CHUCKWALLA

Paul was pulling up just as they were moving away. I kept the door open to let out the heat. The fire was left on again as I waited for an explanation. Paul was grinning as he jumped out his car. It was just my way of getting at them, this whole society thing. I could see he’d been upset by his experiences in the jail. He was determined that the landlord should foot the bill. I scolded, “Hey, you just got to get on with it; don’t hate for it. What if the whole place catches fire?” I was angry. I rushed upstairs and grabbed my portfolio and then rushed back down into the living room. I shook out the contents all over the floor. “You would be destroying the only bit of self-esteem I have left. This is all I have; think what you are doing.” I sat down on the settee, frustrated at the thought of coming home to cinders. Paul put up his hands as though to praise God and went to speak, but he was frozen as he looked down at the collection of written works and at the pictures. “But what are they?” he asked. “Designs and poetry.” Paul bent down as if to gather up the work and selected a piece to study. “Hey, Max, these are good. I like this and this, and blimey, look at this.” All of a sudden Paul seemed transformed. “I’m going to write up the best music ever, and those are the some cover designs to go with the music. You see, I played in a band once. Perhaps one day, who knows?” “Yeah, I see what you mean.” “Blimey, you really did these?” Paul helped me put the work back into the shabby folder. “I’m trying to finish this one; can u see what it’s trying to depict?” “Not really, although it’s a good likeness of the Predator, ha ha!” “Don’t laugh,” I said, “this is serious and could very well happen.” Paul looked a little closer. “Right, I’ll try and work it out.” “This may help.” I reached down and took out the original piece, done in collage cuttings from magazines. “So you have documented or predicted a warning?” “Yes. The prediction is a warning. They are working to do this. One suspect has been traced to Leeds. I have new information that these are the targets. Operatives have gone to find where in Leeds they are; they’ve been tracked for some time now, and they’ve been operating from inside several prisons in the UK.” “How do you know this is going to happen?” “I’ve studied at it. This is the final conclusion; this will happen if these terrorists are not found and stopped. Paul, I need your contacts. Do you trust me?” “You really are mad, Max. This is genocide.” Paul sat down, looking at the original and comparing to the drawing. “Look, wake up to the world, Paul. Can you see now what it’s all about?” Paul put down the work and asked again, “How you know, though?” “It’s already been tried in the late eighties; although the plot was successful, they’d gone the wrong way around it and planted the explosives in the basement.” “Sheeks, a van packed full of stuff. If they’d put that in the right place, it would have been similar to the Oklahoma bombing – pure devastation,” he mused. “Right, well, just put this little lot away, and you’re going to tell me about this bloody smell – a carpet glue, where’s it coming from? Have you got some kind of project on the go?” “Well, erm, hang on,” Paul stammered. “I’ll come clean. It’s me solvent abuse – I sniff it.” I was taken back a bit and thought, “In his twenties and resorting to that? He’s got access to all that dope, and he’s sniffing a two-sov can of glue?” I said to Paul, “Right, at least now I know. Who do you work for?” Paul started laughing as he reached in his pocket and produced a well-rolled spliff and clicked his lighter to ignite it. “Hey, let me see the lighter a sec.” Paul handed me a lighter shaped and looked like a cigarette. Immediately I had it in bits, turned the valve, and said, “Now try it.” He lit it after flicking down the lid and dropped it after it nearly took his eyebrows. “Don’t be spiking me again, Paul – I ain’t forgot, you know.” “How I ended up here is of no concern of yours, mate; don’t you think it’s time?” Paul offered the half-smoked spliff. I knew he liked one for himself. “Better than that putty black you’ve been getting, Max.” He never commented on the weed. I took a few smokes; it reminded me of incense or joss sticks. “What’s that you’ve laced in it?”