sought a level of appreciation for his Non Soul bashing colleagues from that rather too sensible depth of his mind. There was not the most overwhelming sense of loyalty to the four others but he did not want to see them go to jail and particularly seeing as he had helped them to their current criminal height.

Chris whispered to himself 'keep it together' and walked up to her front leaving mere gap, unfolding his arms in the process looking her directly into the space just behind the glaze of her pupils, then pausing only to take a moments' glance at her lips. She was extremely reciprocal to the advances and lent less on the table and stared directly back up into his. There! She too fleeted a gaze to his mouth - almost directly after he had done the same! Memory of the words 'keep it to...' Chris raised his hand and picked the silver heart locket up off of her neckline.

-as if there was a mystery

"I'm here to find out whose picture you have in here." Index finger and thumb still holding the piece. He used the chain to bring her face closer and prepared himself to meet her mouth with his. Which would have happened if it was not for the door behind them swinging open, hitting the wall adjacent and causing a loud interrupting bang.

-now aforementioned was the comment: 'as in all tacky thrillers'

9.6 Order 4: Tim, Cyung, Mark and Maurizio

"Are you okay, Cyung?" Tim asked him approaching the door with Mark. He looked over Cyung's person trying to peek broken glass instances and on finding (mainly on his back); Tim tried his mood best at brushing each off. Superficiality in performance, however; plentiful quantity coupled poor light condition.

"I have a little on my palms and fingers but it's alright I can get it off." Cyung said rubbing his hands together.

Tim slid through the entrance opened and realised the need for a solution to the inadequate lighting. Left of the door were a set of switches conveniently labelled and Tim flipped that under the guise 'Main'.

The room lit up magnificently (like a smile?) and all was clear enough to visualise. The ground floor was mainly just space with the odd chair or cardboard box dotted around; it was very possible to run, near the walls, in a full circle with eyes closed and encounter nothing more sinister than the items mentioned. The centre, on the contrary, was a burst with activity; a large tube like structure around 8 foot high and 3 foot in diameter stood surrounded by four computers on a circular wooden table that wrapped itself tight to the tube. Each had a traditional CRT monitor (screensaver locked to a 'starfield') with the main base tower units on the floor underneath the continuous desk; all were key-locked for start up/reset options. Though the tube stopped at eight foot, wires extended beyond this and going the distance up to the roof, looking also as if each went through the containment also. The assumption was a feeding to a satellite not visible from the front but sitting handsome on the top. Tim wondered how the inhabitants managed to keep the Seattle rain out of the roof holes. It was not raining at the present moment.

-Seattle is only as significant as the pages it is written on

"So what do we do?" Mark asked Tim, ignoring the earlier suggestion that he should stay outside and wait around.

"Well my original plan was merely to rip some wires out." Tim half spoke and half sighed. Rotating the building's innards with just his eyeballs, he noted that a lot of the materials used were wood based. "But I think we need a more drastic solution."

A ladder rattled slightly as Maurizio boarded it and made his way down. This opposite to the ladder Cyung had used. Once grounded, he approached the others with an enthusiastic look on his face (particularly going by his widely opened mouth).

"You never guess what, C?" Maurizio asked, obviously directed at Cyung. "The fire exit door was open – you didn't need to go in through the window."

Cyung smiled wryly. Tim winced. It was information that a man who had just risked life, limb, major, minor cuts and last, but not incredibly least: effort, did not want to be privileged to.

"Next time, we try all doors before we start breaking windows." Cyung amused while pointing a finger in the air vaguely in Maurizio's direction.

"Maurizio, we need to set fire to these computers... and pretty much the whole warehouse." Tim intersected, less cringed, carrying instruction with a serious and concentrated tone. "It will also send a message."

-to whom? The invisible enemy?

"Well, hire cars always have some gasoline stashed away in the trunk so we don't really need to be long about it and all." Maurizio replied. He nodded to Tim and jogged out to fetch it, using the front entrance this time.

"Hey, where is Preston?" Cyung queried.

"Well if he is nowhere else, then there is only one place where he must be." Tim started rather knowingly. "Wait here for Maurizio and I shall be down in a moment or so."

Tim walked over to Cyung's ladder and climbed it reaching the first balcony. Immediately, he went to climb the second ladder that led to the office above him and arrived on the balcony that accessed it. Not realising the door ajar, Tim forcefully grabbed at the knob but let it slide before grasp. It flew open, slamming loudly against a wall.

9.7 Contact with the Contact

"I see, Preston, you have met Celina, my Seattle contact." Tim spoke after an initial quick, jerked movement from Chris flinching and turning to the noisy clang. He returned gaze to Celina and gave her a cheeky 'Evil' eye, thus acknowledging the fact she was being slightly misleading.

"And there I was trying to distract you from finding out about Tim and the others." Chris admitted a little embarrassed. He smiled and light-heartedly continued "you could have said at anytime but you just had to keep it going, didn't you?"

-only an idiot would not have realised

"Well," Tim started stepping fully into the room, "thank you, Preston. That is very noble of you." Chris raised his eyebrows quickly and tilted his head in a slanted nod to appreciate Tim's appreciation. "Celina here is the reason why I am so confident with our adventure here. She actually works for the guys who run this place and I have been very fortunate to have got in contact with her about a year ago and I know we could not have got into any serious bother with her around."

"'Bother'," Celina repeated mimicking Tim, "You sound more Brit in person than you do on the phone. Now come over her and give me a hug." In fact, she walked over to Tim and they embraced. "Where do you get such cute recruits? You never told me about this one." Celina added looking over at Chris. He liked her forwardness.

"Now, now, Celina." Tim hushed, "We have some business to take care of first. Is there definitely nobody else in the building?"

"No. I'm the only one on nightshift and we never get any break ins and security is obviously very lacks, man. One thing they got going is the CCTV but I took care of that by not putting the tapes in and it's quite funny that 'cause I never do that anyway."

"Yes, thanks a lot for all you have done and the world really does owe you for this. Our quest could not have even got off the ground without your help." Tim told her. Chris looked at Celina to catch her reaction to what he thought was over extravagant lunacy.

"Oh stop being so dramatic, old man!" Celina part commented part laughed out. This was the reaction - brownie points! She turned to the younger man to direct a comment. "He's so serious, aint he?" She switched attention back to Tim without waiting for a reply. "Speaking of serious, I've found something that needs your urgent attention and it's 'bout the thing we been talking 'bout for the last couple of weeks. I mean, I searched this place top and bottom and they keep nothing onsite but luckily today, Wayne, left this folder here." She walked over to the desk and picked up a Lever Archer file handing it to Tim on return. "This place is always empty apart from the old stuff they had in here when it was a motorcycle thingy. These cabinets and shelves are filled with manuals for bikes and stuff and the guys aint bothered to get rid of any of it. The only computers are downstairs and they are password protected but they don't have any stuff on it 'cause they are all 'servers'... or something..."

"-Servers that send the signal out, right?" Tim interrupted her tailed end.

-no signal can disguise the pure foolishness of this book

"Yeah, that's right." Celina said picking up from where she left off, "I've checked this place out top to toe and there is nothing else except for the folder which was left here today only. I mean all the guys use laptops and take away with them and I'm just here to clean this shit hole up. That's what I originally applied for and got upgraded to super sexy security guard after awhile. I feel a little guilty for stitchin' 'em up but hey, they're lazy nerds and they pay me shit and treat me like it too, so fuck 'em." She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as if to suggest that what she had said was in no way aggressive in nature.

"What's the folder about?" Chris felt he had to add something to the atmosphere since he had an inkling that he was not involved enough in the proceedings. He did not care too much about it but thought that his character 'Preston' would do.

"I've read a bit about it and it's a lot about the thing that's going down in 'Sri Lanka' – you know that country where that tidal wave hit it years back. Man, that was some lethal shit." Chris was certainly more interested now.

"Yes, Cel." Tim said smiling at Celina, "I think we know where 'Sri Lanka' is... the question is; what is going to happen there?" Tim looked down at the folder and read the words on the front to himself. 'Rentini'.

Celina had heard discussions (from her now ex-employees) of an event to take place in this country and indeed relayed this information back to Tim. He had given the situation a lot of pre-knowledge thought in trying to guess exactly what was going to happen. Little he could go in with the limit of capped guess calling and Cel infused rumour sweeping. In addition; this was the first he had heard of the folder. There was not the time in the office to read up on what Tim needed to know or get arranged, since the whole place might have been set to be in flames by now.

"Come on, guys. We better get out of here. Maurizio is going to get some petrol and set this place alight."

"Really? Wow!" Celina exclaimed, bright eyed. "And I forgot my sauna at the gym today. How convenient."

9.8 In Heat of the Night

Maurizio and Cyung were inside scattering the flammable fluid; Maurizio poured his can all over the computers and the tube in the midst of the machines. Cyung poured the second of the two cans from the hire car over the walls and intervallic wooden pillar type beams used as reinforcement for the structure. Maurizio then linked the two separate liquid labours by decanting his can in four lines from the centre to the four sides.

Tim stood at the entrance of the warehouse reading fairly quickly through the folder whilst Mark, Celina and Chris chose to breathe fresh air rather than petrol fumes.

"I've been working here for a year now." Celina reminisced, "gonna miss the place."

"Did you read that file on 'Sri Lanka'?" Chris asked very much ignoring Celina's quandary. He was worried now; at first, the mention of 'Sri Lanka', it did not really click in Chris' mind that this was anything to fret about, per se; he was used to White people thinking of 'Sri Lanka' as a beautifully exotic tropical paradise far, far away. With his ever increasing knowledge of the civil conflict and the natural disaster of a fairly recent time, Chris felt the vulnerability of his mother's country.

-is there a rant coming on?

Her obsession (too harsh a word) with current events in the country led to her (along with an uninterested Mr Uranson) purchasing a specific satellite that beamed a Tamil cable channel directly into the Uranson family television, broadcasting a news program at 5pm everyday (including weekends). Though both the content of the transmission and Lakshmi's interpretation were very bias towards the minority rule, Chris' closeness to his mother was quite the catalyst for his own feelings of patriotism towards the Tamil people of the island. A mechanism of the innate - the speed to look at his own passion.

"Not sure." Celina started, "looks like the Non Soul people are lining something up. It could be really big 'cause it aint nothing to do with the nerds running this show. Wayne got his hands on it from another dude. I just read about a man called 'Raj' – who's a wanted guy and the fuckers are out to whack this dude, Raj, for something he's doing soon... maybe the next day or so. Why you so interested in 'Sri Lanka'?"

The unrelated question took Chris again by surprise since he was getting very used to just staring at this woman while she spoke; it was a prized combination of visual and audio hypnotism.

"No... well... I'm from 'Sri Lanka'." Not quite true in response but close enough for a strangers' sake. However, it may not have been really wise in confession since he was playing a character who was most probably not from anywhere near the continent even. Tim's stooge Carter seemed interested yet aloof enough to have missed the significance.

"Oh wow! That's sexy... a sexy stranger!" Celina looked up at Chris, lighting up again after her moment of a downturn. "I'm from India, well, my dad's from India, North India, actually, well, I think it's North India, I never remember anyway... anyway it's Bombay, or should I say Mumbai? Anyway, do you believe in fate and stuff like that?"

As usual, Celina's questions seemed unrelated to her general conversation. Mark, very much third wheel as he stood, was new to Celina's ways and was about to answer the question in an attempt to interact but got beaten to it.

"No, no way." Chris replied bluntly. Eek – and another Non Soul faux pas. "I like to think there is some sort of control that I have on my actions. Why do you ask?"

"Okay," Celina started despondently, "It's just that... no... nothing." Chris had only known her for a short while but he knew that it was never 'nothing'. Especially if it stopped her talking.

"Hey, cuteness," he had not used that adjective for a long time, "you can tell me. What have you got stored up in there?"

Chris moved forward and to an angle that allowed a tilt of his head to catch her eyes. Mark felt quite awkward now and decided to slip away unnoticed believing that those in the warehouse may need his talents.

-yes. Perhaps they'll need to use him as fuel

"Look, I kind of believe in the fate thing and I was told... all the way when I was sixteen years old that I'd meet some guy that would surprise or shock me.

When you walked into the office upstairs I thought you would be Tim but you weren't. You're the first person I met like this... so you have to be..."

The couple were very close to each other and Chris used the proximity to bring a hand up to feel the form of her left ear, sticking out slightly after she had previously used her fingers to push hair behind each.

"Well, then I think that my stance on fate might just be changing." Nothing like the play on her belief – shame on him, really. Celina was not paying full attention to his words and more so to his actions; the two were moving in to kiss, as they did so before; and as before, they were interrupted.

"We're ready to set this baby ablaze!" Maurizio called out to Tim who had strayed from his front door spot and was walking back and fourth near it. Tim turned towards Celina and Chris and started walking to them quickly. Maurizio, Cyung and Mark followed.

-and presumably a fire here would stop the comments of truth that intercept this atrocity

"How many entrances are there to this place, Cel?" Tim asked her. "We locked up all the doors at the back and all the fire exits on the side. I want to make sure that nobody can get in while the fire is in flight. That would be extremely deadly."

-really?

Celina talked to Tim about the dynamics of the building and the pair realised that Cyung and Maurizio had indeed managed to execute the initial preparation task to incorporate a contradictorily excellent standard of safety.

-so they are now arson experts

The team was very much convinced that the match could be lit and indeed Tim asked Maurizio for a lighter. The two heads of cult walked towards the entrance. Though Tim asked for it, it was Maurizio who used the little plastic, flint operated mechanism to set a piece of blank paper (taken from the file) on fire at one end. Paper burns quickly! Maurizio tossed the go-between onto a trail of petrol that led from just outside the front door to inside the warehouse, quicker. The flames were initially high but subserviently followed the liquid into the entrance.

-and here lays the end and thus the beginning of lies. This book has the making of the entirety of fiction – unoriginal and intolerable filth. Blessed be the last word for it will stop a reader's association

Following Tim's instructions the team split up into two and in mini explosions avoidance, walked around the building to make sure that the fire was spreading (by checking windows). It was, since it had reached the centre engulfing the computers and wires.

*-it means nothing that***silence has been decreed to honest+++y. All it takes are eyes and a brain__in rea+lisation of what is*good and what is lo++st-^

Chris, Tim, Mark, Maurizio, Cyung and Celina returned back to the front yard area of the grounds and witnessed what was an awe inspiring sight; the destruction of a construction.

-**tack..+

The flames rose and raged shattering windows and creating sounds that one would not want to hear but strangely; want to hear.

-st++op rea*^ding

The night's black sky showed exactly how a backdrop like itself could enhance such an astounding anomaly. Though the spirit as of the art of building was being crushed into retardation the brutal honesty of propulsion and elimination, it'selves, as art forms, became evident and oh so over-shadowing.

-no...*** non-non*

non sen*se. Read sto^p

Prophecy (1)

A sparkling array of sounds and images accompanied the clique as each of them slipped back through the entry gate. Though Celina had the key it was not really necessary in vice so she kept hold of it in her handbag and chose not to give it mention; leaving the second floor fire exit unlocked was all the help she was prepared to give with openings.

"Well guys," She spoke addressing the crew but looking back up at the fire. "I'm gonna make a phone call and I'll do that in about twenty minutes to give you guys time to get away." The looks she received with the statement told a collective story; was she really risking being caught for arson by linking back up with Wayne and the other 'nerds'?

"That's too dangerous," Tim announced with a very concerned nature "it's best that you leave here with us... don't you think?" Tim had already briefly discussed this with her ear, voice, and... typing, but was hoping she may have changed her kooky mind.

"I have a life here, Tim," she said sympathetically as if to her own situation, "I need to stay and besides, these guys aren't big yet. They were in talks to get some real funding but that will close down now and... and... besides, where will I go?"

"London." Chris blurted out even surprising himself.

"Yes, anytime. You are very welcome to stay with me in England." Tim said continuing the sentiment with more purpose.

"That sounds amazing and... and... well I can't think of a reason not to but for now... well." She was taken aback by the young Uranson's momentary loss of control. "Ok I will... but I still think I need to make the call. You guys are all ok with your fake passports and things but if I jump ship now I'll be a fugitive for the rest of my days." She was right. But also needed a good alibi to take her away from the petrol fuelled carnage. "Here I can say that I went to get my usual midnight, or thereabout snack at the 'local' Seven Eleven which is owned by my uncle. I say 7/11 but it's more like 24/7 and I say local but it's miles off and I have to drive there but I'm there almost every night I'm working so Anil expects me and I stay for a chat and head back. Enough time for dodgy Brits in 'balaclavas'..." once more she mimicked an English accent, this time a curious mix of cockney and posh. "...To burn the shit hole down! I'll be fine."

"Well... yes... but I would feel safer." Tim told her honestly, he was still in doubt as to her estimation of her employers.

"Relax, Tim. I'll be fine." Celina commented stroking the fine bristled hair on Tim's left cheek with her right hand while smiling. "My dad has a huge place with lots of security and these nerds won't have a chance and they can't do nothing now because I'll call the fire department down and the police will be here with them. Then they'll question me and I'll go back to my dad's after that and then... maybe England, who knows?"

It was extremely impressive that amidst her punchy, racy and almost dizzy nature she was organised. Chris found this combination highly irresistible; how to stay in contact? To pursue a direction to the feelings. Very little but the long distant monogamy ready to squeeze energy, in general, and other more specific exuberance.

"Seriously though, Tim, I'm a big girl now so I'll be fine, old man." She lent over and kissed him on the opposite cheek to which she had touched.

The big girl said her goodbyes to the four legitimate members of the group and turned to face Chris. They all walked towards the only two cars on the street which gave opportunity for the two to converse.

"This isn't goodbye," He started smiling cheekily, "I want to see you again... at least get your number or something." He was miles away to have a proper go at a relationship with this woman but needed to keep in some sort of contact with her. Maybe in a few years there maybe the chance of something else... in hope. Well, she was very much a lady who could make him forget about the other women (and in particular, woman) that have passed his life. Ok, so he had only met her for the brief period they were still currently sharing. How could he help the whirl that is romance?

"Yeah, I've got this... hold on." She searched her bag and produced a business card from it. "I knew these would come in useful, I had them made ages ago for no reason whatsoever but I guess you are as good as any." She smiled.

"So, can I expect you in London soon? Make sure you head down South-East, ok?" Chris nudged her playfully.

"Will do," Celina smiled shyly hitting him teasingly back on the arm (not to her normal standard). She realised something and sprung top a less jovial mode, "and oh... and one more thing, whatever you decide, it doesn't matter 'cause it was always going to happen." Chris screwed up his face in a puzzled expression, stopped walking and queried: 'what are you on about?'. "It's something to do with fate... it's weird, this guy from India, he reads horoscopes and stuff and he predicted you and I and... I told you that before but he also told me that to tell you; 'whatever you decide it doesn't matter because it was always going to happen anyway'"

Chris decided that with all his perceived flawlessness of her, he had to accept that she would have some sort of Non Soul destiny jibe craziness about her. They embraced; she kissed him on the cheek and entered her bright white car. After several attempts at the ignition it started and she drove away waving her goodbye.

(Not So) Homeward Bound

On entering the other car with simultaneous enquiry to Tim about the file, Chris managed to miss part of a reply due the sound pollution from doors closing.

"...we have to go to 'Sri Lanka'." Tim told Chris along with whatever preceded it.

"Oh ok," Chris responded nervously. He did not here him say when so he asked, "When?".

"Sorry folks," Tim stated, "it'll have to be as soon as possible. When we get back to the airport I'll check the flights we get on the next one out and worry about connections when we get to Dubai."

Roll on dear hormones, to a mixture of anger and panic. There's no way he was going to continue the brainless travelling around the world! No way? Come on, with one set of the world's craziest people, surely, no way! He had already involved himself in breaking and entering and abetting in arson, what next? If Chris could just get back to London in one piece he might get away with it.

"Would that be difficult for anybody?" Tim queried. This was his opportunity to get out of the predicament. All he had to say was yes... but after somebody else says it. An obvious example of the race for second place. Chris looked around subtly but nobody seemed interested in replying anything, let alone a damnation of worldly movement. Did this mean that they wanted to go or that they did not? They were all nutty cult ideology enthusiasts but surely they had jobs to get to or even family that missed them?

"You know you can count on me, Tim, man." Maurizio finally retorted keeping his eyes on the road. One down two to go.

"Yes me too." Cyung continued in unity.

Say it Mark. And him and then. No sound so far. In peripheral... NO! Don't turn – in PERIPHERAL. The moment was almost upon the man... come on, Mark, fellow ethnic... no offence Cyung. The difference between insanity and lunacy lies with. An other? No, the self. To shout: 'Fuck off, Tim. I want to go home'. Dog... WATCH OUT FOR THE...

Suddenly the car swerved fiercely to the left as Maurizio avoided what looked like a... Jack Russell (– in America!) attempting to cross the road. A barrage of profanity sailed from the driver's mouth as Tim did his best to calm as well as keep the car as straight as possible. It was the perfect distraction from Mark's non-reply and as consequence it passed over as detraction from Chris' lack of response also.

***

Cruising a little further, the adrenalin flowing to a lulled quash, the falseness of Chris' being begun to take him over. For the entirety of the trip he was somebody he was not and he had survived. Now he needed to explain exactly why he could not go to 'Sri Lanka' or any other destination except for his home. There is only one life form on this planet that would trade places with himself right now; a librarian probably throwing a fit in South London. Of course, there was a slim possibility that the real Preston was walking the plane of New Cross Road and thinking 'Where is everybody?'. Fat chance. Maybe the Seattle Super Signal took over Chris' obviously possessed mind in taking him to this end of the world. Ha ha! Yeah, right. And if he wanted to go to the island of his mother's birth (ish, almost, practically, sort of... actually, no not really) he would do it in more familiar circumstances. At least, without all the er-ing and um-ing and the two second delayed responses to 'Hey Preston, what size shoe are you?' plus similar questions. That's a surname anyway... what the hell was this Preston's first name anyway? Anyway, the truth about his identity then. So be it. Admittedly, the revelation was not for the car but hopefully for a moment in the airport where he could speak to the leader of this quirky (using the nicest possible term) group, alone.

"Hello... sorry to call you so late... or early... but you know that favour I asked you about?" Tim was talking on his mobile phone, "yes sorry... erm... do you have them... I mean have you made them yet...? Ok so all that's left is the dates...? No ok, they last what...? Six months each. Great. And passport stamps..." Tim paused listening for a while to the person on the other end. "Oh... have you got the other person I asked for? Sorry for the short notice on that one but it's lucky that... oh you did? Wow! Great work, guess you had nothing to do today, huh?" Tim laughed in response to a sharp joke or in rhetoric to his own comment. "So, now that you are awake, can you meet me at the airport...? About an hour or so...? Fantastic. See you there..." Tim closed the flip on his phone and put it in between his legs on his seat and looking at Maurizio queried; "why do you Americans never say goodbye when you end a phone call?"

The Non Soul Prophecy

You Know, You Don't Know What I Know

"Listen, Tim," Chris started, approaching him while he stood in the queue at the airport café counter. The words came out bolder than his nerves signalled "Can I have a word... when you've got the drinks... alone, that is?"

"Yes, sure, Pres." Tim replied. For the split second, Chris thought he had called him by his real name but then Tim's reaction did not confirm this as he simply continued the non American waiting in a non American peaceful manner. It caused more panic to an already stressed Uranson; he had to calm and tried to breathe slowly; taking the patronising advice given to every excited individual.

One other lady in the queue. Receiving her cappuccino with slice of fruit cake. Her hair was a frizz of red wavy cotton like clown, held together with a pair of sunglasses. At four AM, why the need for sunglasses? Just explained – hairclip. Three sachets of brown sugar, 'thann-quue', then off with her to brown table, sitting her probably pink behind upon the also brown seat which matched the brown décor. Mahogany it is sometimes referred to.

While inhaling and exhaling purposefully, Chris walked over and sat at a table away from the others, awaiting Tim's company. He watched him order. Wrinkled smile, jolly nature – pointing here and there. The explain all needn't explain at all; five coffees... not for me! I have four friends. Chris thought about his speech and how Tim would react. The worst possible scenario encompassed Tim standing and shouting ridiculously loudly thus alerting Maurizio... that is, the big Maurizio, who will no doubt come to rescue the situation and once realising that old Preston is a fraud, throw Chris into the proverbially 'nearest American ditch', leaving him there to either rot or catch the next flight back to London using his credit card that hopefully the Non Soul faithful would not have confiscated. More likely (in a more propitious circumstance), Tim would still be angry but merely disassociate with him and let Chris catch a return flight back to London where he would sleep for a day and get back to revision, living happily ever after.

Tim sat down with two coffees.

"I don't think I can make it to 'Sri Lanka'." Chris blurted it out. Less psych in mindless. Tim looked at him with an emphasized pause; he had ripped a sachet of white sugar but stopped before pouring it. Chris felt the need to step in quickly and continue his admission "I'm not who you think I am."

The statement is not as obvious as first recognised. Irony and drama. If it is known that Chris is a fake Preston then it is clear what is meant by 'I'm not who you think I am'. Take the context away and the statement becomes ambiguous and concurrent with a variance, in degree, of meanings which could include aspects of the persona and not the whole identity i.e. 'I'm not who you think I am' could mean that he has issues against what he is doing.

However, when coupled with 'I don't think I can make it 'Sri Lanka'' it becomes a lot more apparent that there is a sinister connection between his identity (or aspect wherein) and his relationship with Tim and the others. Still, it is virtually impossible to determine a response to Chris' final statement with complete confidence unless the answer is from a person who knows something about Chris already, which he does not know he knows.

"I know." Tim replied. He was quite relaxed now; poured into his coffee the sugar, stirred it and looked up to speak once more. "I assume your name is Chris Uranson like it states in your passport. You are not Preston, I know that."

Prophecy (2)

Stunned was an understatement. Most that could be written, here, would be an understatement. Chris was shocked internally and externally; his physical expression told the man sitting opposite that he was not hiding this. He could not even if he tried. No words were revealing themselves from the young Londoner's mouth so Tim stepped in to clarify.

"Look. I know you do not believe in our world, well, not how you know it, but I do. I was told, about a year ago that you would come here and here you are now."

Chris' look moved in to one of confusion. The shoe was now on the other foot as he began to doubt the identity of his counterpart; Tim had strung him along all this time. This when Chris had believed that it was solely his own burden.

But how did he know? The panic of the initial meeting at the flat in New Cross had left Chris with limited plausible memory of what may have given it away there. Maybe it was the passport (how was a guy like Preston to get a fake one?) or; perhaps, something he said on the flight and at any other point during the travel. No wait - Tim said he realised 'about a year ago'.

"Can you explain?" Chris queried genuinely puzzled as well as somewhat emotionally drained. He had also found himself switched from the imagined interrogated to the reality interrogator.

"There is more to earth than soul and Non Soul." Tim started adjusting his seating to get comfortable. He had an aura of enthusiasm which suggested he had a lot to say. "There are all sorts of processes that go on this planet, most of which we do not know anything about and others that I will need a lot of time and patience to explain and I am trying my best in my writing." Tim paused and took a sip of his coffee. Chris, in turn, relaxed slightly in his seat realising that this conversation, on his behalf, involved a fair bit of listening. "I have... I have a tie with one such process or entity thing, when I say tie, well... what I mean is I overheard it – twice and on separate occasions."

"Overheard who?" Chris interrupted, ignoring the 'it'.

"I overheard something talking about a prophecy of some kind." Tim sensed a growing lack of confidence from his opposite number and so smiling gently he made eye contact and continued "Look. Just be patient and hear me out.

I went on holiday when I was a child down all the way in Papua New Guinea. This was with my family but it was mainly my father's activity as he suspected something estranged about the area. I was just out somewhere near a beach with my sister probably playing hide and seek or something... anyway, she was trying to climb this rock and I was about to call out to her that I had spotted her but then I heard a voice. It was not speaking out loud but within my mind – I could hear it clearly, speaking as crisp as I would think. I could not make out what it was saying but I was sure about its meaning and so I ran to my sister and pulled her from the rock. We sort of fell back on each other and before she could turn to hit me for doing her wrong, what I heard had come true." He took a dramatic pause and looked directly at Chris; "Lightening struck the rock."

Partisan for Kismet

The confirmation of the earlier notions Chris had had about Tim being insane were unravelling before him. Insanity was now explicably the correct term since it was clearly legally provable. This individual acted behaviours not on a level with the normality a psychiatrist would tick off on a check sheet. Tim's manners up to this point were of quite a sensible middle class man. His ideas and notions were very eccentric but he presented with the grace of ordinariness and even, to an extent, endearment/aplomb. Having a good think about it; Tim was the leader of a small cult; he heard voices; he handled international fraud crimes; he had just set fire to a building that seemed as innocent as a motorcycle repair shop and; now, he was heading to 'Sri Lanka' to do something similar. A unique mixture of a hard psychotic nature (in terms of attitude) with a fragile schizophrenic tendency (the non-reality based ideology). Break from revision – hardly.

"I know what you're thinking." Tim said. 'No you don't,' Chris thought to himself, 'you would be very annoyed if you knew what I was thinking, you crazy fucker.' Tim continued "but I was back there for almost every year of my adult life and I heard nothing until last year." Tim motioned to take a sip of his coffee but chose not to drink it. "All I did was what I normally did; just wonder around that same area of beach but I heard nothing until I heard them last autumn. They... no sorry, it was talking about the proxy warrior for the soul. The man who would replace another and destroy Non Soul. At least those are my best translation for the words."

Translation? From what? Papua New Guinean? Chris' thoughts were racing but he held a level of control.

"What language were you talking in...? You do realise this is pretty much all rubbish? Nothing here makes sense in that it can be interpreted as other things." Chris took a breath to calm his fleeting thoughts (as with vocals); he had lost control now and so soon! Determination would see it back. "Listen, Non Soul entities do not exist; mentally, we all have the capacity to feel lost..., dejected and depressed... and lonely and generally like shit. We can all also feel happy and great too – it's just psychological, physiological chemical responses to situations. There's nothing out there that feeds off of negative emotions. You can't just label Non Soul, you have no real evidence that these things exist in the real world apart from in this... delusional world that you have where voices in your head are talking to you."

Chris had to stop there – he knew he had gone too far on that one. Not only was he slating this man's beliefs he was also openly questioning his psychosis. Offensive – or South East London speak, 'liberties'. Except Tim was smiling. The old man had heard verbal volleys like this one on several occasions prior.

"'He will not believe'. It's what it said to me also." Tim revealed taking that postponed mouthful of beverage. "The evidence is mounting; why are you here? You have travelled across the world with us and helped us thus far. It is not luck that you have arrived here because that would be outrageously random. Have you heard of Non Soul before you met me?" Tim waited for an answer.

"No... I guess not."

"Exactly and now you are in the thick of it. Why? Because you were chosen. It was prophesised that you will take down Non Soul and that's all we need of you... merely to fulfil your prophecy."

A little anger started to well. Did Tim have him held as the itinerant without revealing his true intentions vastly more ominous than Chris could ever dream up? Easy. He had a point. All the bizarre things that have led up to the present time; the creepy Jehovah's Witness at his door; the preaching Hindu talisman on the plane; Celina's fate/destiny rant and her comments just as she drove off in her car and; now this admission that, apparently, Tim had laid dormant for a year with. It could all be seen as an intervention greater than luck especially as he had found the original Non Soul bible folder/book thing on a library shelf under another book that he only picked up due to a recommendation of an ex-girlfriend who he had to break up with for no accountable reason that his mind could muster. Was this whole diabolical plot the reason?

"Hold on," Chris decided to clarify a few things before he suckered himself into Non Soul silliness; "what is my purpose with your group? Merely to travel around endangering my life so that your prophecy is realised? That's not fair... is it?" Though he queried this, Chris knew that his original false character mentality was just as undeserved.

"No, please." Tim started, back tracking. "What I mean is that in your beliefs we do not need you. However, in ours' we do need you. So let us say that we are wrong and that the world is as normal as you know it. If you come along with us and all is well then you can go home and life will be the same and everything as it were. But let us say that you are wrong... and that the world is a Non Soul heathen; if you leave us and go home then we have failed in our attempts at stopping the catastrophe that would seem to be, according to the file, in 'Sri Lanka' and within the next couple of days." Tim paused and displayed a very sincere concern in his eyes. "All I am simply saying is to find out what your destiny holds in 'Sri Lanka'."

Pausing for thought Chris gave a symbolic gesture meaning he needed to think and Tim sat back in his seat lifting his coffee, placing it to his lips. Metaphorically, the young man pushed aside all the fate/Non Soul/insanity/prophecy. The argument was clear enough needing no extra convolution. It was a matter of deciding. It was not about what is in 'Sri Lanka'. Dancing daemons. Repressed men of rage. Emanations of light fit for bored house-sons. Which-ever, if only the one. To be gone, through gate and on - in the sake of another. Not only for Tim, there had to be (and search harder) other reason to the gallivant? [one] In many ways it was a chance to see the land which his mother called home though she had not actually live there for longer than three weeks at one time. Still, Chris had deep roots with the land and no doubt had wanted to go to it, preferably with his mother but then the opportunity had arisen and it was not as if he could not go with her again in the future. [two] Away with the romance and on with the rather crude: it was free; Tim's resources knew no end when it came to chasing his cause and this extended to four people other than his self.

All of these grounds (inclusive of Samaritan aide) were under the primary guise that the whole situation was too contrived to be fortunate and in the back of Chris' mind (the kind of places that are dared visited by anything other than subconscious notions of the incomprehensible) maybe even the feelings of partisanship for the country (or more likely to one indigenous² race from it) could have to do with being somewhere at the right time to stop something from happening i.e. the fulfilment of a destiny or prophecy. He was clutching at insensible straws which was another metaphorical action... this later, triggered to make up his mind.

²(What of the history but foolish rants of possession? Distortion is the rise of power to which succumbing is to gorge one's eyes and solder one's mind)

"Tim, I have big respect for your beliefs, and your ideas," Chris started, with a colloquial South-East London tinge to his accent "and I'm gonna head with you to 'Sri Lanka'. It's where my mother came from and where I feel my heart lies."

Chris corrected the hint but at a sacrifice; the dramatic line. "If this Non Soul life force is real or not, at least, I'm stopping some arseholes from doing something wrong... in your eyes."

The whelming sense of loyalty overshadowed any snippets of annoyance Chris incurred for giving in quite quickly to the pressure exerted by Tim. He was in Seattle helping a team of seemingly endeavoured individuals and even though their ideals clashed with his own, he genuinely wanted to help them even more now than at any stage previous. Here was the chance to do just that, coupled with an opportunity to further himself through not only experience but in addition, knowledge of himself in a land he knew of, though not in first hand.

"Thank you for saying that, Prer... Chris. I hope that the experience will wisen you and help you find what you are looking for on a more personal level as well as working with us." Tim said suddenly reverting back to his intelligent, sane persona. Chris felt more comfortable with this version of the leader but still found it in himself to question him.

"Are you sure about this Non Soul stuff? I mean, you are dedicated to this cause, I do not doubt that but the only evidence... well... there is only a little bit of evidence and not nearly enough to be convincing." Tim could tell what the young man sat opposite him was trying to put out in the conversation.

"It is, to me, a knowledge not a belief. There is a good deal of evidence for the existence of different planes of life forces on this planet as well as our own human one. You can see this in the vast array and also the level of intricacy in the differences of the creatures of this world. To take the general Buddhist philosophy that we are all from one soul is almost correct but just too simplistic... Ultimately, we probably are but there are battles between all walks of life that even go as far as to exist through our existence. At least, not quite as a result of our lives, I believe but as a by-product of it and the other species on this planet. But... however, we are their vices, interests and... empowerment. Non Soul is the first of any entity that has actually been documented thoroughly and as a visual object... if you can call it an 'object'. It uses the negative vices and interests of our everyday lives to maintain its existence – Non Soul is a by product of our unconstructive behaviours."

As Chris listened, and more intently than he had ever done to Tim's comments preceding, he thought about Tim's writing style from the book he had read and although he was quite disjointed in his cohesion of facts he still possessed a better grasp of language than his script would suggest. But even now, in speech, he still skimped on the, to use the man's word, 'intricacies' which included dismissing Buddhism in one sentence, which was much too 'simplistic' itself.

"But this is based on some crazy man's diary... the one you wrote about in the book." Chris spoke realising irrelevantly that Tim might not know he had read it.

"That is just the tip of the iceberg. I have countless more files and even videos to go through in order to expand that piece. Admittedly, I should be looking at this from your angle a little better and realise that your questions are to do with your desire for information. I will try to slow things down and give you all the information I can so please bare with me as I do so."

With a smile and a nod Chris appreciated Tim's patience and then looked at his coffee which had almost finished. His mind fleeted back to home and in particular his excuse for not being there – Chris was staying in Halls with Dwayne. He told his parents it was until Tuesday and it seemed like that's when he would back in England anyway. Another too good to let alone coincidence.

"I'm glad we had this chat," Tim said concluding, "I'm going to chat to the others now about what we are doing so if you don't mind shall we move over to them and continue? I don't think it's wise to let them know who you are really... I think we might have a messiah panic between them."

Christ! That's too much! Chris indulged unintentionally in the feeling of threat due to responsibility. He managed a suitable tell all facial expression though this was relevant to an old man's short term memory. Tim hit tangent to a polyphonic rhythm.

"Hello... you're here? Great. We are at the Seattle's Best. Ok see you in a few moments, Ronald." Tim quickly completed his call. "Ok looks like our visas are here, so we can travel ok. We'll drink a coffee with the man then go out to his car because I don't think under the airport cameras are the best place to move these types of documents around."

'Tim – you called me a messiah.' Chris told him silently.
C. Colombo: (In) the Case of the Non Soul Warriors
Faith in a Lost Soldier

Attempted Assassination (the fairly Distant Past)

Surprised - the lack of security that led the way to the stone house. What was more; the use of the house itself – why hide away in pretty much the only stone house near the Verugal river? Too use to the fancies of life, the nineteen year old boy thought.

He waited, hidden amongst green leaf, for the tall guard with a slight pot belly to walk on past the back of the building. This was, since all this patrolman had done was circle the mortar brick continuously. A task set to a meditation.

Here came the time where he would creep to the 'window' (not having a covering of glass) and enter if (and only if) there were no foot soldiers hiding away in that room. Two (of the four) windows thus far tried contained guards chewing tobacco and waiting for a fool to step into trigger happy grasps.

Not that there had been any attempts on the colonel's life (Tamil led, that is) but that had been by chance or for the fact that nobody really knew where he stayed. It was even doubtable that he was here. Still, the cause of killing this traitor and ridding the eastern province of his derelict ideas remained deep set in the boy's mind.

As he pressed up against the cool wall of the bungalow, the teenager knew he had about 30 – 45 seconds before 'Thumbi' (his given name for the perimeter guard) would be back. Sneaking a look through the opening he realised luck on this occasion. Neither a military nor civilian in sight. Like front way diving into a swimming pool but no splash – he added a creative roll across the ground not making a sound. Of crouch position move... shift... waddle... but silently to the opposite wall always counting the seconds; our Thumbi seemed to randomly look into the windows as an extra check.

Edging his head through the gap in the doorway (there was no door in the frame itself) his eyes captured a guard leaning tiredly. Make it obvious why don't you? This was where he must be laying his treacherous head, hopefully laying, since it is armed combat rather than easy assassination if he was not.

The count got to 26 seconds and he could not take any risks on being so close to objective. Crossing back to where he came from, the boy, if it could be claimed, he was 19 years of age but a fully trained armed assassin (not to mention frontline soldier), kept his back to the warmer inside brick, low to the hard cement floor and waited to hear Thumbi's footsteps. In Tamil, the word 'thumbi' means younger brother, but the man on the outside had to be twice his own age.

For concentration, the young man stuck out his tongue. This pushed his bottom lip out sticking slightly. Dry on dry. A circular exercise for the inner area of his mouth produced some saliva that satisfied the very back of his oral cavity – around the tonsil area. The tongue also helped to establish that some of his teeth were wobbling. It does not matter, focus matters. Footsteps...

The youngster heard the rustle of the soldier's boots come and leave so he crept back to his earlier position. Chance! The lazy inner guard had moved and was talking to another at an entrance down the hallway; if ever the opportunity existed! The only light that could give him away shone from the room containing whomever it was that the night-watchman was speaking to, probably from an oil lamp. Not important, however, since the guard had his head and upper body dipped into the room he was conversing in and thus away from the room he was supposed to be guarding.

Deft in movement and judgement with swiftness in speed, the boy entered the 'sacred' room to be greeted by a single, spring bed, where on top lay the figure of his foe. Steady now heart. He approached him and gazed into the man's shut eyes. Here; the contrary to what the boy stood for; loyalty, honour and obedience. Shocked by the emotion that drove him, he struggled to find the machete buried in his belt, but he did. Up. Lofted to the air and slowly down, the action stopping before the crucial penetration (tell him) to whisper some words.

"You treacherous fucking monster pussy," He started, in his native language of Tamil; the only language he knew "Niyaghan, life!"

Up - no small slit. The blade rose once more with the firmness, vigour and shape in that it was going to come down and go through the sleeping man's throat – not the slash slit for there is no catharsis.

It did not.

In the instant, the boy felt his once sturdy arm pressured; residing a left hand source. From below him (the phrase), his right knee gave way as it was push-kicked to follow natural movement, though in this case, forced. Poison... Falling to the ground the boy was handled to ensure he landed kneeling before his would be victim. POISON! Only having his left arm free, the nineteen year old reached for his chain upon which lay a small leather bottle, contents of which was enough poisonous cyanide to give himself the quickest exit out of the situation. The handler knew his game before he'd even thought of it and used his right hand to rip the black stringed cord clean from his neck throwing the possession into the corner of the room, well away from grasp. Locking a half nelson, the handler's final move was to stick a cumbersome gloved hand into the boy's mouth. Calm, easy. No worry. The Tamil Tigers are taught ways to honourably commit suicide using a technique whereby the unfortunate dupe swallows his own tongue. Being a Tiger himself, the handler knew this and had to risk getting fingers bitten off in order to keep the intruder alive.

Internal Politics

"Will you stay alive, boy?" After the failure of the attempt on his life, the man previously sleeping was fully awake now. "Thumbi, do you know I have not slept in three whole days and nights?" Younger brother/younger man. Status imprint and not a whimsical label. Not only but, he was not looking for an answer. "You are the first. But I know that you will not be the last."

Two more men had entered the room since the incident and were proceeding to tie the boy's ankles to his wrists and then both sets together. Another man was using the assassin's own knife to taunt him; scratching at his ear causing a superficial wound that bled a little. Perspiration from brow had already made their way to the gloved hand in his mouth; it was more like a gardening glove than anything a soldier would wear; nevertheless, every man in the room, house and perimeter was indeed one.

"Will you stay alive, boy?" The man repeated this time waiting for response. None. His eyes started rolling, glazed with another status imprint. This shown to a soldier at the door (coupled with nodding head). The subordinate walked to the boy stuck two small items up both nasal passages and then tied a long piece of cloth around his head for containment. Naturally, the intruder struggled futile to the enforced eventual outcome.

"How can you swallow your tongue if you cannot breathe through your nose?"

Indeed, the question was valid and the answer is yet to be discovered but still, it took only his tongue to be bitten as a route to death. The boy realised that he would use this method only as last resort (torture etc.). Besides, he needed time to mentally prepare; which he started.

The man facing him sat back down on the bed and looked toward his foe. He ran a rugged dry right hand across the thick hair on the side of his head, finger tips coasting thin strands near the top.

"Did he send you?" He started full well expecting to get nothing in return. "Did you believe you can come inside and kill me?" The man was not completely angry but he could reach this level easily enough. "You will die. Have no doubt in your young mind. But you have one proud achievement. You are the first of my own people to try and to bleed me. You have failed, my boy and now you will see where you are wrong. So you may as well tell me, did Niyaghan send you?"

The boy collected wrath and spat it at the feet of his interrogator.

"Fuck you, Murali! You don't speak his name. Traitor." In speech was the only way he was going to vent the mixture of fear, passion and frustrations.

The man labelled 'Murali' stood up and belted the fallen soldier with a back hand across the cheek and mouth. Skin ruptured on impact and added to the bleeding.

"You dog! You treat me with respect. I am your colonel and commander. You look at me and talk with respect you fool. Did Niyaghan not teach you conduct? You are a disgraced cadre." Murali quietened and took a step back towards his makeshift bed but did not sit back down. "But what can he teach you? He is hiding all the time... it is a man like, Zuels, who teaches and trains." Using a very Tamil third person form, in mentioning 'Zuels' he was simply referring to his own being. "You are a headstrong boy who will not understand why I am doing what I am doing. The good of the Tamil people is not left to the Northern Province, what of the east? Are we not Tamil?"

"You pig! We fight together. Niyaghan is our leader... bastard." As he spoke, Colonel Zuels took another swipe. The insolence of the trespasser was beginning to annoy him but Zuels did not want to let it show too much. Just a little bit.

"Let him try to be a leader. In the end we have the passion to rise above his leadership. This is a war. Niyaghan will lose if he continues to neglect his own people. I can see this and I have taken the action to guard and protect the Tamil people of the east. If you cannot see this then maybe, boy, you must be more clever."

There was a moment's rest. Zuels knew that this fighter was a Tamil Tiger with total devotion and trust for his chief commander, Niyaghan. Being the ex-colonel of the main revolutionary unit, Zuels wanted the knelt warrior to believe in his now very different ideals. Ever since the splinter disbanded from the Tigers and took his soldiers to start his own army in Batticaloa, he knew that he would be on the hit-list for every one of Niyaghan's deadly, motivated, for freedom assassins. He had seen the instant a million times re-iterated in his mind's eye but he never expected that it would not be a direct sale of the commander's voice. The boy felled before him must have arrived through his own inspiration; if trained by Niyaghan himself for this mission, Zuels would not be alive right now, and that goes for a few of the soldiers guarding him also.

"Boy, your leader fights for the north and now I fight for the east. I want to unite all Tamils and be as one but your leader stops that. The east is as important in our Eelam nation and once it is ours we can concentrate on taking what we are owed." He could see that the boy was listening to his polluted theory. To an affect understanding since he had the puzzled look on his face after Zuels had mentioned 'taking what we are owed'. This should have stood for the whole of Tamil Eelam; cities and provinces spanning the north, the east and the north west of the island of 'Sri Lanka'. However, Zuels had a more sinister look in his eye.

"'The history of the Tamil Kings reigning Ceylon will repeat itself'. Do you know who spoke those words, boy?" Once more, Zuels was not looking for an answer, "Vavunia's Suntheralingam. God bless his soul."

The Dead Man and the King

The boy looked up at his former colonel. Ever since he first fought for the Freedom Tigers for Eelam he tried to crudely hold a count of the amount of people he had killed. Sadistic but then what of a young man in war? For a few years he had a body count of three; the story follows:

an old woman ran to him while he walked patrol near a state line both starting and ending Eelam/'Sri Lanka'. To attract the young guard's attention, she pulled at his camouflage outfit top since he was looking the other way. Plainly disobeying orders; waiting before a field for his teamed partner who was also same veining by partaking pre-nuptial with a local unmarried girl. The old lady would not speak but hurried the lookout over to a straw roofed house about five minutes away in a village that was very unusually empty. The home in question had a man, looking in similar age to the lady who had approached, just out front jumping up and down in a frustrated fashion, tears streaming from his eyes, pointing lose skin, nail and bone incessantly at the entrance to the abode.

On entering it was obvious as to what the distress was for and no sooner the first of two men raised a hand gun, the Tamil Tiger patrol officer shot the trespasser down dead with his assault rifle. The second got up from a bedding floor naked but for a vest and said something in Sinhalese before also facing the same fate as of his confederate. These were not military men from the 'Sri Lanka' army but rapists picked up from a jail (where they were to serve a more severe time) in an army convoy and dropped off in the nearest/appropriate Tamil village to commit atrocity. As long as the woman is not Sinhala then it does not matter what happens to her, her family or their fate.

The weeping was harrowing as she slide across the slim veneered ground practically crawling to her saviour. Though she did not seek to thank him; she arrived not with gratitude on her person. Instead, the idea to grasp the rifle and stabbed it forcefully in her mouth, gesturing irately that he should pull the trigger furthermore. He looked her in the eyes with no elsewhere to gaze, holding weapon with trembling fourteen year old hands and arms. A refusal to shoot; shaking his head to accompany the movement of his grip. Along the same route, she shuffled back away, returning to the dead (not to look at their faces) but to sift. Around the two on the floor; for an item. An item which once she had found, turned, progressed and to face the boy once more. Holding it up to him at her neck; gold and the excess value of the humble dwell... In plain: it was her taarlee-cordee; the necklace that symbolised and exhibited her marriage to another. Misery confined, the shame she felt was empathised; enough cause for the young soldier to release live ammunitions for the final time at that sitting.

What he received from this instant was the first inkling, experience and reaction to why he needed the thirst or passion for the just of his people, the Tamil nation, whom were systematically being targeted in an onslaught that was purposeful for the intent to crush a collective spirit of a set of people who wanted nothing but recognition for a right of cause. If he did not fight, then the cause would be lost, but more importantly; if he did not fight with his fellow Tamils then the collective nature that held up the fabric of belief, knowledge and also want of what was right would fall apart and dissolve into hopelessness. The man who stood before him, holding the machete that could have killed before, was a colonel who did not stand for this force of unity... and as he took this knife to the young man's throat, sweeping horizontal in one deep operation; with blood exiting the gash and re-emerging back through the mouth, all that was left was for the fatally wounded soldier to speak his final words.

"You are not Tamil."

The Planned Execution of Purified Chaos (2)

Review

"The thought of time, the emotion of time, the breath of time. So far, each in every way is a reflection of why there is the fascination of its concept. Can it be rolled back or is what is done, done?"

Time, when dusted off

Will leave thy in a spin

Energy used flustered off

Still weave thy yet again

"Though I read it, you have wrote it."

"Enough.

If there is the light of realisation committed to your continuation then why must this concept, 'Time', be wasted?" The Comment relinquished.

"If the light that vision's the soul is not descripted then what shall you comment, Comment? You cannot. Waste is not wanton of one's own converse; it is a twist, a fate and moment of another's bespoke. The reaction of an interaction is your domain." The reading of beauty told, bordering on explanation.

"Indeed, then let me say: so far, those chosen have relayed; in this, travel has led our fated one to where he is needed. It is up to the rhythm of what is right to dictate now... this, after a single chance. A collective movement, put into motion to aid an, if not, ailing situation. The duty of our being is to set the wheels of a meeting in turn, then and ONLY then can the embraced brethren of Beauty, Poetry and Comment restore the nationality of such, since duty is unduly a sacrifice but that to which submission is a necessity in an order so crucial; nothingness relies on it's structure to fail."

"What of the love that was spoilt? That is not what of we stand for - five cycles for the feeling to relinquish? If ever the blessed look of the being in finding to a love. Warmth and glow, smile beaming as one of a life beginning. A right way of amazement; nothing could be so lowered but only if the hand of such a fate as the direction we as a three promoted. If sense be asked then what of the release of such angered action... if not angered then torturous?" The reading of Beauty argued with a resignation to the task it had to sit back and watch happen. No amount of time could heal the wound of a being that would witness the destruction of love, especially when the cause would be partly by itself.

"Once more. And as every time that had happened before. If we were not to serve, then where would the movement of the plane be? Never more. You grow; perhaps conscience. You cannot feel but it is your realisation of a beauty, not your mistaken feeling. If we question, then we cannot work and work is what we must for the order to so.

Her soul his soul. Not for the connection and the distraction of such would not viable the course that his life had been set. The new soul is a match as seen from a time beyond both. Unexplainable to he the decision to relinquish sense, but the decision is as clear as sense, in that polarity will repel; just look now. On to the future and it holds the unison of NEW not this OLD. It has been done to many time (and none ever easy) to move, to on and on, please."

In changing the subject, the poetic one started;

If description is a sense,

Then re-commence;

Forced out of MY order – poetry is all I must speak.

Torched from this sequence, once before, I now seek;

To not relay in standard burst

But in MY standard typical verse

"A point I share – do not sell a manner, the world will not feel your positive nature if you curse 'your' very verse once more. If I am to show the plain what nature is in true beauty, then a response to my true words is needed." The discussion that arose from the three over the many years of their existences had each managing to re-emerge with an added value of one another's qualities. That reading beauty was presently bordering to which would comment.

"Then a combination is announced. Together, the account will be mentioned in sequence."

Up, Up, Up

+In accordance with the poetic sense: no added translation, just description+

In the gathering, the little pebble lay,

Not knowing the life that would come.

Above and higher, a branch would sway,

But into a fall it would become.

In the area of the forest, a tree's branch that was teetering on a brink of falling, snapped from its home off of the bark and landed heavily on the leafy ground. Lying innocently was a small stone which broke into five pieces upon the impact.

"The array of prism created from the break spoke to a sky that had cleared its path to the sight. Amongst the sumptuous red leaves held a stone no more; now it was five. Delicately displayed ahead of the rouge. Leaves now fluttered, circular to create a tubed context argument between earth and wind. Who would win? Quite simply that which holds onto the precious shingle."

The five pieces of rock flew up in the wind lock and travelled a near perfect vertical swirling and moving all of the way. On reaching the clouds in the sky, it was forced to move in a North-Westerly direction.

"The movement of the pieces encompassed the nature of the wind. It was going to the island in question and that represents a manipulation of the natural order. However, if nature is at fault for all, then this idea includes the self; if all are nature then the most artificial circumstance is pure natural. The stones will travel with momentum because they have been told to do so."

By the time the pace of the clouds slowed, the stone bits had been crushed but not before the items had caused an excess of static electrical activity.

As if by magic, the white wisped no more in a movement

Stillness not tragic, the white wisped no more in a colour

Black and so laden, the wisped feature strikes light new

Thunderous maiden, the wisped feature strikes to earth

If Home Is Where the Heart Is, Then Seniors Are Best Split

Universe and Soldiers (Present Time)

The airport was hot and overcrowded. The standard soldiers; eyes moving, little else. Though there to oversee the threat of potential chaos, essentially all they menaced were people bumping into other people, who were knocking over others, who were tripping over idiots looking the wrong way. Shirted idiots - charcoal trouser types. Dry hair, combed over or back. Sari'd women carrying children laughing constantly. The children that is. People falling over is amusing. Welcome to 'Sri Lanka'.

"Ok folks, Hotel Hilton is our next stop." Tim looked distracted while he spoke, due to the multi-tasking: looking at signs for exit. "Let's get out to where the taxi guys are waiting." He pointed over to the far end of the airport to that beyond 20/20 vision. It was possible that he may have been here before.

Shuffling somewhat slowly and behind the four, Chris' attention slipped away from his following task and into his surroundings. The world becomes more difficult when it is reduced to a confine; although, when doing so, the level of comfort in tackling agoraphobic expression does increase – this explains why it is a human tendency to enclose a wide surrounding into a smaller nature, still, it is more taxing. Example; Chris confines the world to the airport and life now settles as a combination of the glass walls, information kiosk, baggage letting, passport control, duty free, the people, the idiots and the small children. Within this universe Chris' mind becomes over-stimulated with the definitions for the glass walls, information kiosk, baggage and passport control, duty free, the people, the idiots and the children. These definitions take a considerable amount of mental process and it is this that creates the aforementioned difficulty. If the restrictions of an airport are removed, the freedom of thought that Chris can engage with are limitless and it is this freedom that promotes a more skimming thought action and thus a concentration wavering. The intensity is lowered and so the strain.

In a way and through his identity and background, Chris shared genes with the people, the idiots and the small children of the 'new universe'. He was half Tamil and although a lot of the individuals around him were Sinhalese, it didn't matter since they were all apart of an island indigenous (that word again) to both sets of races (really?), not to mention others, and so all ethnic groups of 'Sri Lanka' would have, over the years, adapted to the same environment.

Chris' pulsed mind fleeted back to a time in childhood where his mother sat him down before bed and told him a story about when she was younger. During such occasions, she would like to stroke the young boy's hair and tell him that it reminded her of his grandfather's; who had the same softness to his bunched strands as Chris did. This happened on a regular occurrence and for some reason Lakshmi would like to repeat this fact as if it was the first time it was ever told. She also rehashed several stories whether or not it was heard before.

On to one of those stories: this followed the tale of how Lakshmi broke her leg. Scared by a snake on her way back from her junior school in Montego Bay (where she used to live with her family until they're forced re-location), the little girl climbed the nearest tree resting at the first branch. Many locals walked passed cursing both her and the tree since it was the one and only of its type to have survived on the island outside of Cockpit Country. Eventually, somebody she knew came across her presence and requested that she come down immediately. When little Lakshmi refused, the lady went back to her house, which was next to the Kandiahnayagham residence and told Mr K. about the situation. Once Lakshmi recognised his form (as he walked towards her and just past the hilled area he emerged from), she jumped from the tree to make sure he did not see her up there. Thus the breakage.

Collection

An old man in a brown suit passed him. Sorry, the other four then Chris passed him. The suit was extremely worn and tatty but it did not seem as if he cared. He had a look that was a million miles from where he was, this while he shook a very old red charity pot with a poppy drawing on it. This man disturbed another he was stood next to who was positively furious with an issue. The second was venting this frustration to a girl at the information desk. She, on the other hand, was rather disinterested and seemed to be fobbing off his comments, though they were very angry and quite directed at her.

Brown people everywhere. The type without Afro hair. In the part of England Chris resided he always wondered collectivism. He would see Black boys walking the streets in pairs or more. Whites and Oriental Asian the same. At sixth form college, there were a group of South Asian boys and girls that intermingled with one another; two of which (male) were Tamil. Chris never managed to grasp any association with neither the two nor the wider clique.

His mother's temple group were mainly consistent of Tamils. The 'Sri Lankan' kind, that is, which was a fact she was reminded of regularly if not mostly. This separation did have her held back, further if not for the acquaintance of one Mrs Selvam; master traditional cook and also cake baker. The pair did all temple (or coil) group activities together including shopping for correct ingredients. Away from cakes, these ingredients required more travel than a local supermarket – ventures to East and North West London were common. To heartlands of London Tamil vibrancy where Lakshmi and her ally fell anonymous amongst ethnic match. The stories relayed back to the youngest member of the family pierced an ideology centre: he too had passed through areas of racially motivated collectivity but not with intentions of joining in - there was never a connection.

The atmosphere of this developing (stunted) nation was overall inspiring and seemed starting a bridge. As if felled for no reason the young man looked up and there; it reached out to Chris. Leaving brief trips to London culture zones away, Chris could not even relate to the surroundings of holiday haven Jamaica; with the only compressed comfort being his mother's family. They were whom stuck with him, not just by his fragile side but too, in his mind as well as heart. Whereas his brother, Malcolm, was a distant being. Brother by blood/name and very little collectivistic. The immediate blame? He looked Blacker; not just in a colour sense, but an identity sense; he looked more Afro-Caribbean than Chris; he was accepted to a collection. He was the elder and squirm at the proverbial; also his father's son! This true, and Chris, he was not. Though not recognised as South Asian by any stretch of the imagination, it was his affinity for his mother's roots that grabbed his own confused persona and shook it into a belief that he held this core strong. At the present time, he was in affect home and the idiots running their legs and mouths and pulling at their mother's sari's while riding her hip were his people.

(Not quite, the Tamil ones were. To leave a character to his issue in ignorance versus experience.)

All the New Things

On the outside, the taxi rank was unordered and extremely busy. Again, military men were orchestrating. Chris caught a stared contact with a brown camouflage suited cadre. He relinquished this after a brief movement of his eyes to the AK-47 rifle the man held in two arms where both his sleeves were rolled up to forearm centre point. The security of the island had been stepped up due to the re-emergence of the intensity and escalating signs of violence connected to civil conflict further north of this particular city the team were in. Awhile away by travel, yes, but this did not stop the government worrying about the commercial capital of their country.

On seeing two White men, the mass ranks of brown uniform wearing men approached the team. Selecting one, they went towards his cab and although the man had no problem in cramming all five of them into the passenger seats, Tim harassed him into suggesting a second car for the ride.

Securing a window seat at the back of the Renault number two, Chris shared it with Tim and Cyung; Cyung sitting with him at the back. The road markings did not appear at all clear and the car set off straight enough but had to take huge turns around a massive clearing that many people had gathered around. The road looked incomplete and there were blocks set up to stop traffic from going across, which could have made the journey extremely quick and possibly unnecessary owing to the lack of luggage.

Driving around, the rubble was quite noticeable and so too the masses of people seemingly worshipping the area. Old women in saris were knelt down and waving their upper bodies towards the middle of the cracked tarmac. Others were dancing fanatically, some breaking through police barricades to take pieces of the floor away with them. A Catholic priest in a very traditional purple robe led a set of nuns in an open air mass ceremony that was hurried to an end as a police trucks' only entrance to the scene laid where the congregation stood.

"What's happening here?" Tim asked the driver.

"Sorry, sir," He started by apologising, "No English. Five minute." He smiled continuously and kept looking in Tim's direction. After a few seconds, Tim moved his head and looked towards the road in front; a bid to get the driver to look there also. He thought better than to refine his query.

***

As the vehicle pulled into the Colombo Hilton's short stay parking area Cyung caught sight of Chris momentarily jerking his head in what looked like a state of confusion.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked Chris giving off a peaceful smile. Chris shifted his position to reply.

"Nothing. Just looking out of the window... at all the new things." Chris tried a peaceful smile in response but his lips cracked up. Too much coffee, which explained the earlier jerked movement.

"It looks like something," he told him, continuing the smile "I have been to so many different lands but each one is so overwhelming for different reasons. I like when my stereotypes are challenged, it makes me feel... like... there is more to life than just myself."

He was rather eloquent in the execution of his random nature; he sounded rather like a Chinese version of Tim, since Cyung had the hint of an accent common with Mandarin phoneme origins.

"Our ability to think is an amazing thing. Our ability not to think is what has us in trouble." Tim added, though not facing the back just in case their driver might want to join in the face direction game again.

Non-Soul Mates

The hotel room analogue clock read 8.30am. The posse had made some brutal timings and everything had taken its toll on Chris' body. He was tired but his heart was beating at a heavy and deep though slow pace; it was enough to keep him awake. Lying on top of the bed overthrow, Chris fidgeted until he had to get up.

Being the Hilton brand, the room looked expensive but at the exchange rate, was probably better than could have been. Having not seen the bill, Chris could not really confirm his ideas on the pricing. The 'Old Man', as Celina called him, was generous with his pocket.

What else was it that she had said? 'Do it anyway because it was going to happen anyway'. Something along those lines. No matter how silly or crazy that sounded and especially how she told it to a virtual stranger, it was fine because she was pretty and interested in Chris. Two good properties. The weeks and months since the break up of his last lady-attachment were lightly littered with female opportunity. A very flirtatious student living opposite Dwayne's dormitory seemed only to knock on the flat section of 2b to borrow sugar (or whatever else) when Chris was around. Dwayne always told him that she often enquired about him in absence. She was beautiful and aptly sized in frame but did not invoke the feelings that Chris needed to be wanting of her in anything other than sexual gratification. This was the case with the many other women he had encountered in everyday passing life since, which led him to put some weighty onus on the representation of his former girlfriend to be 'The One'. Now it was different. The new she was different. It took a trip to the other side of the world to realise the fact that there were diverse fish in the sea and with capability of captivation not managed within Chris for some time now. Simply, it was the finding of a new sprightly attraction that had him buzzing.

Then it was always tempting to link this to the wider and more fanatical situation he was in. Maybe Celina was right and that it was a weird destiny that brought the two together and since a relationship was almost out of the question (her being so far) the chanced meeting was staged by fate to tell Chris that there were other women out there. His friends were wrong; he and his former involvement were not 'soul mates', if anything, they were proved not by a 'messenger' called Cel along with his persistence to push the lover away. Is it even even really even possible to simply even repel a soul mate? Surely not... lay off the caffeine.

Light Overstanding

Entertainment was not abundant and Chris could only walk over to the window and look out to a dismally empty courtyard. No, wait... more soldiers. In pairs to do the Waltz across to their destination. This was torture; he really wanted to sleep but restlessness put paid to a solid plan. For the fact he was to meet the others in half an hour at the breakfast bar did not help.

His mouth felt a taste of aeroplane coffee and stunted dryness cure of which was consumption of a relevant antidote. No doubt he was not going to have breakfast since some sort of a lecture from Tim would restrict this. A-ha! Decision; to ease both situations (hunger and boredom) heading down to eat a little before he did not have the chance.

With all the gourmet delicacies on offer; the different rotis (chapatti, dhorsi for example), pickles (lime, fish etc.), chutneys, not to mention the arrays of fruits and even salads, Chris went for the Rice Krispies. He grabbed a bowl and poured it in from an unopened box rather than the open one next to it. Two ants tried venture with quite possibly the same idea as Chris. The young Uranson still checked the sealed box on double, just in case.

A man spoke in Sinhalese to another. Both were porters, there to serve and help the guests that were not in a plenty. They were fairly older than Chris imagined hotel workers would be, being in their late thirties. To the cereal bowl holder's surprise the second replied in English.

"Hey! I am not one of your Sinhala friends." He joked while arranging a set of ceramic dishes.

"Sorry, boy. I forgot you were a Tamil Tiger." He spoke trying not to laugh but let out a smile in the action's place.

"I am a Tamil. You don't have to be Tiger, you know. You can be Tamil in Colombo. Just because I am the bloody only Tamil in this bloody hotel." In worker terms, that was true.

"No. There are lots of beautiful women next door who are Tamil also. Maybe you can get a massage for me from them; I will pay you, my pimp." This time the man laughed. He was referring to a brothel some way down the road (rather than next door) that doubled as a massage parlour though, massages were not the main attraction.

"Evil rascal. You have a wife and kids, stop talking dirty." The Tamil porter himself had a wife and child and overlooked his own ability to be 'dirty' that the Sinhala porter knew of through hearsay.

"You see, the Gods are angry with you, that is why there is a hole in the street outside... because only of you."

Chris had the milk jug in his hand and could have poured and been on his way but something told him he would rather procrastinate and listen to the conversation.

"Don't tell me you believe in the bloody theories of the Hindus. Come on, man. You have sense. No bloody Hindu Gods are sending lightening here." The Sinhalese porter told the Tamil one, actually stopping what he was doing in the process.

"Oh so what? You believe Buddha did this? That fat bastard is too lazy to care about man. No, man, there is Gods working hard to scold you Sinhalese people. First the Tsunami and now this bloody lightening. Yes, yes, the Tsunami hit the Tamils first but that was being an accident. Murahan tried to punish you by sending the sea, but now it is direct to Colombo – lightening!"

"Yes but the Tamils are been killed in that car. How can you say?"

"You fool! Have you not looking at the news, muchaan? Two bloody army convoys blown up complete. Twenty soldiers dead. I know that Murahan is looking out for his Tamil sons but you bloody reporters first suspect is suicide bombing. Not having eyes, man, they can't see the light from the bloody sky?"

"Twenty Sinhala soldiers, ah?"

"Yo, I said it, man..."

Afraid of being caught for his eavesdropping, Chris took his bowl of cereal to a table to eat. From what he gathered from the tête-à-tête, the rubble and debris that he had earlier witnessed was caused by lightening. This was quite phenomenal to believe owing to the devastation it had caused to such a localised area. It cannot have been a storm, there was no indication of rain and the destruction was contained to the road and surrounds at a size that must have been no more than the magnitude of Leicester Square. Possibly even smaller; the dimension of the park in the middle of Leicester Square. It was near impossible since one bolt of lightening could not have incurred such damage yet more would have achieved a wider-spread coverage. Lightening should not be striking twice (or more) in the same place but it was hard not to think that was the case. Still, at least it was not a rock in Papua New Guinea.

Prophecy (5)

Pondering the situation and indulging in his uninteresting breakfast, Chris' eyes caught the movement of what looked like a man who was approaching him. Usually in such situations, a form's figure smoothes passed and carries on with their business. For a moment, the world revolves around the eyes that see it. More than the instant - the man sat down opposite Chris.

"Salaam alai-kum," He spoke looking directly into Chris' eyes. They looked hazy as if he was taking some sort of substance that would cause such an effect. The way he spoke did not suggest this; clarity and good form, not to mention a grasp of an appropriate tone. However, he continued to speak but in a different language to that of English; possibly Sinhalese or Tamil but Chris was not sure. Stopping him as he paused for a moment, Chris gestured to the individual that he did not understand the language. He thought that this would not really account for much; falling for stereotype since the light skinned South Asian man looked quite ragged; clean but rough, with uncombed hair, a patchy although as full as can be beard and a blue shirt collar that was not straightened correctly to correspond with his brown pullover. One variant of the un-socialised. Chris was surprised when he spoke again.

"Why are you here?" He said in English with a distinctive, but not South Asian accent. "To set people free? I believe so they have told me – but these are your people, not my body's."

Chris dropped his spoon into his Rice Krispies at a velocity heavy enough to smash a few, if each had not been so soggy from the milk. The man's eyes were so much more alive now and he looked ready to speak some more, if it was not for the interception of another man rushing onto the scene. He tapped a waist height shoulder three times, quite religiously, and looked over to Chris offering an apologetic expression. Once getting no response from the seated man, he continued the same method of attraction but in more aggressive manner. Almost suddenly, the man regained the drugged, hazy appearance that left him for a few moments of ambiguity and he pathetically signalled to his standing minder with a flop of his left hand and a greeting open mouthed, drool laden smile. The minder spoke to the seated stranger in sign language, telling him to stand up which he obliged. He hugged the minder (though it was more of a stumble and grab). Why did he communicate in sign language?

"Sorry, sir." The minder spoke, practically dragging the other man away. "He is excited." Chris knew that he had to ask.

"But he can speak, why did you sign... sign language?" Chris found his accent accommodating his opposite by reference.

"Sorry," The man started once more "he is deaf and dumb, sir."

Untried, Untested

In an egg shaped eclipse amidst the centre of a huge circle the crux of breakfast activity was reaching a peak (bird's eye view). Somewhat later than usual at the hotel, since the lightening strike of nine hours or so ago had people rushing to see the event either late in the night or early in the morning. A combination of food clerks and waiters/waitresses dished out the various foods and delicacies, as described before, which due too it's almost popularity, still contained Rice Krispies. From an entrance to the kitchen a waiter emerged with a tray and placed it at a table where five people sat. They were very much at the right of the egg.

"Boy am I tired." Carter articulated while yawning. "Thank you." He finished, accepting his breakfast from the waiter. Unlike Chris, Mark carter went for a traditionally 'Sri Lankan' roti with a mild sambol.

"Yes, tired is the word," Tim agreed, "I'm sorry but we still have a lot to do and it's difficult, I know, but we have come so far and I have the feeling... and the knowledge that something big is to go down today."

"Yeah, captain," Maurizio intervened, "whatever you want I'm game. Man, I can't believe we have got this far, but we have. Now it's time to get some people."

Wondering what Maurizio meant by 'get some people'; Chris started to collate ideas in reference to the potential mess that he could be moving toward. Yes it was an adventure but how long was it until his luck turned sour as opposed to the sweetness of ride thus far? It was all too near a carriage of Non Soul destiny/fate rubbish that Chris himself was getting too blasé with; there needed the physical reminder that he was human and so susceptible to all of the apposite weaknesses. Indeed, he was starting to believe in an alternative to all the 'stupid' 'coincidences' but he needed his feet firmly on the ground to be ready for the logical and clearer thinking that he was so used to before the last one hundred and eight hours.

"What's up... Preston?" Tim asked catching Chris shake his head and looking frustrated. In truth, Tim did not want to comment but he suspected Cyung had noticed the young man's head movement also and so felt he had to say something ahead of anything that his fellow Non Soul associate could make verbally available.

"Er... yes, I had an encounter... earlier." It was the quickest thing that shot to his mind. Tim enquired for more depth and Chris relinquished all he had experienced within the time period of the last twenty minutes. He felt at ease as he spoke remembering all the weird and wonderful situations he had already gone through over the last few days – this latest event was simply another anomaly in a peculiar weekend that he could chat about all day, as long as the people who were listening were as bizarre as Tim and his following. The former appreciated the confidence issued and was extremely excited to boot.

"Yes, this is a sign from those around us." Tim exclaimed reverting back to that 'different' side of his psyche. "We are closer... what exactly did he say?"

"I can't remember. Something about setting people free. He was vague... I don't know." Chris felt a little uneasy having mentioned that. The term 'messiah', as Tim spoke it in Seattle, flashed back to him in cringe fashion.

"Yes! I knew it. We are here to do something amazing and hopefully... no definitely, today." Tim's ecstatically released. "But we need to make sure. Where did they go?"

"I... I have no idea. As soon as they went I... and then you came down... and we ordered. They should be around somewhere?" He secretly ignorantly suspected that they could have disappeared off the face of the island; it was at least fifteen minutes since they left.

"What we need to do is follow them... sorry... more accurate, we need to find them and find out the truth." Tim quickly picked up half a slice of toast and looked to exit. The others looked less enthused.

"Hold on," Mark started, still happily ripping off a part of his roti, "they could be far by now... if they went by car? What about our meeting to the club owner, Raj?" Mark referred to a name popped about in a discussion in Seattle and again in Dubai. This was the man who owned the Blue Elephant nightclub/restaurant (on occasions, he also DJ'ed there). Though Mark referred to a 'meeting', it was more like a surprise ambush.

"Yes... yes, you are correct. Well I'm not sure what to do, now." Tim lowered his position back to a seated one, slowly, thinking about the answer to his problem. Maurizio was interested in offering a solution.

"Why don't we split up?" He ventured, slightly nervous; this was new ground. "You and Pres. find these guys and the three of us will talk to Rajah... or whatever his name is."

Now there it was. The comment that had laid dormant thus far in the whole history of Non Soul saga. Of course, Tim's immediate response was 'No, we should all go together' and (again, of course) Maurizio countered by explaining his position in the group. He had been Tim's right hand man for eight years now and within that period had had no 'leadership opportunities' even though he was a very loyal and indeed a passionate combatant for the cause. Anything he had done for Tim he had done well; on example alone, Maurizio could be trusted.

However, this was more than just Maurizio. Tim had spent his whole life chasing the Non Soul 'dream'; his father had done the same on discovering John Beckett's diary. Tim's father lived his life on the cusp of adventure and discovery - but only the cusp, since he never found a substantial lead that brought him closest to his vice. The elder travelled and tried to do so at every opportunity, dragging his family around with him. He searched the ends of the globe for a visual confirmation of what he had read about from the journal he first come across after the birth of Tim's only and younger sister. It drove his mother wild with rage to be not only caught up in a diabolically crazy plot to discover entities that feed off human emotions but also to play out a firm second place to the man's attention.

Whereas Tim's father was concerned in the confirmation of the entities, Tim's life was a dedication to the eradication of these beings. He believed that this was to be achieved by seeking those that tried to harbour the entity increase and in the affect stopping the positive nature of humanity. As far as Tim was concerned, human beings would be upbeat and happy, naturally, if it was not for the evil few that drained them of being so (and all because of their mistaken worship for an existence that was not a God nor higher life form, simply a by product of the human emotion system).

This drive was fuelled by not only his father's efforts but also by that chance encounter with a 'spirit' or 'sense' in Papua New Guinea. It spanned forty years of his life, which were in search of a way and destiny in which to reach a momentous point, or at least, a momentous turning point. Every part of Tim's logic and sense told him that this trip to 'Sri Lanka' was going to be the instant Non Soul becomes a controllable and ultimately declining reality. He could not ill afford to let another take control of something so important and though it was Maurizio, a man who had stuck by him through all the latest years, could he really lay a responsibility on his shoulders the size of a certain Mr Prasinder?

After reading the file, labelled 'Rentini' and explaining it to the others during the trip over, Tim realised the need to press the main character associated with the work for information; a man known as Raj Prasinder. The file was large, but most of it internet printed Blue Elephant location documents that were neither important nor relevant. 'Come visit', 'a great place to have fun', 'Unwind; within walking distance from your hotel room' etc. It seemed as if the author was interested in quantity fuelled informing so he (or she?) printed out and stuffed a collection for bulk excess reading. The remainder was an in depth character sketch of Raj.

Raj was an activist. For whom, it was not known from what was written, the most obvious connection was with the Freedom Tigers for Eelam since he seemed an anti-government fighter and there is no more anti-government than an organisation like the FTE. However, from his dotted past, he was very much the freelance rogue having organised such rallies as the 'Defenders Of The Rights Of Sison' in New Delhi in 2002 (this after gate-crashing a meeting held by the Forum Against Imperialist Globalisation (FAIG) several days earlier in Jalandhur); and a few years later, in Jammu and Kashmir the 'Rights Of Burial For The Amir Of The Mujahideen' demonstration, since the body of the leader for this 'political' party was never found, rumoured to have been recovered and incinerated by the Indian government in a very anti-Islamic fashion.

Most of the man's activities were very much in this manner and were protests, demonstrations or rallies (as was written in the file). This aside, he had spent some time outside of the limelight by taking over management of the aforesaid business enterprise (the Blue Elephant) while, on the sly, talking to rebellion leaders in their fight against oppressive governments. It would make sense that 'Sri Lanka' was next on his agenda; the question now was of the intensity and severity of his actions. Was it to be just another rally or something with plenty more clout? Tim was sure that it was the latter and he knew that it was going to happen on this day now since the date was etched on the final page of Raj's part in the file, mysteriously ripped across the centre after which the revelation of his deed could have been mentioned. Still, all that was required was to ask and Tim wondered whether Maurizio could solicit the right questions without his leader's prompt. They critically needed a pure clarity of instruction in order to fulfil the correct task. Maurizio needed to be at his best sharpness in order to benefit an accurate course of mediation that was in tune with the providence for the battle against Non Soul.

In the end, it was not the question of whether he should; it was what Tim had to do. The spoken words of a man, suspected of not being able to do so, to Chris (a non-believer), was clearly a sign, and signs, Tim knew, were to be followed rather than to let go of. Confirmation led to evidence and the ever increase in a pool of knowledge vital to the survival of a planet's self esteem. On top; the fact that this could be a lead directly responsive to the mission at hand. The man had to be chased up and it was either Maurizio or he, since they were affectively the senior members of this outfit. Raj would no doubt need a convincingly large male (White and American being an addition) to 'persuade' him to part with a gen (or more) about what he planned to do with his time for the rest of the day. It seemed the age for Maurizio to gage his own duty was on this day.

"Of course I can rely on you, Maurizio," Tim assured not only Maurizio and the others but also himself "Preston and I will go chasing this symbol or sign. Maurizio, I need you to find out what you can."

"Consider it done." He replied with the look of a man who was determined not to let another down. In a bonding gesture to make sure that fellow male Tim knew this, he offered his hand for a shake which was accepted. Tim rose up and signalled to Chris that he wanted him to follow; breakfast was clearly not a priority for Tim as it may have been for others. Barring three crispy and two soggy puffs of rice, the young Uranson had already finished his.

Nightclub by Day

Guns Don't Kill People, Remote Control Cars Do

Mark was nervous. He had not taken orders from anybody other than Tim and was thoroughly used to that and those. Maurizio was a different type of order enforcer; more brash and direct. He could accept this for the time being but not permanently. He wondered in the instant as to what would happen if Tim relinquished leadership, for whatever reason. Those types of thoughts often pull resent, so the navy blue shirted, black slack sporting Nigerian decided not to think about this too much. With the current climate change - at least he got to finish his breakfast (and some of Tim's as well).

Cyung was further assured than his 'colleague' and friend, Mark. He was not bothered about who was in charge and would probably do the job himself, though not naturally; he was not one to willingly give commands. He was more of a team player due to his likeable 'easy' persona combined with a returned enthusiastic liking of just about anybody. Cyung held a deep fascination with the diversity of people and cultures and this interest helped him to get on with others through a genuine want to know more about them.

Maurizio finished his last itlee sliding it into sambol and taking the remaining piece of fish pickle on the edge of his plate. It was a variable taste sensation which was quite new to the man and excitingly delicious. Once done, he sat back looking around the area, satisfied with his morning meal although attended with a tinge of worry. There was definitely no animosity between Tim and he but Maurizio still had this point to prove; for years he was the second man and this was fine up until now. This was completely acceptable; Tim had opened Maurizio's eyes to the threat of Non Soul and it was firmly his group since he organised (both now and initially) and financed it. It was not a takeover that Maurizio was wanting, it was a chance to impress and ferment his desire to help the cause. Here, in 'Sri Lanka', was the break through that the group had been looking for and it was about time that some responsibility fell on his large, muscular shoulders. Tim showed him the respect he needed and he could not and would not disappoint him.

***

The time approached 11.15am and the three were near the back entrance of the adjoining building to the hotel basking in the sun. A porter passing through the breakfast bar mentioned on query that the Blue Elephant opened at midday but the manager usually arrived an hour before hand. They had arrived at ten to eleven, forgetting to give out some leeway owing to the extraordinary lightening strike event of several hours past. They were definitely early since a padlock and chain were still in tact and it was always this entrance that Prasinder used, according to the porter. Fifty rupees well spent? Yes...

A light brown Datsun Sunny pulled up into the parking lot and a man exited walking towards the door after he did so. In attire, he wore black suit trousers (real wool woven) and took a black blazer jacket (well cut, but off the rack) off hooked on index finger to reveal a pink polo t-shirt (a Ralph Lauren, though by another 'designer'). He also modelled a pair of chunky black rimmed sunglasses with his hair thick, slightly curly, slicked back using plenty of gel/grease/other. He walked quite hurriedly withdrawing a key from his pocket at the same time. Being a fair distance behind Raj, Maurizio (and then followed by the others) stepped quickly towards him.

"It's him." Maurizio said quietly looking behind him using only neck muscles. There was a photo in the file shown on the flight by Tim; it was from a Calcutta police station mug shot where Raj looked peeved (for obvious reasons) but as he held his number board with his left, he stuck up the middle finger on his right hand. The greasiness of his hair was uncanny to the stranger entering the Blue Elephant (though the style in the picture was somewhat longer) who was letting the door swing close automatically behind him. Maurizio stuck out a hand, preventing this from happening and extended the hinge wide to greet a man he had read so much about.

"Rajah Prasinder?" or more like 'Rar-jer Prer-sin-der' as Maurizio pronounced it. The named man turned and faced Maurizio having to look up at his six foot four inch high head. He noted both Mark and Cyung enter and close off the exit.

"No sorry, man, I am just the DJ. You have the wrong sexy guy." He turned to leave as if he was innocently mistaken on the street with little consequence. Maurizio placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back forcing him to re-turn.

"We know it's you. Do you have somewhere where we can talk... about things?"

"Well," Raj started, "There is a police station down the road and we can talk about kidnapping, yes?"

"Hey. This aint kidnapping... yet." Maurizio smiled slightly as he spoke "Listen, we could do this the easy way or the hard way, either way, I'll get the information I want."

"Ok, ok. Easy big fellow." Raj backtracked reading the seriousness in Maurizio's eyes. "But remember, I did not lie too much – I am the DJ."

The venue of converse presented itself as Raj's office. What a mess! With white paper the cause; all over the floor as well as the desk and the chair at it, for example. The only place where paper did not exist was where they all stood, by the door, just outside. Raj walked casually to his desk and presented a red two-seater sofa (again, covered in papers) as he did so. The only other interesting aspects of the room was a table with a set of vinyl mixing decks positioned next to a smaller coffee table and opposite that, a wall with shelves lined up from high up to near the bottom. There were books and manuals racked up well in the continuance to the untidy and unordered theme of the office in general.

"Please, take a seat and mind the paper, it took me quite a while to get it just like this." Raj continued his journey to the other end of the workplace as the others shuffled just slightly inside when Maurizio stopped.

"No thanks, we'll stand." Maurizio thought that this would be more 'business' like, along with getting to the point almost immediately. "What do you know about operation 'Rentini'?" He looked Raj directly in the eyes who cancelled the gaze by sitting down in his rather standard blue swivel chair. He put his hands on top of his desk and looked straight up at Maurizio near the door. A strand (rather a few) of greasy hair relocated and redirected to his forehead.

"Have not a clue what you are talking of; please close the door on your way out." Raj nonchalantly answered "You can have a Campino sweetie but I don't know where they are." Raj shuffled some papers on his desk and looked under a few pamphlets and leaflets. He knew he did not have any sweets but had the memory of his barber who offered the same treat after a cut, which Raj had had, just before he got to work.

"Listen," Maurizio started again, this time walking towards Raj across all the papers not regarding them important enough to avoid (though he probably could not if he tried). "I've seen your photo, I've read your name and I know your involved but in what way, I aint sure."

Raj paused on hearing this

"Well, maybe..." Raj paused once more. "Well maybe it was merely my ex-girlfriend framing me for my... shall we say adventurous ways. So the person you are looking for is her. Her name is Cindy Crawford and she lives in America and unless I am wrong that is where you are from, huh, big sexy boy?"

The cheekiness amused Maurizio but he knew he could not let him know this; the American tough guy manual did not allow for it. Maybe not one of Raj's shelved volumes. Still, the man was a cool customer and Maurizio could tell that he had been in this type of position before, probably with people tougher than he. The big sexy boy needed to up his game.

"I'm giving you one more chance, and in that, I mean you need to tell me what you know about Rentini or I'm gonna get physical." The words brought about a fierce, raged feeling within Maurizio's body. It was method acting, in a way, since he was not really interested in beating a cheerfully upbeat character like Raj but he knew that if it came down to it, he would. For the time being, due to Raj's response, this was not going to be the case.

"Do not come to my office and threaten me when it is I who is holding the gun." And indeed, Raj withdrew a hand from under the table (cleverly slipped under there while searching for his 'sweets') pulling out the firing weapon, pointing it at Maurizio's face.

Over the top words and actions thus far suggested that he was more of a fun through political grounds seeking rebel than a serious terrorist. Though his rap sheet confirmed the former, there were always the suspicions of past involvement in more major activity associated with anti-government groups. The file on him was extremely apprehensive to a nature of good-will-for-cause-serving-righteousness and saw him more as an anarchist that had not the big opportunity to bring down a representation of evil (i.e. an overbearing government). Opportunity seemed to be this 'Rentini' and here he was looking to protect whatever he was hiding behind a small, metal, handheld item.

"Now it is my turn," Raj continued waving the gun a little, "I have been patient up until now so come on... what you are doing here?"

Cyung looked at Mark with desperation. Trouble... and there was nothing that each could do about it except look over at Maurizio as both heard him speak.

"Sorry, guy, I aint not telling you nothing." He needed a deep breath to uphold his nobility since his honourable talk might force the unpredictable Raj to fire shots that might cause several (about three) fatal injuries.

"Why have you come here to threaten me...? Especially without a weapon. You guys are crazy... don't you know that my favourite show is on in five minutes? I come here early to watch it on the big TV and if you make me miss it... well I will be forced to shoot you all. Now, why are you f-fuckers here, man?"

A slight panic instilled Maurizio (and the other two) as Raj mentioned the 'shoot' word. It was hard to decipher whether he was serious or not with the mention of watching a television program. Being the worrying type, Mark was already decided to his fate and was frozen to the spot with fear. Cyung, like Maurizio, still thought that there was a way out, somehow.

"You know, for hired goonies you are all very silent." Raj decided to continue. "Tell me who hired you?" Raj's insistence for facts was not in a major threatening manner. Granted, he was holding a gun but his words and mannerisms were in suggestion that he wanted Maurizio to just say anything - he was looking for words to work with; it was not really important as to which. "Ok, then. You all will be locked in here while I watch my TV. Go." Raj waved the three over to a corner of the office. Yes, Cyung and Maurizio moved towards it but... well, there was the case of the sorry Mr Carter. Mark was so scared he could not even move a foot from where he stood. Reprieve, though, unnoticed this as Maurizio spoke (in step).

"You'll never get away with this." He started, realising that Raj might think he was talking about their incarceration. Maurizio was not. He was directing the sentence at the wider matter of whatever Raj intended to do with regard to Non Soul. To clarify he added "You're trying to take down a whole government here."

The words moved through brain matter faster than actually comprehended. Maurizio's position had been let slip – a) he thought he knew what Raj's intentions were and; b) he thought himself opposed to these intentions. Thought is easily manipulated.

"Stop." Raj called out. "What did you just say?"

Maurizio looked back at him quite puzzled. He waited for Raj to continue but he never, simply gesturing with a flicked head movement that he too was surprised. More greasy, curly hair lost pride of place.

"What? What d' you mean? You aint nothing but a lowly fucking terrorist." Maurizio decided to let him have it; he took a chance in thinking Raj was not going to fire. Vegas odds.

"I'm a terrorist? Who do you think I am?" Raj responded not in much anger but in a more quizzical fashion. He looked genuinely like he did not know what the words spoken translated into. Maurizio, himself was really not sure about Raj's stance now, neither. The compulsion to continue just bypassed any evaluation.

"W-Whatever your reasons you should consider that countries have processes and elections and things. You can't just try and fuck them up just because you like the ideas of minority terrorists. It makes you a terrorist too... you should leave it to the ballots and polls."

The room fell silent for a few seconds after Maurizio's naïve statement. An expression on Raj's face sounded as loud as the onomatopoeia: 'click'.

"So let me get this correct," Raj started to sum up while waving his gun in a conductor's method. "You have come here to hassle me about why I am a terrorist and which government I am going to take down?"

Trying not to show the fear that was creeping back and fourth, Maurizio sustained a slow nod of confirmation. He was both confused and afraid but still guarded enough to strike just in case an opportunity to do so arose.

Raj started to laugh and quite obsessively too. Out of context with the ideas of the others, but what can be done? He felt like laughing so he did. It's moments like these that one loses the awareness of others. Some more than some. A crucial thing in awareness loss is the loss of control. Associated lightly is feeling and the lack of it. Strength and touch. How about: like a finger on a trigger... (just for an example).

He continued waving the weapon in his hand quite sporadically and forgetting where his index digit was, he squeezed in a (or that) moment of dismissed thought. The discharged bullet flew into 'The Who's Who Of Popular Culture' (edited by Michael Arular) resting on the bookshelf knocking the books next to it to the ground but ironically, the initial pierced volume was left shelved (quite a hefty work, the title tells all).

Everybody had jumped including Raj. Unfortunately, Mark was standing directly in front of the door which he was very lightly leaning on. The force of his movement at the sound of the bang pushed the door back to the wall it was open in front of. A permanent floor screwed door stopper was in place to halt a battering against the partition but what this caused was for the door to return swing 'magnetically' into Mark's back. The poor man was off balance not to mention spent from nervous energy that had grasped him since first laying eyes upon the firearm. Mark dropped to the floor flailing his limbs in a jelly type quiver hitting the wood boards with more of a slap than a thud.

"Shit. Sorry." Raj stated moving towards Mark from around his desk. He looked very concerned and apologetic in an embarrassed way and even bent down to see if he was harmed. Maurizio saw prospect and flew towards Raj, gauging a rugby tackle rather than an American football block, sending them both into the lower set of shelves (that had not seen so much action since erected two years ago).

Raj tried to get a word in but felt an elbow in his mouth's general direction instead. Maurizio used his free hand to regain a balance but foolishly levered his pivot by using the very lowest shelf on the wall which collapsed under pressure. Losing advantage, the scuffle started to even itself out.

Both men were oblivious to audience but they had one. Cyung oversaw the event by not quite joining in (there was still a gun to be wary of) but by shuffling from side to side, arms out and ready, waiting for a moment to step in and save the day. He looked as if he was positioning an imaginary barrel on a spot intersecting a horizontal plain just in front of him.

Mark had a more unbearable view; while Maurizio was on top, Raj's right hand still held the gun and it pointed directly at him while he lay on the floor from the fall. Having lost a lot of feeling in his body from fright and shock Mark was only able to move his head and neck (and for some reason unknown to him, he also had a tingling sensation in the big toe on his left foot), which he did to avoid the hardware's steel stare. However, it would always find a way to lock his head in target due to Maurizio's attempts to disarm Raj and Raj's attempt not to let him.

Knowing full well that the gun was not a fake, Marks life flashed before his eyes but every moment, emotion and event was almost a blur, except one. He remembered trying to bring his friend, Kofi, back to his family house in Lagos and having just come into some money through her husband's oil investment, his mother forced the boy outside since he was not considered in her economic class anymore. Sneaking out with him, Mark took the new toy his father had bought him; a remote control truck, down to a football field (at least, a dusty area with six foot metal posts sticking out of the ground) near his smaller old home. His stint at centre of attention lasted just ten minutes once another boy brought his plastic Smith & Wesson replica to proceedings. Mark had hated guns ever since.

After a scampered swivel, Cyung felt it was his moment to intercept. As he went for it, Raj brought a knee to Maurizio's groin and athletically flipped the big man up and across his left hand side. The Italian American crashed into the Chinese gentleman and so enabling the Indian man to finally regain his previous superiority by pointing his gun away from the Nigerian fellow and back at Maurizio.

"Hold on, hold on." Raj managed, very flustered and holding up his left hand to call a halt, not that the gun was doing a bad job. "You guys have come here to stop me from trying to... be against the government because... I am? No. whatever you know about me it's wrong, I want these fucking Tigers stopped." He paused and looked for a response but did not appear to get one. "Are we all sexy?" That word again, on this occasion, what he meant was 'cool'.

Lions and Tigers

A discussion started up with regard to the gun. Correctly, Raj decided to put it away albeit into his pocket. Having felt the large elbow earlier, it was better to be safe than sorry; he knew he needed to keep hold of the piece. The atmosphere was not free of paranoia and everybody was wary anyway; expecting a move from each other. A deep breath later and Raj was determined to explain the situation and collect some amicability without the use of hostility.

"Look I know you think bad of me but you all need is to hear me out. Whoever told you about me is lying. I am all for peace and unity... I am not a terrorist. In fact that is what I am here to stop today. A terrorist act, yes? The Tigers are going to bomb the military base near Hikka... -duwa and the other one outside Kandy in the Front District. This will cause major casualties not to mention the vulnerability of the island itself. We cannot let this happen and I am organising a protest to take to the manager of Painter House."

Oh yes. Moist information for the thirsty de-hydrated. This was where Maurizio should be paying great attention to. Half his self still continued to be excitable about the bulge in the pleat of Raj's trousers. This distraction was crucially detrimental to Maurizio's concentration for the Non Soul cause. Tim. Now what would Tim think of him? How disappointed he would be with his lack of facts. The five/four of them were in 'Sri Lanka' for a reason and that was to get closer to the abolition of the Non Soul entities. Maurizio took the second deep breath of the last few moments and tried his best to listen.

"Sorry you are not knowing about Painter House?" Raj enquired catching Maurizio unaware.

"Er... no, I'm not?" Maurizio replied not knowing whether this was the right answer.

"No you wouldn't know," Raj continued, "it is the main electrical grid in all of 'Sri Lanka'. It is here where you can switch off power to virtually all of the island. Give or take. This is in government hands right now but the Tigers will get to it sometime tonight and shut it down. Bloody no peace between Tamils and Sinhalese."

The ears of Maurizio had worked intently but were still getting confused with some of the terms. Previous knowledge of this isle consisted of 'a conflict'. An extra dose of aeroplane talk and simplistically, he knew that Tamils and Sinhalese people 'were fighting with each other'. Who was a 'Tiger'? It went well with 'Tamil' but this might not be the case. This type of knowledge Tim would have been able to bridge had he been here. Perhaps splitting up was not the best idea. No, no. It was what had happened and Maurizio had to at least try and justify the faith Tim had shown in him.

"But there must be some sort of back up system, you can't be serious?" Maurizio intercepted thinking the 'what's a 'Tiger'' would have made him look like the simpleton of knowledge that he was on this topic. Raj had probably suspected this anyway.

"You are from America, no? What about the New York blackout?" Raj started defensively "People said that there was no way that could happen but the bloody grids and what have you were all fucked up. Your people were stranded for hours man... no forget that, it was more than a day. The 'Sri Lankan' system is even better; there is a backup but it does not kick in until one hour after the blackout which is the time that is taken to power up the back up generation. You see it has always been like this and they were going to fix it but because of the Tsunami they did not do it. They really should now that the violence is escalating once again but still, all the finance went to the rescue, yaare, and the politicians have forgotten about this old system that they have. Now the Tigers are going to take advantage, stupid Sinhalese people." Raj was referring to the governments' inability to change an important and potentially high damaging aspect of the island's security. Incorrectly, Maurizio linked 'stupid Sinhalese' with the earlier word 'Tiger'. Raj continued "but they will not shutdown 'Sri Lanka's' whole power from Eliyuwa, anyway, they just want the security aspects of the military bases; this so they can get in blow them both up. You see, if the electrical power is down for one hour, they can get in and only worrying about landmines and guards which the Tigers are good enough to cope with for the sake of planting bombs. Even then the army soldiers along the state borders will be stranded like fish out of sea. There are plenty of army fighting or securing right while we are talking. Lots more than if peace talks had not stalled. Fuck, these diplomats can talk all bloody day in countries far, far away but what do they know about being here? The last several months have been a vulnerable time... yes?"

"Ok... but then the military... the military will be ok with this? It's the fucking army versus a bunch of terrorists?" Maurizio interrupted not realising how much he did not know.

"Trust me, it is enough." Raj assured him. "The Tigers are fighters with passion and besides, big man, we are not talking about your wonderful army here." He started to laugh in that out of context violent way. "What's the matter? The oil all finished in your country, hey?"

The laughter continued which allowed Maurizio to regard his almost instant affiliation with Raj (give or take a gunshot). Matter was flying over his head fast though he kept concentrating. The issue of Non Soul had not come up and it was clear from both his background and what he spoke of now, Mr Prasinder was a fighter for his own causes and in this case it was for the Tamil government and their fight against the Sinhalese Tiger terrorists. Or something like that.

"So then how can we help?" Maurizio asked thinking with good feeling that he was to be helped rather than hindered for the sake of Non Soul.

"Well I need people for the protest... and forgive me, but if we have White people like you then the manager at Painter House will definitely look up and take note." Raj said quite ignoring the Oriental Asian and the Black African man standing behind him. "Besides I really need more people seeing what happened to the others that were coming."

It was possibly to easy to be true; he had turned up, had a minor scuffle and come away friends with the man who had been important enough to be documented in a file half way across the world.

"Ok then when shall we meet you and where...? We'll be there." Maurizio decided that this affirmative action was necessary. If he learnt anything today, it was to follow a lead or sign.

"Yes, four o'clock out in front where the taxis pick you up and don't worry I will have a car ready, sexy." Raj looked enthusiastic and happy with Maurizio's decision and offered his hand in a shake. While they did so the rather tertiary Cyung began to speak.

"So what happened to your other people?" He asked picking up on Raj's earlier comment.

"Oh fellow, you would not believe me... but they were in a car last night just around the corner from here and they were fucking... hit by lightening. A bastard, huh?"

Separate Tests

Memory

The same spot in the breakfast bar (now lunch area) was free and Maurizio sat down glad to see he was here before Tim. They arranged to meet in twenty minutes time; (after Tim came running back, following leaving to search for 'the sign' and informing Maurizio of when to reconvene). The early twenty minutes was quite necessary for Maurizio to gather some thoughts about what exactly is going to happen.

Basically; the gang were to congregate with Raj (and whoever he's with) and they were all to go merrily into Raj's car and then onto where the electricity grid for 'Sri Lanka', Pointer... no, Painter House, to protest against the would be hijack by Sinhalese separatists hoping to blow up military bases in a bid to takeover from the Tamil government. Easy.

The whole event was a bit of a blur but more so the fighting and the gun rather than the final kiss and make up. Maurizio really tried to concentrate (at the end), listened passionately to Raj's words and believed making as much sense of them as possible. As the previous paragraph stated, he had got one major fact wrong; a mix up between the Tamils and Sinhala people of the island, other than that, he was on the right course, despite the panic. The motivation of proving himself to Tim drew this extra effort to invoke the nerves – still, what he had come back with was a positive situation; not only had he information about Raj but also another meeting with him and another venture too. His first independent mission from Tim had been much the success and not the failing that it was so nearly.

So why heightened heart rate and churned stomach? A combination of the feeling that Tim might still be let down by what he had achieved and the nervousness that he was feeling generally from the whole shenanigans. Maurizio was not at his most confident. There was hope that Tim could fill in a few gaps that maybe the elder knew about that he himself so obviously did not; perhaps information about Painter house or general electricity grids and also the civil war of 'Sri Lanka'. Ultimately, it was oh so important for Maurizio to know that he had done his best for the Non Soul cause which he logical thought but emotionally was still unsure.

He stretched his arms out; tiredness alleviation policy to that creeping in. Tim and Chris walked into the bar area. Sighed breath – out is better to the demons within. The duo approached with greetings and sat down opposite, sliding into the booth, Chris first. Maurizio made sure he got a question in initially.

"So how did it go? Did you catch up with him?" His mind rifled for a few more options just in case the answer was short.

"Well," Tim started in reply not really expecting Chris to pick up the baton. "It was a wild, wild goose chase but perhaps one that could be of benefit." The old man received a look from his adjacent right. The young Uranson was not sure that what was said was relevant; as a periphery figure to the Non Soul society he did not argue "We've searched all over this part of Colombo and we haven't found anybody... sorry, pair of people that fit the description. There was, however... and after we had roamed the streets... there was, however, the man at the hotel reception who confirmed that the man who can speak often made trips to this Hilton hotel to visit the hypnotist who works here. The thing is, he did this with many people from the hearing and speech impaired institute when he had heard it could do them wonders."

"Really, ok... did you see them?" Maurizio inquired for expansion

"No... the man at reception also told us there was a car accident involving a man... a deaf man and it was almost certainly our man. He was taken to the local hospital and we did not bother go since we had confirmed that the man could not speak..." Tim turned to Chris, "Sorry, Chris..."

The flippant ways of dismissal caught. Tim to apologise for a misinterpretation that could have occurred; since he was trying to say that he did not doubt Chris' account of what had happened. Instead, the suggestion that the man might have been able to speak and was simply lying. No time for semantics - he had to stop, as he realised he had entitled the fraud by his real name. Chris, himself, was not sure what to make of things and both he and Tim sat silently switching their gaze to Maurizio, almost simultaneously.

"Oh... your first name is Chris? Ok. Chris Preston. You'd think I'd ask, huh? Sorry, man... anyway what happened, Tim?" Maurizio shunned the discrepancy failing to read the facial expressions of a foolhardy guilt.

"Er... yes... well we know that the man could not speak but did and so that is a sign and since this occurred here it seems as if we are converging to the... well, a truth. Perhaps it's not quite in eradication but whatever we are here for it is a major Non Soul orientated coup and we need to stop it somehow. How did you get on, Mo?"

Position

"Yeah, well we made progress also," Maurizio started off with an intent to show that he had confidence in his performance. "It is tonight... at least this evening anyway that we have to stop the Sinhalese from taking over the country."

For the obvious good reason both Tim and Chris thought this bizarre. Maurizio, this time, was sharp to note the ambiguity in the eyes of his counterparts. Quickly, the Italian American continued to avoid awkward questions.

"What we gotta do is go with Raj... He's actually a good guy and with us. This 'Rentini' thing is more political than anything to do with Non Soul. Basically, there's a place called Pointer House... it's gonna be... it's a power station control centre and the Sing..." Maurizio was wary of his last folly, "the separatists are gonna down the server for it and stop the power going to some military areas where they're gonna be bombed – 'cause they have no... radar systems and alarms 'cause their power's out. The separatist ops will go in and take over then... take over the island after that. Raj will be going down to Painter House to get a protest going and hopefully get them to sort out the problem before it ever happens at all."

"Hold on, it's just a protest?" Tim asked, possibly disappointed.

"Well, yeah, that's what he said." Maurizio answered, happy in that it was an easy question to retort.

"Hmm..." Tim pondered for the moment. "It makes sense that we should be fighting for the cause of Tamil freedom since Non Soul thrives in areas of oppression but I was so sure from the file that we had to back Raj... are you sure he wants to protest against the uprising?" Tim had deciphered Maurizio and corrected for the earlier false Sinhalese reference. He also received a nod from Maurizio as reaction to his somewhat rhetorical query.

Looking to his left with an expression of bewilderment, Chris was quite puzzled as to why Tim was 'sure' about an affiliation with Raj and not an opposition. Tamil blood was moving in his body and wanted nothing more than to help not hinder - most happily with the help of his new friends. Chris stirred but kept quiet.

"Well," Tim fleeted looks at Chris and Maurizio, "The file was found at a Non Soul heathen and so it makes sense that they keep a tag on their enemies. Raj is known for his anti-regime fights for causes and it makes no sense that he would support a government like the one for this country." Tim almost answered the question that Chris had not actually asked out loud. It was also at least some what comforting to the young man that Tim's knowledge of 'Sri Lanka' and its oppressive nature seemed to favour his own side of events. "In fact, I would go so far as to know that we need to help Raj out... I've been right on this kind of thing before and I know that we need to provide some support and following for Raj and whatever he plans to do, be it helping the government or the rebellion."

Loyalty

Chris zoned out of the conversation that did not really need his input anyway. It was mainly about the occurrence at the Blue Elephant and how Mark and Cyung were up in a room recovering; Mark more so than Cyung, but the latter was there to help the other out in crisis. Chris was too busy thinking about what Tim had told the two others at the table; they were there to support Raj and go against the Tamil people. Could he really go along with this? If freedom was on the brink of collection (with the downing of the grid) then Chris' stance as at least part Tamil should be to make it his mission to aide the reception.

Idle by no more. The being of luck in earnest; Non Soul or not Non Soul, there was an ordered sequence happening. Speak and mute shall do so. There was a higher level that had come to Chris' attention. It did concern his involvement with the whole Non Soul caper but there was/is more. His scepticism (in the hard wire of his nature) was fading fast, no... had faded. A realisation that events had led him to the Non Soul gang and so most probably it was beyond them also. Thinking about it: he had been drawn to them but maybe not quite to be with them. His feelings were always quite separate from those of the group and mainly because he did not believe much of what they said. However, the signs that kept creeping up through the guises of random people told him now that perhaps his nature was not to be associated or to follow Non Soul (if it was actually real or not) but to find out about what he really needed to do. Detaching the religious affix, the all ambiguous individuals who he had encountered had but one sticking theme; they were telling Chris what he needed to do. Not he and others. To the bed with the others! Though most of the 'conversations' occurred whilst in the company of the Non Soul elite, the first, a Jehovah's Witness, started the ball rolling independent of his alliance with Tim et al. Think back to all the events, none of each happened while in another's company; just Chris and the 'sooth-sayer'. Here lay a path of rectitude that was directed at his person and for what? Well the last, an Islamic man who could not speak or hear, told him (through words he could not understand) that he, Chris Uranson, was to save his people. It made perfect sense to accept this knowledge rather than Tim's assumption that the team should go with Raj's efforts. A sign (being stringent, since there were more than one) should be followed; if the theme was not already developed it is developing.

The question now was whether he should tell Tim or simply keep proverbially mum (to keep un-proverbially mum) until he had the opportunity to make a move. If the group were going to go with Raj, Chris was definitely going to go against them, even if Maurizio was the man between he and a helping hand to an unacknowledged nation, Chris would fight the New York resident until he had gotten his own way or had no energy in lifeless limbs. Either direction, the young passionate man knew what he had to do. Every empty feeling he had felt during his lifetime had vanished in the light of the current cause. to 'set his people free'

Let's Go Power Crazy

Away From Anarchy

Outside the Hilton, Raj stood focused on two cars that were parked illegally (as illegal as possible in 'Sri Lanka'). Tim, Maurizio and Chris stepped out into the early evening air with the biggest of the trio recognising the man who had touched his groin just a few hours earlier. The Bombay born man was standing to his left and so Mo gestured to Tim in that vague direction. Tim walked right past him also assuming that he was being followed.

"Hey, White man!" Raj shouted out having caught Maurizio's head movement. Tim stopped and turned. "I believe you are looking for me." As he approached Raj recognition from the famous photograph flittered.

"Here are the cars... we are ready?" Raj once more. It was not a statement in regard to himself but an inquiry into Tim and his companions.

"Well... er... hello. I am Tim..." Tim was cut off.

"-Sorry... er... we have a bit of a time schedule so I am hoping we can keep to it... sexy?" Raj directed his 'question' to Maurizio and Maurizio, who was a little embarrassed by the mistake of being taken as the leader of the three, looked at the real person in charge to throw the 'question' over to him. Acknowledgment was received that they were ready, which also showed Raj that he should be addressing the older gentleman from now on.

"You know, we should be taking one car and not two... a little bit hot but at least easy. Say, where is the China man and the Black fellow?" Raj was in a mood for talking and dominating a conversation.

"Well, this is Press... er... Chris Preston and this is Tim, the boss." Maurizio thought he'd get in with some introductions and re-affirm Tim's name and status "Cyung and Mark couldn't make it." Mark was still in shock and Cyung, despite his enthusiasm and want to be involved, decided he had to stay with him.

After offering the standard hellos followed by handshakes, Raj skipped the concrete over to a valet (the only one working) and handed him the keys to his own car. The man took these with reluctance, having to drive such a non-prestigious car; he was very used to the fully kitted Mercedes', BMW's and Lexus' that he would be a hero in, for but a minute or two. Raj came back to usher Tim, Chris and Maurizio into the back of the remaining Datsun Sunny, this one being a darker brown in colour than the first. Himself; he climbed into the passenger seat.

"This is ah..." Raj paused. "Ah this is Chintakh." He was referring to the driver; a fairly large man who was sweating profusely; perspiration beads covered the dark skin of his face and also the bald spot on top of his messy black haired head. Aimed at Chintakh, Raj said something in a language unfamiliar to those at the back. Chris suspected familiarity but was unsure; and this would only have made sense if the driver was Tamil; who is highly unlikely to be so, since they were on their way to protest against this race of people. Sinhalese it must be.

Tim needed to know more about the activities of the five now in the car and straight from Raj's mouth. He did indeed explain the situation and in a similar way to which Maurizio had did so – correcting the Non Soul representative's errors while doing so. Raj also explained how the teachings of Buddha had made him seek a different path to the one he was on previous; the rebellion and anarchic destruction swapped for the right of order and authority. He made references to 'separatist' and 'terrorist' 'scum' in a bid of conviction and morality to the governments' methods of control. Though Tim volleyed questions to doubt the integrity of the managing politicians for the country, a pig headed nature developed within Raj. It was not aggressive but it did seem as if he had realised an underestimation for at least Tim, thus the ideals of he and as a consequence the people he was with. The Indian gentleman still stuck to his defence with a carefree smile, simply accepting what Tim had to say and instead of offering viable arguments to return his quarrel, he was mainly engaging in quick acknowledgments and then reciprocally burst preaching: what was right and what was wrong.

Though why was never explained. It was plausible that Raj was not entirely interested in his cause, to a degree, it was more likely that he had to do what he had to do and was convincing himself that it was right, but not convincingly. A man with a passion to stop a Tamil strike would less likely hold his aide to men who doubt the mission; which Tim was openly doing, maybe not major capacity, but enough to suggest he was not one hundred percent on Raj's side. Buddhist revolution convoluted.

Of course, along with the old man's reduced proportion, there was another in the car a taken to the outlook wholly against the 'former rebel'.

The position in the car that Chris had taken enabled him to view Raj as he looked back to talk to Tim. Though he did not stare directly at Chris, since he was speaking to Tim, Chris looked at him and unswervingly into the man's eye (or eyes depending on how far the other strained his neck during the converse). The young man started to grow a minor hatred to the individual slating and dismissing Chris' ethnicity within his disregard for the Tamil population. To Chris, the negativity of Raj's words had oversized the general questionability of Raj's character; there was no distraction - this man was the anti-Tamil. Never in his short twenty-three years of life had he personally come up against a man who had insulted him on a level that actually cut through. He was used to being Black but not Black enough, Asian but too Black, or Black but a little Asian. These were all different since now it was actually his identity that this man was rubbishing; if he was Black but not Black enough it was because it was true, he was not Black. Any reference to an Asian mix to his Blackness was also true because he was part Asian, part Afro Caribbean. His Tamilness was never questioned up until now and here he was sitting with a man who was not respecting it. Any teasing he had suffered as a child was nothing compared to how this man would affront. Previously, it was also very much easier to escape such verbal bullying, unlike the immediate.

Not that the opportunity to tell this man where he was going wrong did show itself, Tim kept his questions consistent and Raj's answers were blunt but aplenty. There was always the issue of Chris' sense; he knew there was a mission; a bigger picture; en grand plan. Whatever the motivation of Tim and Maurizio and similar, whatever so for Raj and this Chintakh, Chris had the idea to help the Tamil cause in any way that he could do so. If this meant stopping his new friends (or enemies) then it is decidedly so.

Chintakh spoke to Raj in his language to which Raj hit him on the arm and showed him a look of disapproval. Once more, Chris heard what he thought could have been Tamil, though, again he reasoned Sinhalese; this got him thinking. With similarities in linguistics, the sharing of a homeland and many other parallels (skin tone, hair type the list will continue), how could two such close sets of people be at war with each other? The answer came to him as quickly as the question; greedy, destructive and lecherous politicians and rulers of both recent times and yester year. (Naïve? Simple? Never to underestimate the cloud of propagation.)

"We seemed to have to stop because my friend, he forgot." Raj explained using his particular self generated grammar and also failed to mention exactly what they were stopping for.

"Oh come on..." Chintakh replied, he said more but his accent was so thick it was not understandable.

Conceptual Circles

About five minutes down the road the car pulled into a garage area where people were wearing overalls and fixing cars by the power of generated light. Those; were all but one outside (floodlit) and the man inside was within a shelter made of corrugated metal with the car he was working on curiously flipped upside down. Not a petrol pumps in sight.

Tim informed the car he was heading to the toilet (Raj informed Chintakh that this was the 'WC'). The prospect for at least one final argument had approached.

"Hey Tim," Chris waylaid Tim behind the shelter – against the rusted iron 'wall' was the toilet. "What's our position... are we going with what Raj says?"

"I think Maurizio was a little off with his information." Tim started while taking aim not to hit the rusted areas. "But the idea was right I think we are still on course."

"So we are still going along with Raj?"

"Yes."

"And you are very sure about this? You are sure that Raj is to be followed... maybe he's wrong? You said yourself that the Tamil freedom issue was maybe the reason why we are here?" Tim had finished and Chris felt more comfortable in getting closer so being able to lower the volume of his speech.

"No." Tim replied bluntly. "The file was dead against him. Raj is on our side, I know it. Saving the Tamils seems like the way to go about things but then maybe in some strange way it's not." There was no way that Chris could understand this in his now over coming emotional state. Thoughts and discrepancies flooded his mind and the expression on his face met the confusion perfectly, so Tim continued. "Sometimes it's like this. You think one thing but in reality the difference between two opposites are so close that the reality is doing something opposite to what you think and feel is the right thing."

Tim's use of the word 'reality'. Owing to the whole Non Soul entity belief system, Chris felt that of a little peeved.

"The difference between the freedom of Tamils and their oppression is a circle and in a way, if the destruction of Non Soul means that we have to aide their oppression then maybe that's what we have to do in order to ultimately free the world. I think we better be getting back."

Stunned for a second by Tim's lack of sight, Chris did not say a word and was rooted to the spot following Tim only with his head as he disappeared past the shelter. The man was forgoing the interests of a race of people for the sake of a 'being' that he had no proof for. Yes, Chris had succumb/was succumbing to the idea that there was something other than his own control but Non Soul; he had no personal account for. The mission... his mission was now inveterately independent – he had to stop the guys in the car from making the problematic information (for the government and its army) available for scrutiny. If the Tamil rebellion could seek a chance to gain access to this knowledge and use it to their advantage then Chris had to delay proceedings as far as he could.

A turn and a walk back. Aggressively overwhelming, indeed, though the only thinking was why it was that the old man could not place even a little of the articulation he had just managed in the written words of his Non Soul book.

Road Block

Back onto the open road for a full ten minutes and by now the 'team' had been thoroughly immersed in the anti-poetic screeching sound of the brakes.

"Passport." She spoke. The lady with loose fitting clothing, a serious expression, greasy skin but an attractive dissidence. The type that labelled control and authority in profession, perhaps caringly relinquished subservience to the man of the house. Judging purely by the expression on her face, she could have been all of the perfection as desired... oh and she had another one of those AK47s dangling by her waist.

Raj dazzled the overseer with conversation. According to his words the five were a journalist unit for a geographical television channel on their way to study irrigation techniques in soil cultivation. His speech included a false fact that the earth of the whole of the south area of 'Sri Lanka' was fifty years previous unworkable. She was not interested.

"Open boot."

Guess what? The trunk was full of cameras, boom microphones and surveillance equipment that Raj could not name. Though this did not stop him.

"You can not be moving past Nuwa or Bandulla. There is shooting and you will be killed. You journals are too stupid so no fooling, ok?"

Of course no fooling! Relax, relax. Etcetera etcetera. Who did she think she was dealing with? A terrorist?

Projected Mutiny

"It's only a few minutes from now." Raj stated out loud interrupting a silence. He did not look back as he spoke but made sure that he was loud enough. The listeners at the back were all very concerned with their own statuses but none more so than Chris. Tim and Maurizio were thinking mainly about their role in a Raj based production; Chris was on his own in contemplating how to get the curtain to fall early. Trying to clear his mind he decided to break down his options; he did not have any, simply one route and one goal. Ok. Perhaps there were options within the task; a car full of people ready to go to a destination for an event; either stop the happening at the destination or stop the car from getting there in first place. Good. The man driving the car, Chintakh, would be oblivious to the idea of Chris leaning fully forward and gripping the steering wheel from behind him. A quick but firm dragging would turn the car off of the dusty road and into the muddy and irrigated field to the right or left (right would be quicker) causing it to be stuck and inoperable.

He stopped in thought. The activity would not prevent Raj and Chintakh from going back another day. (According to the haste of Raj and Chintakh everything was geared to today but this did not make it inconceivable for events to take place on another day.) Or perhaps even the same day as they were only 'a few minutes' away. One thing for sure, the whole effort would jeopardise Chris exit from the island back to the normality of South Bank University, Elephant and Castle and the decision between going to Sainsbury's in New Cross or Tesco on the Old Kent Road. (Due to its newness, ASDA was not the familiar option; though the closest.)

Fast fading was Chris' togetherness; he had to make a decision which was now highly unlikely to be a car crash. The humbling feeling of helplessness took over as his body, externally this mimicked the internal emotion by slumping in seat. The voice of reason tried its hand in; a power cut at a military base and eventual take over would mean the death of a lot of soldiers and the power struggle that then results would see many more fatalities later. Was this all worth it? As Chris' heart rate increased his mind rather wanted to up its effort and pace in respect.

On one autumn morning, Chris ran down his stairs using the banister as his usual pivot for easy footwear access. In the living room he heard his mother cry and knowing he was going to be late went forth to enquiry anyway. Lakshmi almost randomly insisted on translating certain speeches and dialogues from the Tamil television channel she avidly viewed and this time was such; forcing the young man to listen to her whilst she repeated what she had heard a poet recite. Chris was so amazed and taken aback what he had heard he wrote it down word for word as his mother had told him in English. The following he stuck on his wall, above his desk.

'...Freedom as a sign; it is spirit. It is soul. If you are alive, then you are involved. The right to believe, the right to alive and the right to breathe. These are the freedoms. If you have, then you will not know; if you have not, then you will and you will fight also. To fight involvement in freedom is to renounce the right to believe, alive and breathe. To live, is to breathe, to know is to alive and to fight is to believe...'

Soldiers and civilians die in wars. It was unfortunate but plain and simple. This confrontation was going to continue regardless of the existence of Chris, Tim and anybody else. Each side would compete to the highest degree for their own end. There was only one end Chris Uranson sided.

Somewhat tainted by pushing guilt, still, a mini rejuvenation to his cause. The last time Chris felt this was the selection of a film to watch in a rest from revision – a century in difference and a century ago! Sitting up in the process to at least try to think some more - effort is a necessity. But no sooner, his concentration was disturbed once more. This time by the slowing of the wheels (screech!) as it then turned to enter a car park in front of a small building.

Prophecy (6)

Being just after 7pm the evening sky had relinquished the sun from its daily duty, this just as the Datsun's ignition was switched off and its doors opened. Maurizio was the last out of the car and as he did so Raj rallied his attendees in a quasi huddle.

"So folks. All we do is go to the entrance and wait for my man in security to open up and we are in to protest about this bloody stupidity. We need an update... just like New York." It was not much of a rousing speech but Raj seemed distracted and stood staring at the car.

"New York? What about it?" Tim enquired thinking the worst - another trip back States side.

"Well they had a power cut but did not have suicide terrorists that wanted to take advantage." Raj replied moving his gaze from the car onto Tim.

"I think you'll find that we do." Maurizio replied with a 'You Know What I Know' look. Raj paused, then replied.

"Well, I would not think your president is not willing to sacrifice himself... maybe still a terrorist, however." Raj had an 'I Know You Know What I Know, It's Just I'm A Lot Wittier' look about him.

"So why us then?" Tim asked Raj throwing the combination of humour and international conspiracy machismo out of the situation slightly. "Why is it that you need us?" A question that should have been asked earlier.

"Well, Tim, in this country, you do not have much say... if you just go up to people and ask them for something, they don't hear. If you go up to these same folks with White people, however, they sit up and take note. It's a different matter..."

...And on with that same speech. Raj's body language suggested he was still somewhat worried about the car. He was also rather perturbed (in a good way) by the lack of military security officials lined up at the barrier let in. There weren't any. It was astonishing that only one (and female at that) soldier wom-manned the check point up the road. It was clear that resources were needed elsewhere. Risky business that, but when a reported twenty army cadres are wiped out by a freak of nature, it's how it goes.

"...Besides, I ran this guy over in my car this morning and he said..." still the Indian gentleman, "after I have the fucker on the ground... he is bloody bleeding and you know what he is saying? To me? 'White would be my favourite and worst colour today'. He was fucking right. My God he was correct, boy. The other people I got to come with me... before this big sexy boy, Mo, turns up... these guys were struck by white fucking lightening! And now you White boy is here. Best and worst. Coincidence... English, yes?" Raj laughed while he said this.

"'Ey, Chin, park the car over there, man. We meet you inside."

Knock, Knock. Really, You Again?

Raj, Maurizio, Tim and Chris walked towards the building where a large enough sign read 'Painter House'. Metal fencing enclosed Painter house and what must have been a yard (no not the measurement) behind it. The main unit itself appeared very much like a big, square, tin can owing to its dull and grey metallic walls. The colour was reminiscent of the grey shade used in cartoons to represent industrial buildings; it was very suitable in an idyllic fashion. The four were heading towards the large brown door directly underneath the sign that did not quite match the paint scheme – perhaps a set of double metal doors would have been more suffice.

Through the parked cars Chris caught sight of this entry and his mind ran back into overtime for a solution to his anguish. The entrance seemed to represent the moment where he could no longer realise an answer. The steps that brought him closer were those that moved him to the destiny of saviour or failure – permutated antagonistic to both his own desire and to that of Tim's Non Soul theory. There was a chance that on the inside (if they were to get in) that more options would be available but the brown door looked so final. He needed to work out how to honourably uphold his identity in the time it takes to walk a fair few metres.

His own pace slowed to suit the sinking feeling that was dragging like a sense of gravity. In order to be a catalyst in the freedom for a persecuted race he had to forgo his loyalty to a set of people who trusted him. On the scale of things, this was ok and the question meant nothing; to accept. It was how he was going to do this and since they were but less than a minute away from the entrance, it was likely that he could not. Only two planes of thinking and hoping could work now; Chris bull charging the team (from his now resigned position behind them) and beating each one to a nervous enough pulp so they do not and can not protest anything. Otherwise, the need was for a miracle. Maurizio would be a challenge in itself not to mention a fairly athletic build Raj.

Chris starred blindly at the fencing to his left of Painter House. The four walkers were not heading in a straight direction (coming in from an angle) with this making the centre point of vision just left of goal. When bitter it is customary to shake head (a familiar). He looked over adjacent and caught sight the right hand side of the building where the fencing stuck out to the same size as its opposite creating a perfect quadrilateral; when linked to the assumed fencing around the backyard. There was a hole – it was big and near to the ground, still, ignoring the placid description, the point of interest with this fence was not its aesthetic nature but the activity associated with it.

There was somebody entering the hole. Chris could not see a detail of exactly what was happening but he recognised a single factor; an orange sprouting ball print colouring amidst a purple and white batik background. A man's clothing – a traditional African dress, very well ironed. As this article slipped through the hole it carried within a man and he slide in to him a walking stick.

Dumbstruck (as could be imagined). Was he the Jehovah's Witness... David, who had pestered a few days back? The mysterious man who started it all off... all the weirdness and stupidity, the ambiguous speeches, the follow this, follow that commands and ultimately on to the descriptions of entities that feed off of negative human emotion. Chris' life was fairly normal (pish posh!) until he met this man. It was now far too much to be a coincidence or a chance meeting; the whole of the journey he had just been on was too much of a fixed event – somebody shout: shenanigans! Something, or things (and face it, someone/s would have been far extravagant), had him chasing causes and ideas around the globe when he should have been home revising about brain chemicals, behaviour and why it was the relationships breakdown. Instead he was here, in 'Sri Lanka', where he could only use up resource otherwise dedicated to revision, i.e. memory, to approximately remember one thing and it was what David had said to him on the Thursday previous; 'when you see me next, follow me.'

Witness the Witness

He wanted to shout out to David or even run up to him and ask him what he was doing here but he could not well afford the attention. It was stealth time once more and the steady pace needed meant he would be at the fence in 10-20 seconds; to take this time since if he did not he would be seen by the others. Unfortunately; there were no more parked cars in-between their position and that of the building; with nobody else in front of the station (e.g. lookout) his position of behind and to the right enabled Chris to stay out of sight for the time being. A driving instructor teaches the label – BLIND SPOT. Tim walked between the other two and all did not notice David or, at least, were not interested in his presence. This told Chris that he was on his own to follow the man in the fence so long as Chintakh (who was on car parking duty) was not behind him. Too anxious to look that way, it is simply to stay patient and wait for the opportunity to take his separate thread.

Maurizio fixed his eyes on Tim to exchange a few words. The young Uranson's angle of incidence was almost in the line of Maurizio's right eye's peripheral vision. If his head was looking any further back then Chris would have most certainly been forced to give up the secrecy of his position. Anxiety proceeded to overwhelming crux and the student found it hard to stay in control of his steps; he tended to lean forward too far thus having to stop moving altogether keeping the correct alacrity. To try to get his mind off of the excitement he envisaged himself tapping David on the shoulder and the surprised look on the African man's face as he turned around to the stranger who he had seen a few days earlier in another country. What would he say? 'Hello, son, why are you here?' Perhaps 'So you did follow me as I told you' or more likely he would have forgotten who he was. David was a one and only to Chris but the Jehovah's Witness must have seen a lot of people that day and would almost certainly not retain the memory of a face that, like many others, had told him to leave earlier than his inkling would have liked.

Raj reached the door and went to knock on it or ring the bell or just open it (whatever). Chris was still behind the three but now a good distant to the right (VERY BLIND SPOT), only a short step away from the fence. He could not look through it yet in view of the fact that he had his eyes stuck on the others. As Raj made a move for the brown coloured port of call, Chris sprung forward quickly for the fence. He had to hold the wired metal apart slightly but managed to get his body and one of his legs in quite swiftly. The second caught a split wire and had to be pushed out further and then back through more carefully, this producing the 'slinky' sound that was louder to Chris than any other since he was right next to it. Indeed, more panic... a little more which he tried to quash by simply not looking anywhere behind him and just assuming bodies passed on claiming voyeur.

And across flowed relief with this new purity of concentration this technique brought. Chris looked at his new surroundings; the wall to Painter House was on his left and more steel wired fencing acted as a pseudo-wall to his right, before which (and at sporadic intervals all the way down the plane) green Helapeniya plants lay within the perimeter. His white but marked trainer's stood on a concrete path just wide enough for himself (maybe a slightly wider stance) and the rest of the ground comprised of grass. Looking down towards the end of the building 'David's' figure stooped down once more and again disappeared through a fence at the back. There was an emanation from two side flood lights but it was still too dim to make out the man fully. Chris skipped over at a fast pace dedicating full attention to catching up with the mysterious batik wearing individual. His pace slowed a little when he reached the back; the fence hole was smaller and spiked, negotiation of this orifice needed more thought and time.

As he stepped through, the ground seemed softer, the light being dimmer he could not visually confirm a grassy area; it felt that way. Slipping slightly as he brought his second leg through the gap Chris managed to regain his balance by holding the small piece of wall that recognised the edge of the building – he was now officially around the back of Painter House. David could not be anywhere except inside as the back yard was a big field which was lit with more flood lights attached to the back wall. He could see the fencing that enclosed the yard and it would have taken a while for any man to get to it and vanish past it, let alone those needing a walking stick.

Using a continuance to the stealthy tactics, Chris peered past that small area of side wall to what lay around the corner. Apart from the flood lights, another source of luminosity was an open door into which a figure moved quickly. The earlier restrictions of what to do and when to do it had vanished. The mission parameter was not clear enough before but now it was; 'When you see my presence next, follow me'. This was guidance to the overlying task he needed to fulfil and even though he could not see how he was going to stop Tim, Maurizio, Raj and Chintakh, if there was one thing he had learned so far on his expedition it was to follow the signs (the theme of the Non Soul wary traveller). Earlier notion of waiting for a miracle or having to physically stop people from causing alarm had patterned in favour to the former. Going into the building and not fearing whatever that could go wrong or whoever wanted to stop him is what he needed to do in order to trail this man of God.

Sliding along the wall, Chris pigeon/side stepped to the door and entered it slightly cumbersome compared to his other more sensitive movements. The timing of Chris' barging in would have meant that David should have been pretty much in front of him. However, there was no David or even anybody wearing an unmistakable batik outfit.

"Eh?" Chintakh exclaimed - the sweaty man queried on turning to see Chris' real image. He raised a baseball bat that he had relaxed in his possession to a more menacing position and advanced towards from whence he came.

Puzzled? So too Chris. Where was David? A really simple question to which when is there ever simple answers? If the person he had tracked was not David, it was certainly not Chintakh. His sweaty polyester t-shirt looked nothing like the purple and white (and orange) batik of David's wear. The model wares; mis-match was fashion faux pas. Still there was very little time for the in-depth mental discussion of such triviality as that aforementioned bat was getting closer.

An image of himself turning popped up Gestalt to his mind and indeed in follower desperation Chris motioned to leave. This time he physically turned, as he did so, his hand brushed a large set of keys on the edge of a table which fell to the ground. From under a machine placed also on the table, the momentum of the fall dragged a hand gun that was attached to a long but slim silver chain to the edge of the table, replacing the keys in previous area. Option B had presented itself and with the kind representatives for Gestalt still lingering... Chris picked the lively piece, pointed it to Chintakh, the chain flying off; not actually locked into anything on the weapon itself. The salty watered man stopped on his spot and lowered his bat gently seeing the menace of a man ready to fire. Hollywood had finally served Chris usefully.

"Easy Mr Chintakh." Chris said, wondering where the 'Mr' came from. The intensity of his sneakiness had once more assisted as a nice warm up purpose for a situation that required a heightened state of awareness. Admittedly, chatting up a beautiful girl called Celina was probably not as frightening as a fat, sweaty 'Sri Lankan' man with an American baseball bat, but still, a rhythmically raised heartbeat was appropriate for 'A-game' charming. In this case, Chris' charms were helped with the possession of a steel shooter. "Drop the bat and get on your knees." Knowing full well that Chintakh's English may not be the best, Chris pronounced each word slowly and carefully. He hardly believed his own calmness and was re-assured (yes, reassured) that he was in fact not, when realising his hand shaking - as if the tip of the barrel balanced beamed a gymnastic greenfly. Bent his elbow a tad and on to a two handed grip, rather like an actor playing the part of a cop rather than the gangster one-armed pose he had randomly went for initially. Back briefly to sense: Chris thought he should probably try to get some answers.

"Why are you trying to hit me?" It was not the rough tough LA/NY PD interrogative vocalisation Chris would have liked but it would do.

"I... I know you?" The pause in Chintakh's speech suggested that he was trying to find a sentence of his own but this was more likely to do with his grasp of English rather than his nerve.

The statement took Chris lightly and he was not too perplexed by his lack of memory. He had just seen what could only be described as a hallucination of a Jehovah's Witness and on the basis for the familiarity of this vision he had just infiltrated a power station control centre. Simultaneous to the above, he had official entered the 'Sri Lankan' twilight zone and, apparently, it affects the ability to retain information.

"Wait." Chintakh exclaimed quite aggressively, though still on his knees. "Shit. Sing-halum bastard." His words were slow and purposeful; he stared into Chris' eyes angrily. It seemed he thought that Chris was Sinhalese... but wait! Then this did not make sense; Chintakh was Sinhalese himself... wasn't he?

A door to Chris' right swung open and rather large gentlemen dressed in a security guard outfit walked through it with a metal plate of food in his left hand's grasp; his right hand was firmly inside the plate which curved up at the edges to act a little like a tray. He looked up and dropped it.

This door was the second of three inside a medium sized room spanning a fraction (mathematically, what else?) of the entire control centre. It contained two blue standard swivel chairs. The partitions were racked with tables (the larger chipboard for a could be breakfast bar) containing mostly what looked like Hi-fi amplifiers however, each was not. On one table, in the corner, directly opposite the entrance from the guard, was a switchboard that looked more complex than any other machine in the immediate vicinity. The third door was opposite the entrance Chris had come in from and this led on to the front of building. Chintakh was kneeling down near the centre on thin, dark grey carpeting in what was a fairly clear locale, aside from his bat and one of the chairs which had not been tucked under a table like its twin.

Chris, near that rear entry, turned the gun onto the new visitor who immediately raised his arms up and above his head. A chunk of what looked like yellow stained rice fell from his right hand. His facial expression turned to fear after starting off as simple surprise. Once he looked over at Chintakh the expression changed once more.

"Fucking Tamil..." The guard shouted and along other words in another language. This must have been Sinhalese, since he called Chintakh a Tamil. Chintakh himself responded with a barrage of verbal holocaust that sounded strangely like a different language. This would be explained by the guard calling him Tamil.

The resulting insulting (it continued for a few moments more) gave chance for Chris to figure out what was happening and what to do about it. In blissed ignorance and supreme falsity, he tried to listen in to what Chintakh was saying in order to catch something that his own mother may have said or taught him. Chris definitely doubted Chintakh's Sinhalese identity and more so since the guard's language was beyond any scope that Chris' mind could fathom whilst the man kneeling, however, seemed to speak with some familiarity. (With reference back to ignorance and falsity though also now to logical inference.) There was no real familiarity but what the awareness inferred was indeed a good looking to the situation. The interrupted dinner eating guard broke the language barrier by speaking in English.

"You Tamil fucker rascal!" He shouted, spraying some saliva. "You do not understand the language of your bloody country? Well do you understanding English? Rascal!"

"Fool." Chintakh replied, spitting to the floor on purpose as opposed to the involuntary nature of the man in uniform. "My English good, you Sinhala rascal!" Chris established two facts from the conversation, firstly, the confirmation of the inference; Chintakh was indeed Tamil (by default, the guard Sinhalese). And, secondly, rascal was a popular word for both races.

"Shut up!" Chris shouted realising a reverence to the fact that he was holding the deadliest weapon out of the three. The expression worked for about five seconds.

"Hey! You are boy from car... Raj, no?" Chintakh had a boyish happiness to his face as he remarked. He managed to look past the gun pointed at him; possibly due to the hyped feeling after his slanging match. This statement hit Chris with some sense. And then. From that one moment it all changed. Peek-A-Boo for adults. In an instant: a flash. He had it worked out. The words Chintakh used; he knew who he was from the car, this meant that the twilight zone had ended (ever begun?) and that it was just a memory deficiency and not that crazy disease that everybody who Chris had met in the past four to five days was suffering from. There was a new normality now affixed to the man on his knees. The situation was simple, "Hey, boy. Free me, boy." Chintakh was here to help the Tamil cause and not hinder it. He was not Sinhalese but Tamil and no doubt here to take advantage in the disruption of power to the grid... in order to take control of the military bases. Sense as a sedimentary flow! To fill holes: was he in cahoots with Raj or was he working independently? It would make sense for the lone missionary to do such a duty. But then where was Raj? "Help me, boy. No gun." Of course! He is in on it – a distraction, it's what all good magicians need and this indeed was quite the trick. Ingenuity with unfussiness; all it took was a few lies to those who do not know anyway. Prasinder was probably out front making up a storm and causing all the guards (well except the one on a curry break) to rush to him. Look at me! I'm a serial liar from India and you must look at me so that my Tamil friend can cause a revolution! 'People always listen to you, in this country, when you have White people with you'. Blah blah... So wait one moment \- helping Chintakh and Raj (if those are their real names) would help the Tamil cause. "Come on boy, let me fight."

Chris' mind raced to think about the times his mother would practically shout at his father trying to explain the pain and suffering that was happening back home; the old man hardly listened... but Chris did. All the programmes on Tamil television, the news bulletins, the internet sites (search: 'Tamil conflict' finds n results, to refine your search click...) the radio shows on the BBC and commercial Asian networks... onwards list. His dad would not be interested but Chris would listen with the love only a son could muster. He was never to understand fully but it was all coming together now. The resentment of oppression grew within him, welling up passionately as his course of life moved to a point where one single activity would reprieve any failing he had ever felt and so also recognise why he was here in this position right now. Forget the cosmic slingshot that flung the young man through an eccentric old dreamer, his warrior minions, a lady for association with closure; let alone the kooky prophecy propulsions. Now it was the man and his character; his make up. The experiences... All those freedom marches against war, the capitalist boycotts, the political discussions at 4am after a night of hard clubbing at the Ministry of Sound, the coffee fuelled arguments about fragmented states and separatism in countries like 'Sri Lanka', 'Ireland', 'Spain', or 'Israel'... wherever, all of this meant nothing. That was student idealistic thinking mainly driven by the motivation of feeling better about oneself; collectivism or plain dirty courtship.

"Are you kill me? Do it, rascal!" Chris looked down at Chintakh. Truth be told he looked ready to get up and ignore the possibility of his imminent death. The guard had grown tired of having his hands up and was talking but what he was saying was being ignored by the two remaining parties in the room. Chintakh began slapping his chest frantically in a mannerism to show he was ready to die. Chris looked at him and nodded, moving the gun hold back to the guard and this time not pointing back. The guard promptly extended his hands once more. Chintakh was slightly confused and rose slowly; Chris sensed this while glancing him. In thought; the perfect words to encourage the man, for he should not be apprehensive next to friends pinning foes. Unusually for his normal mono-linguistic ways, the perfect words were not in English.

"Uddee, adaar, uddee!"

Chris smirked callously and looked back to the guard as he relayed the only Tamil words his mother had successfully taught him. Chintakh, slightly confused at first, realised what he meant by the phrase and smiled in return getting to his feet. He walked over to the table with the complex machine, turned a dial down and started working with the mechanics. Chris kept his gun (in hands that were not shaking) directed at the guard who was looking very worried. As Chintakh began to finish up what was a simple and quick operation he cried out some words that he felt encouraged his inspiration.

"Zuels. Vaal-keur!"

As the building's lighting flickered off and the humming of the machinery died down in ceremonious fashion, Chris wondered to himself; now where had he heard that word 'Zuels' before?

***
Epilogue

D – The Near Future

Chris stepped into his house shutting both the front and centre front doors. His hands were cold from the outside but the rest of his body was quite warm from wearing so much clothing. He could only really wear one pair of gloves but his hands were usually never protected by this many. Warmer now though. The joy of inefficient tank boilers: more heat.

Unconscious audio processing accompanied replacing this pair into his coat pockets. The young man removed the over garment and placed it on the rack hearing now consciously the familiar sombre tone of a South Indian news presenter on the Tamil television channel. Volume blasting out, Chris paused, reluctantly embracing the similar sinking feeling that was now conditioned to the sound of the man's voice, like a Pavlovian dog. He breathed in deeply to enter the living room witnessing his mother glued to the set not even realising her son was back in the home. A quick flick of the neck. Acknowledgement. She switched programmes on to an English news channel seemingly unsatisfied with what she received from the other, rather than in appreciation for the entrant.

"... Troops are believed to be sent in from India as we speak." The news reporter started (to the newly switched) via a voice over. On screen were a small picture of him and a map of the bottom of India and 'Sri Lanka'. "These troops will join forces with the United States navy and, of course, army, who are making their way up north of the island. This, is the controversial aspect of their campaign as the leader of the FTE, Niyaghan, continually states that he and the Tamil Eelam state in the north and eastern parts of 'Sri Lanka' have nothing to do with the military take over six months ago. The Indian government has maintained that Colonel Zuels, who up until the American invasion, had assumed command of the island as president, is working with Niyaghan."

"Ok Michael, but this coming even though Zuels himself had distanced himself from leader, Niyaghan, of the northern terrorist organisation, the FTE, when he took control." The camera had switched to the female newsreader in the London studio. Now... back.

"Indeed, Michelle, he did. However, President Carter maintained in the Washington press conference this morning that the Indian intelligence was credible and this is the result; the continuance of the full scale invasion into now the whole of the island...." The two relayed an open conversation to the viewers. At interception: "...Both the shadow parliament and humanitarian agencies have not only condemned the United State's swift intervention but in consequence Britain's involvement also. To send its support allegiance is regarded as the political equivalent of a shot in the foot for our Prime Minister. Let's face it, the size and sheer scale of difference between the militaries of the United States and the developing island that is 'Sri Lanka' undoubtedly need no extra support for the rather over-balanced aggressors..." and on.

The news reader, Michelle, thanked the reporter Michael after imparting a series of other questions to each receiving answers.

Chris starred at the screen; he knew all this. The general occurrences and so also the days' events were inevitable from rumour report. Zuels took over from the 'Sri Lankan' government almost straight after his military takeover thanks to the efforts of Chintakh (real name Tharan), Raj and, unfortunately, quite inadvertently, Chris himself. Tharan was an associate of Zuels' who still managed to harbour that small 500 man army (Zuels' Group) distributed in hidden areas near Batticaloa. The Colonel himself had fled to Malaysia but came back once the 'Sri Lankan' army had been neutralised via the bombing of the main camps. Generals, majors and others in martial authority were killed in the few days following the results of the blackout and remaining officials seemed to have been within pocket to the Colonel anyhow. The incinerated link between former confederates and the unjustified whim of the splinter showed this not a Tamilan beneficial coup. In addition, the interest of the USA and India continued this shopped courtesy. Conspiracy; false (an invisible hand to Zuels) or; forged (back scratching), was not hard to appreciate.

Tim's taking on events followed this method of thinking and though racking his brain intently towards his Non Soul orientation he could not figure it out. Insisting on a 'critical study' of the situation and after receiving debriefs from all who were involved in the trip around the world in the merest of days, Tim knew/believed that everything had happened in the way it was supposed to have turned out. The missing point was why? Tim and his Non Soul believing crew had to figure out in what way did this invasion and probable occupation have an affect on negative emotion thriving entities?

The leader's side plot... the potential glaring mistake was his take: the turning point for Non Soul was those few days in the summer. For or against? Tim's beliefs held merely by the assumption that he had translated correctly that of the senses (those voices in Papua New Guinea). The elder could have been wrong - Chris Uranson: saviour or daemon? Lost squarely in translation.

Now firmly a former member (with membership being a very loose association), Chris, looking at the television, modified his gaze to incorporate his mother's face. A tear was travelling down her dark saddle brown right cheek; ready to sacrifice from her slender jaw line. She had wiped away a few others previous but not effectively. Her youngest son's eyes closed in a desperate appreciation for her plight. Responsibility is a long word. If Tim had lost translation on his guesswork, Chris had too. Chintakh/Tharan was Tamil but not the right Tamil. Was Chris not 'to help his people' like the prophet (another big word) mentioned? Where did sensibility disappear to when it was always present; clubbing, Dwayne's dorm, Jamaica... anywhere, except where really needed. No warrior – none the decision maker, so why make the decision? Why fight the war? The passion of the Tamil. Simple, honoured but in this case, flawed. Fault; not a big word, more a heavy one.

Through all the self defamation his ears continued the conscious focus on listening to the newly formed panel of guests who had gathered to discuss current events.

***

"...Indeed, John. I mean what I'm trying to say... er... is we know the situation with the animosity and apprehension that, say India would have with a Tamil rebellion leading the island of 'Sri Lanka' but... well why does America have to get involved? We know that they have an obsession with a war on terrorism and... even that... er..." The female presenter had a serious expression on her face and spoke enthusiastically with fairly exaggerated hand movements. "India would like to increase an acquaintance with the super power... I mean being a new and up and coming power, particularly, with Pakistan breathing down their necks and the whole... er... Afghan situation not favouring... er... the Pakistanis. Well that's great for India but then exactly what does America have to take from this interesting American-Indian, if you pardon the pun, relationship?"

John, a tall man who fidgeted all through the woman's address, adjusted position on his seat as the camera angle snapped the presenter, he and two other individuals. It cut to a close up of the black suited Caucasian man's, shoulder and up; a caption of his name with a brief description of his credentials. He started to speak.

"Well, Ruth tell me," John began, once more twitching, this time a slow movement of those aforementioned shoulders. "What exactly do you know about tea?"

E – The Distant Future

Excerpt from a lecture titled 'Metaphysics in Social Analysis' by Mrs Celina Uranson as transcribed by one of her students, Tola Neyofan, at the South Bank University, London.

[Ms Uranson]

...indeed if I was to comment on it then the only way... tangible realisation, that's of the philosophical nature of such... It would never be believable that an actual physical form could exist. I mean, imagine that – a form, a being actually reaching out and moving fate from one place to another.

I'm digressing slightly but there are two real theories, the abstract and then the concrete.

1. The abstract: this is where things happen and it was meant to happen. Many religions attract this type within the simple mapping of lifetimes and events. Like for instance, the Islamic concept of In Shallah where events occur if permitted by the higher power. This is similar to phrases as By God's Grace, God willing etcetera.

(We will be discussing this is in up coming weeks.)

2. The concrete: the physical movement or manipulation of strands of existences (or events within them) to exact a timeline. It sounds very complex but is really not so. All it takes is for a... a sense or a being to make aspects of an individual's (or group's in very many cases) life directed towards a goal or... or happening that is either important or simply to maintain an order.

[Student]

An order?

[Ms Uranson]

Yes an order. Sort of like a universal set. If certain planes do not 'set' correctly then each becomes out of sync and dis-function. This is where we as a population and as a species on this planet experience abnormalities and general disarray until these controls and sets are re-balanced.

[General weird hush in the auditorium]

[Me]

This sounds a little... far fetched.

[Laughter]

[Ms Uranson]

Why thank you, Tola!

Remember, we are working with concepts and structures that are very much away from our flight of what reality is. However, this is not fully away from what our minds can imagine, so if you give me a little time and put in some serious abstract thought then perhaps we can get somewhere all, together.

[Me]

No, sorry Ms Uranson. I didn't mean it like that, it's just... you know, we're in a sociology lecture... and, well...

[Ms Uranson]

Hey, we aint at grade school, you can call me Cel.

And no, I'm just referring this comment to everyone here. The little things we all do affect our whole planet of not only the eco-system but also the sub-systems that we can neither hear, taste, smell, touch let alone see. Admittedly, it is far fetched and I am not saying that you should believe in a crackpot like myself

[More laughter]

...but I am bringing your attention to the physical aspects of the movements of abstract concepts as time... destiny and even concepts like justice and luck.

[Me]

Wait. Are you saying that there are things that just roam around and do things... like make things happen? Isn't that God? Isn't that what He does?

[Ms Uranson]

Well, that's interesting because we are dealing with a whole system of beings or senses under or around us so in theory, a leader or conductor is very relevant and God could be interpreted here, as a creator/leader of both the physical and the meta-physical.

[Me]

Ok, but that is not how many people have seen things... there are many faiths that would disagree with what you are saying... Is there evidence of what you are saying or anything?

[Ms Uranson]

Well with the religious debate I can only touch on that right now because we are pretty much the Sociology stable here and I think the Theology and historical concepts and mix and matching with what I am talking about is set for another time. I mean back in the States this lecture would not even see the light of Sociology day and maybe tick a few philosophical boxes but that's it. I'd better stick as closely to the Meta-subject that I'm talking about now... Tola, you... or anyone for that matter are welcome to see me after lectures in my office hours.

What I will say for now is that historically, the research is thin but then the phrase of history is to 'gorge one's eyes'. What I am suggesting may not be written well within the traditional Western cookbooks or even the over human sense logical Eastern values. We are slowly forgetting what this planet has the ability to perform, how it performs and what it can perform on us.

In terms of evidence, well I would admit that it is thin and lacking. Most people associated with these trends of thought are concerned with very un-falsifiable beliefs and suggestions. However, a recent resurgence in literature is steadily becoming available, I have included reading in your handouts that are well worth the view but will most probably not be available from the library here. These detail findings that are very much linked with the physical form or interaction between senses and earth government(?, did not ask). Particularly that of the manipulation, this time on the human side i.e. evidence that it is possible to almost communicate with such life forms and also... induce the reactions of human imbalance without the workings of such beings but by artificial (or even natural substances) means.

[She pauses and senses that we all have lost her(!)]

Oh-kay.

[Laughter - again!]

I know I'm sounding far fetched and very American/Ron Hubbard, but just like an individual can be drugged so can they be induced into the human imbalance associated with 'Non'(?)... with the senses of the planet. Drugs often cause feelings of euphoria and a different level of awareness that for so long now is very much believed to be brought out from within the self and a manipulation of processes... psycho-chemical imbalances etcetera etcetera. These imbalances can enable us to interact or simply view the world at a different level. An old example of this is the old Indian peace pipes of the Native American. Who firmly believed that smoking such instruments with a mix of specific ingredients led them to discover and communicate with worlds and beings that we can only sit back and dismiss as 'hallucinations'.

Now I'm not telling you all to go out and buy your own 'peace pipes' because 'a' I'd get in trouble and 'b' it is not necessarily a drug. It's a wide range of types and traits that link the existences of the life of this planet.

I am just illustrating the subtle layer that exists between what is physical and what is meta-physical and how it can be interweaved vea(? – via?) simply looking beyond what we have in front of us. The plainest of things can be the most un-regarded items from awareness.... You can look at a cup of tea even and not see that your life could change just like that.

[A big pause and some murmuring]

[Kemi]

Well... caffeine isn't good for you.

[Laughter]

[Ms Uranson]

Ha ha, yeah that's very true, Kem, but I'm not sure that's the only thing in the tea leaves we should be worried over... However, I am digressing beyond the social analysis and going further towards this science/theology stuff. I was never quite so good with the science at high school anyway. I'm repeating myself but again if anybody is interested in furthering there wider scope from this lecture then feel free to not only read what I have given you to read but go further. I always have plenty of resources for those who are interested...

Dear Diary - N

Another day at cause for loneliness and that silly want to feel sorry for myself. Yes, yes. I will get over him but come on, am I not allowed to wallow a little before I do? I mean, does it help if I tell you that my days are filled with nothing but deep, passionate desires to shout out WHY?! Right in the middle of the street with lots of people watching and telling their friends (or boyfriend! Grr) 'there goes the crazy madwoman'.

Damn these people, damn him... and damn Vikram Seth! It's his fault! I don't know why but you know the phrase – a woman scorned? Well, this woman is not making sense right now but then again, I am.

It's Vikram's fault; with his eloquent and seductive prose! How dare he captivate me into spending less time with my man! Yes, I have the answer. I will inform Mr Seth of his folly and challenge him to a duel. I know, I know, I am but a small woman with as much muscle as a feather. However, he is old and having seen a photo of him on an internet website he doesn't look that scary.

What I'll do is go to his agency, or send flowers to his fan club and tell him he is home wrecker. No wait, I will NOT engage in such petty childish actions... I will murder him!

The plan:

1.find his agency; shouldn't be too hard right? Infiltrate the building – collect his address and place a rose in the filing cabinet (you know, as a calling card).

2.Go to his big house, with a big garden and lot's of flowers and such and climb in through the open window (there must be an open window, there is always an open window) and stand there with a very big knife.

3.Tell him why he is going to die – his novels are way to perfect and stop me from spending time with a man who has issues at the best of times let alone when I'm not showing him my maximum love due to the aforementioned author (that's the dude stood scared in front of me).

4.he'll plead for his life – please don't kill me, maybe it was meant to be; maybe you should be happy that you both have broken up. Maybe it was supposed to happen? Maybe it was always on the cards and that I didn't see it coming because I was in love with the idea of being in love... blah, blah. Or Maybe it wasn't me, Vikram Seth, who broke us up, maybe it was a force that we know nothing about that secretly guides lives and destiny and all that rubbish that in part also makes up the warmth and 'easy sense' factors in a whole bunch of novels... Ugh, these authors and their spiel!

5.I'll tell him that maybe he's right... but still take his life

Oh ok. Maybe I won't do that. But it hurts so much. I will get over him like all patronising advice tells me... but I don't want to. At least not for now.

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About The Author

G. Haritharan was born on a Friday to Sri Lankan Tamil parents in a hospital on Denmark Hill which is in London, England. A few years later (around twenty or so) he decided he wanted to write. He started with poetry. Nobody liked it; he got a day job. More years later (around four) and he quit the day job to write a novel... In the proceeding years... He wrote two: Followers of the Dead Man and Kingdoms in Newness. Both were published under the Tamil idea of s4mT

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Other books by Hari:

The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era) <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42621>

Kingdoms in Newness... coming soon to eBooks!
