A Stone Called Fred Page 5

  In the Walworth Road where I was held up for a while, an elderly shopkeeper clasped his hands and declared that “Allah was great”. Another, of a different faith, went down on his knees and made the sign of the cross, while a priest, emerging from a church, fumbled for his rosary. A freelance preacher with a long white beard whose usual patch was Hyde Park Corner on a Sunday, much gratified by this sudden outburst of religiosity in the vicinity of the Elephant and Castle, pointed a finger in the air and proclaimed: “I say to ye, Isaiah has come amongst ye. Make reparation all ye sinners. The prophet has come. Repent, repent, before it is too late.”

  In the long hold-up, I noticed quite a crowd looking in the direction of my car. What was everyone staring at? Passengers in a Number 68 bus caught up in the traffic jam were gazing in my direction with great interest. At this juncture (and some would say “about time”), the penny dropped.

  So absorbed was I, thinking what I was going to say to Fiona on arrival at the ‘Mainstream’ offices, (if I got the chance), I had completely forgotten, with Fred in my pocket, I was unseen to the general public and we were in a supposedly driverless car. I should have left him on the back seat until we reached our destination. The vehicles started moving again and it was then too late to do anything but concentrate on the driving and I found myself in a great stream of traffic, all seemingly bound for the same point on the globe. As soon as I had the opportunity, I extricated Fred from my pocket and tossed him to the back of the car. Where he landed I do not know and cared less.

  Having at last reached the august frontage of the tall building in which the offices of ‘Mainstream’ were situated and having found a convenient parking space, paid my parking dues and retrieved Fred from the back of the car, I strolled past the two doormen and being careful not to provoke anyone’s astonishment by using the lift, ran up the stairs arriving at the door labelled ‘MAINSTREAM’ on the second floor.

  It was partly ajar, so I walked in and became aware of a large open-plan room with several typists and computer operators busily plying their trade. There were two huge electric fans on the ceiling. As I entered, the whirr of machinery stopped, the fans slowly stopped turning and died. The electric typewriters stopped working, the computer screens went black. The hum of a busy office descended into an uncanny silence.

  “A whole morning’s work gone” wailed on operator “and I hadn’t even saved it”. From a side-office stepped Fiona, followed by the photographer whom I recognised as Justin Savin. In the confusion of realising that it was I, or rather Fred, who had been responsible for the sudden cessation of a working business world, I hurriedly put Fred down on the nearest desk. “Who are you?” demanded the young typist sitting there, finding herself confronted by a strange man who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “Take that thing off my desk.”

  Realising that if I did, I would suddenly disappear again and cause even more consternation, I forebore to comply with the request and left Fred where he was. The lights remained off, the room still stayed silent. “Somebody send for the electrician” called several voices.

  Fiona walked over to me. “Jack, what on earth made you bring that thing with you? You might have known it would cause chaos.”

  “Fiona, come back to me.” I pleaded. “Why did you walk out like that? It wasn’t my fault everything went wrong.” I handed over the mike and recorder. “He did that.” I pointed to a silent Fred on the desk.

  “I realised that afterwards” she said “but it makes no difference. I can’t cope with something like Fred.”

  Justin Savin came striding across to us. “Is this fellow causing you aggro, Fiona?” He was a good-looking bloke, I guessed in his late twenties. He had rather self-satisfied features which at that moment, I longed to re-arrange. I wondered if he may have had something to do with Fiona’s decision. I didn’t stop to work out whether I was right or wrong and did what every unthinking idiot has done since the world began. I punched him. Straight on that supercilious mouth of his.

  THE AFTERMATH

  He didn’t go down. Instead, his expression changed to that of an angry bull. He towered over me and looked like a giant to my rather puny frame. He punched me back with a strong left hook. It shook me to the core. I felt my body quiver with the shock, but I desperately tried to stay standing. I shot out an arm to return the blow, only to find it seized firmly by my much-more muscular opponent.

  “Fiona, get somebody to throw this fellow out.” he called out. Fiona hesitated, but the alarm had already been raised. The next moment, I found my collar seized by one of two burly men and marched firmly to the door, down the stairs and as we reached the ground floor, a voice from above (Justin Savin’s) shouted “and you can take this bloody thing with you” and Fred was tossed after us. At that moment, I noticed the lights go on in Mainstream’s office and heard the sound of everything coming back to life.

  But Fred had no intention of being thrown - anywhere! That would have been beneath his dignity. To the amazement of the guards - and mine - he clattered down the stairs, one by one, taking each step with the precision of an automatom, finally landing at my feet. In their astonishment, the guards had relaxed their hold on me. I picked him up, and leaving the two burly chaps with no collar to hold, just thin air, strolled with dignity past the doormen into the street, leaving behind four fellows looking wildly round for the villain they thought they had collared.

  Once outside, I noticed with some amusement a newspaper seller with copies of the latest edition of Mainstream and the heading: “Her Majesty’s Views on the Merits of Whisky Distillers”. So my eavesdropping was not entirely wasted!

  Invisibly, I walked down Fleet Street to the place I had left the car, placed Fred reverently on the back seat and this time, and now in full view of everyone, drove home with the consolation I had at least left Justin Savin with a sore lip even if he had left me with a rather aching jaw.

  Compelled by a guilty conscience, I went back to work that afternoon. “Oh, so you have decided to honour us by making an appearance, have you?” was the reception I received from Mr. Rantover. He sounded more sarcastic than usual, if that was possible. “Come into my office, Watt” he said.

  With a sense of foreboding, I followed him into the office which looked as gloomy as he usually did with a big worn leather chair and a big mahogany desk. Everything was dark brown from the bookshelves filled with dark brown leather-bound books, I doubted whether anyone ever read them, they were there for intimidation purposes only, to the brown baize curtains at the large smoke-encrusted windows .

  Mr. Rantover seated himself at the desk rearranging some papers and depositing one or two in one of the desk’s two drawers all done to instil fear and trembling in the interviewee. Then, he put his elbows on the desk, folded his hands and glared at me. “Well?” he said.

  “I am sorry not to have come to work this morning, Mr. Rantover.” I said. “I was not feeling well”. Apart from a mild reprimand and having some pay docked, I felt pretty sure that such a good excuse would incur no more than that and fully expected to resume work as usual that afternoon.

  “Where were you last evening?” he asked. Oh…! I was not expecting that question.

  Mr. Rantover took on the mantle of an executioner or Chief Torturer, playing with the edges of his sword, about to deliver a thousand cuts. His eyes narrowed. “I believe I saw you at the Dreary Lane Theatre. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, I was there, Mr. Rantover.”

  Things were looking bad. The possibility of Mr. R. attending that First Night of a theatrical occasion would never have occurred to me. It seemed far too frivolous for such a gloomy character. Playing for time to see which way the land lay, I went on brightly, “I thought the acting was very good and the wartime atmosphere was most realistic …”

  “Never mind the wartime atmosphere.” he interrupted. I am more concerned with the antics at the theatre doorway. There was a small argume
nt with the police, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Oh that?” I continued bluffing. “It was soon sorted out.”

  “Sorted out?” He was like a cat playing with a mouse. “What you really mean, Mr. Watt is that you were detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure and taken away in a police car. They say you were suspected of terrorist activity.”

  The truth was out. It was no good pretending any more.

  “It was all sorted out at the police station. I was released early the next morning. There were no charges. I was found to be perfectly innocent. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  I was floundering, knowing full well that the mere fact of being arrested in full view of the general public was enough to condemn me in Mr. Rantover’s eyes. The axe fell, as I fully expected it would, my head well and truly on the block.

  “Mr. Watt, I will be perfectly frank. We cannot allow the good name of Bellman, Finnegan and Wilbond to be dragged through the mud by one of our employees, particularly in so public a place as a theatre and where the Royal Family were present. This, as you know, is a highly respected firm and you have enjoyed the privilege of being employed here.” There was a long pause. I waited expectantly for the final cut. The rebuke was surprisingly mild for Mr. R.

  “In view of this reprehensible conduct on your part and to uphold the good name of the firm “, he went on, “I am forced to terminate your employment from this day forth. You will be sent a month’s salary in lieu of notice. Perhaps you would kindly collect your cards and any belongings and leave the premises immediately.” He stood up and I was dismissed from his office. So it was all over. I would have to explain to my parents that I had lost my job. They had great hopes that one day, as a fully-fledged accountant, I might have my own business, letters after my name and a string of wealthy clents. At that moment, the future looked anything but rosy and their son would turn out to be the occupant of a cardboard box underneath the arches of St. Pancras Station.

  I went to collect my things and to say goodbye to my friends, all of whom seemed sorry to see me go. We had been good chums, united not least, by a general dislike of Mr. Rantover.

  As I left the premises for the last time to collect my car, parked in the firm’s private space, I noticed a gang of youths collected round it. One of them was at the driving wheel, desperately trying to start up, but it seemed with little success. As I approached, I remembered I had left Fred on the back seat. The boy had a key in the lock, not mine, so I assumed he had somehow managed to obtain a duplicate.

  “Having trouble?” I asked in a friendly fashion. In reply, the boy let loose a string of expletives, none very nice, but continue to wrestle with the starting mechanism. I waited, fully confident that, with the electricity-hating Fred in control, nothing would happen. Eventually, the potential thief gave up and with a few more choice words, got out, gave a vicious kick to the car which I hoped hurt him more than the paintwork and they all ran off. I got in, turned the key and the engine started in a nice smooth fashion. I looked back at that old grey stone, gave him a thumbs-up and we both went home.

  THE DRIVERLESS CAR

  I was having a late breakfast the next morning and rather revelling in the life of leisure that stretched before me - for one day at least - when Joe put his head round the door. He was also off work that day but for different reasons connected with his business. He had been apprised of my situation.

  “What have you been up to this time Jack?” he grinned. “There’s a policeman downstairs to see you. Shall I show him up?”

  A minute or two later, a very young police officer apologetically entered the kitchen and showed me the proof that he really was a gentleman of the law. “I am very sorry to bother you, sir, but reports are coming in of an apparently driverless car seen in the vicinity of - he consulted his notebook - Walworth Road, London Road, Blackfriars Bridge, New Bridge Street …”

  “Any from Fleet Street …?” I enquired helpfully.

  “No sir. No sightings there.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I do wish they wouldn’t give me these awkward jobs.”

  “How awkward is this one?” I asked.

  “It’s because I’m young sir. “It’s so embarrassing, you see, having to ask silly questions like this.” I told him I knew exactly what he meant. I told him I would try to be as helpful as I could.

  “Well sir, apparently the number of the car given in each case was one belonging to - he consulted his notebook again - a Mr. Jack Watt of this address. Would that be you, sir?”

  I affirmed it was. “A driverless car you say? I think I can explain that.” The relief on the policeman’s face was a joy to see. At last someone was coming up with a logical solution instead of laughing at him.

  “The windows of my car were very dirty,” I went on shamelessly. “I was at a rally last weekend. What these people saw was not a driverless car. It was one with very, very dirty windows. They simply thought there was no driver.”

  “Of course, sir, that must be it.” He shook my hand vigorously. Now it was those silly onlookers at fault and he could go back to the station with his head held high and laugh with the rest of them at the stupidity of the general public. He assumed his stern policeman attitude. He could afford to do so now.

  “You know sir, it is an offence to have anything obstructing the view of a driver while on the road.”

  I promised I would clean the car that very day and he departed, happy and satisfied that he could report back to his colleagues with a logical explanation which had baffled everybody and which had now been solved, thanks to his professional expertise.

  Joe looked in again a little later. “What was that all about?” he asked. “A driverless car” I said.

  “Alright. Didn’t mean to pry. Sorry. Shouldn’t poke my nose in.”

  “No really, it was about a driverless car. Mine.” But Joe’s attention had now been diverted by the sight of Fred sitting quietly on the dresser.

  “How much longer are you going to keep that thing?” he asked. “You were making enough fuss about it. Is it still scaring you?”

  “Not really”, I said. I had given up trying to convince Joe, now that there was no longer Fiona to back me up.

  “I’ll throw it out for you. I’m on my way to the bins.” His helpful suggestion gave way to an astonished “Good God, what’s that?” as Fred suddenly came to life.

  An orange glow gradually changed to a fiery red. Sparks sprayed round us in one of his best displays yet. A flame shot to the ceiling, followed by a firework demonstration that would have done credit to any Guy Fawkes Day. I watched placidly with great satisfaction, while Joe danced around in horror.

  “Jack old fellow, I now see what you mean. No wonder you were scared!” he shouted. “What the hell is it? Is it dangerous?”

  “I thought so at first,” I said. “but I think he’s quite harmless - even helpful” (thinking of Fred’s defence of my car).

  “I wouldn’t put money on that” he replied. The firework display had died down with Fred now gently glowing a soft shade of salmon pink. Joe looked suspiciously at it, obviously not convinced of Fred’s harmless innocence. He sat down on the nearest chair and surveyed the enemy, watching while the glow faded and Fred assumed his normal cold, grey exterior. “Why have you given it a name? That only encourages it. What is it anyway? How can we get rid of it?” I noted the “we”. He had now assumed part-ownership of Fred. “Can’t we lose it somewhere - somewhere a very long way away?”

  “No good” I said. “Fred is mobile. He even landed on my desk at work. He comes flying back wherever he is taken.”

  Joe looked incredulous. “What? You mean to say it has intelligence?”

  “Sort of” I replied, but did not mention Fred’s other talents. I could see present knowledge was quite enough for Joe to take in for the time being.

  “Surely the authorities should be
informed.” he suggested. “It may have been sent by some foreign power to spy on us.”

  “I had a job convincing you” I replied. “If Fred stays just the way he is at the moment, we would simply be laughed at.” He agreed that was true. “Can we kill it in some way? Smash it up?”

  “Out of the question.” I replied. In some curious way, I felt defensive of my curious companion of the last few days. “His ghost would probably come back to haunt us.”

  Even Joe laughed at that remark. “You seem convinced this thing has magic powers. There must be some logical explanation. I don’t believe in the occult or any of that stuff and nonsense. This is some kind of machine created in some laboratory by some mad boffin in some university. There is probably a computer inside. I have a scientist friend who could take it apart and analyse its contents.” He strode over to the now quiet Fred and picked him up. At least, he started to until his hand disappeared. He dropped the stone as if it was red hot.

  “Help!” he shouted. Did you see that?” He looked at his hand, now returned to normal. He rubbed it to make sure it was real. I stayed where I was, calmly enjoying the drama. “Jack, did you see that?” he repeated. I nodded. “That was what I was trying to prove to you last time and nothing happened. Remember? If you had continued to hold it, you would have disappeared altogether.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to repeat the experiment.” he said. “I only hope the thing doesn’t land in my flat. I’m going downstairs to think this over. Perhaps Betty might suggest something. Let us know if you need help, Jack.”

  He left, leaving me ruefully to reflect it hadn’t been too bad a day after all. Was that a grin I detected on Fred’s somewhat craggy face?

  I MEET