Jezz’s Daily Story

Let me tell you a story. It won’t take long, it’s a short story.

In Japan they speak of a monster – a yokai – who haunts bathrooms. Dirty ones. Its name is Akaname and it has strained red skin and feet which end in a single toe and a curled, withered nail. Akaname haunts dirty old bathrooms because he relishes the scum that accumulates around plugholes of sinks and the mold that grows between cracked tiles. He hides while old men bathe, waiting for the water to drain and the lights to turn off so he can slide silently into the tub and indulge himself in the filth. He licks it, with his craven tongue dry and white, slipping in and out from his flushed cheeks. He loves this scum, it nourishes him: it is his obsession. He licks it, sucks it up; he will be there all night. He licks it, this filth. And licks it.

I have been around for a long time – longer than you might believe – and in this time I’ve been to Japan. I have met many yokai and I have met Akaname. It was a motel, or an inn, or a nobleman’s estate; I can’t remember the exact era, but it was a decrepit old place. I was getting ready for sleep and I came into the bathroom, and in the low light of a flickering bulb or a burning lantern I saw the filth-licker there, red and writhing with some intense pleasure; sliding manically to get to the dirtiest corners and lick them. It was a rotting old bathroom and the muck there was particularly foul, and in his orgasmic fervour the thing failed to notice me entirely.  I stood there for a while and thought about how to react to this remarkable phenomena. It was only when he looked up at me, startled and squealing,  that I took the only action a man of my particular profession ought to take.

I met Akaname – and I licked him.

No time to write! I’ve been too busy enjoying fine music. In honour of the Billy Bragg show, I’m going to post one of his own stories for you. This guy’s great – listen to him if you haven’t.

 —

She said it was just a figment of speech
And I said “You mean figure,” and she said “No, figment”
Because she could never imagine it happening. But it did.

When we first met I played the Shy boy.
When she spoke to me for the first time my nose began to bleed -
She guessed the rest.

The next day we went on a bus ride to the ferry,
And when nobody came to collect our fares
Well I knew then this was something special.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her
And every time I switched on the radio
There was somebody else singing a song about the two of us.

It was just like being on a fast ride at the fun fair -
The sort you want to get off because it’s scary,
And then as soon as you’re off you want get straight back on again.
But oh love is strange
And you have to learn to take the crunchy with the smooth I suppose.

She began going out with Mr. Potato Head.
It was when I saw her in he car park,
With his coat around her shoulders that I realized.
I went home and thought about the two of them together
Until the bathwater went cold around me.
I thought about her eyes and the curve of her breasts
And about the point where their bodies met.

I confronted her about it -
I said, “I’m the most illegible bachelor in town,” And she said “Yeah that’s why I
could never understand any of those silly letters you sent me.”
And then one day it happened -
She cut her hair and I stopped loving her.

We soared down the streets on our pushbikes, our school bags propelling us like jetpacks; we skidded on the flat curves and pushed heavily again on the upward slopes. I could always make it to the top but my brother had to get off half way and push. From the asphalt peak of the hills we could see red-rooved houses, strips of cut grass and cool blue pools dappled in lucky backyards. At the bottom of it all, a wooden fort in a semi-circle of dry lawn, cornered off by a chain fence. It was the park – our distant goal.
    – Wait up, said Zach.
    – Come on, I said. Ready?
    – No, I’m puffed.
    – Can’t you ride up the hill?
    – I can if I want, I just didn’t want to.
    – Yeah right. Come on!
    He followed behind and I rode a lazy weave across the central dashed stripe of the road. We descended, down alongside the brick houses at the bottom of the hill, looking into the front gardens and at the ratty curtains behind the windows. I pedalled steadily, Zach calling out from behind. I didn’t want to stop and wait there. I wanted to get to the park.
    – Hurry up, Zach, I called. We’re almost there.
    – Slow down for a second!
    – Why should I?
    – Please?
    I curved around and rode back towards him.
    – Ride faster, I said, letting him pass me then following right behind.

We pulled up and left our bikes leaning against the chain fence. I climbed up onto the fort first and put my backpack down on the dry wooden slats. Zach clambered up behind me, struggling to get over the top rail. He slumped down in the corner.
    – Did you bring anything?
    – Oh, not much, I said. Lego.
    – No you didn’t.
    – Wanna bet? I brought the blue box.
    – But Mum said you – he said. You’re gonna get busted!
    – She won’t know. It’s okay, I take it out all the time.
    Zach opened my backpack and pulled out the closed blue chest; it had plastic latches and a crocodile sticker half-peeled from the top. He opened it and started pulling out peices.
    – Hey, don’t make a mess, I said. I sat down next to him. It’s my lego.
    – It’s our lego, he said.
    – I carried it.
    – Doesn’t matter.
    Zach started building a spaceship and I gathered the men; I swapped their heads and their little plastic bodies around until I had a uniform group of four astronauts. I lined them up on a long white block and pushed their arms down against their sides.
    – What are you making? I asked.
    – It’s a Star Destroyer.
    – No it’s not, I said.
    – It is too.
    – No, Star Destroyers are the biggest spaceships in the galaxy. They’re nearly as big as the Death Star.
    – Are not.
    – They are. They can fit about a million people on them. That only has one seat.
    – Nah, um, two. And two can sit on the wings. Give me-
    – Leave them! That’s my army.
    – But there’s only a pirate left.
    – I don’t care. Here, this guy looks better. Put him in.
    I left the four-man army by the blue case and we stood up with Zach’s spaceship; I grabbed it off him and put it at the top of a metal slide, which angled down from the play-house to a scuffed patch of dirt below
    – Want to send it into space?
    – Don’t, he said. It’ll smash.
    – Doesn’t matter, I’ll get it.
    – You’ll lose some! Here, let me push it.
    He tapped the back end of the lego ship and it slid down the smooth metal slowly, angling sideways. It stopped before the end.
    – That was dumb, I said.
    – Jake? asked Zach.
    – What?
    – Can you see that?
    A man was walking through the park, from the side where our bikes were propped against the fence. He was wearing black pants, a padded blue and yellow jacket, and a helmet with a black visor. He strode across the grass and stopped to look up at our silent stares. Zach stepped backwards. He trod on the row lego men and then kncked over the case of lego with his foot.
    – What are you doing? I shouted. God, it’s gone everywhere.
    Zach got down and scrambled to pick up the bits of lego. When I looked back at the man he was already on the other side of the park, heading towards a motorbike which was parked by a telegraph pole.
    – Can we please go home after this, Jake? he asked.
    – Okay, I said. I have to get the spaceship first.
    I pulled myself up onto the slide but I didn’t go down to get the lego ship straight away; not until after I’d watched the man get on his bike and roar around the corner amidst an amazing thunder.

I got home and spilled the groceries across the counter. There were some potatoes, ginger, a jar of curry paste. I let the chicken sit out because he didn’t even say Hello.

 - I might go get some beer, he said.
    – Are you cooking? I asked.
    – You can if you want.
    – I don’t mind.
    – Do you want to?
    – Do you want to?

When he went to get beer I pushed his couch back against the wall and started vacuuming. I put the cushions on the table and the chairs on the couch and the game controllers on top of the dusty bookshelf. Then I messaged him and asked him to bring home flowers. He didn’t. He said that he walked home the other way anyway, but I’m not sure I believed him.

- Can I watch Amazing Race? I asked.
    – Hang on.
    – It starts in a minute.
    – Isn’t Amazing Race on Wednesday?
    – No, it’s on tonight
    – You sure?
    – Yes, I’m sure.
    – Hang on.

I went into the bathroom to look at my face. I went to the toilet. He asked me if I wanted a beer, and I took one and drank a little bit. I left the half-full bottle sitting on the counter, next to the raw chicken. Then I started reading a book.

- Are you cooking dinner? he asked. What are you doing?
    – I thought you were supposed to cook tonight. I’m reading.
    – I’m hungry, he said. Should I cook?
    – Don’t even worry about it, I said.

He was playing games. I sat next to him for a while, with my eyes closed, listening to the music and the sound effects repeat. I stood up. I put away the vacuum cleaner, which still had its xylophone-tube spread out across the hardwood floor. I was hungry. I put the ginger in the garlic bowl and the curry paste in the cupboard, but left the chicken in its plastic bag on the counter.

- You left the chicken out, he said.
    – I know, I said. I thought you were going to cook.
    – I can’t cook that.
    – There’s nothing wrong with it.
    – It’s been out for hours.
    – It’s fine.
    – Alright. I’ll start.
    – Don’t worry, I said. It’s nearly ten already. Forget it.
    – How come you didn’t finish the beer? he said. You should finish it.
    – I was finishing it.
    – I’ll finish it, he said.

I woke up when he came into bed. He put his arm over my shoulder and I brushed it off. He said something to me, but I was tired, so I ignored it and fell back to sleep hungry and thinking about wasted chicken.

I woke up again. I’m not sure what the time was. There was a loud ringing noise and it took me a while to realise it was the emergency siren. He woke up too and we both got up and slipped our jeans and shirts on. The noise was getting louder and a recorded voice told us to leave the building immediately.

- Should I take the camera? he asked.
    – No, let’s just go.
    – I’ll take the laptop.
    – Okay, I said.
    – Come on. Come on.

We hurried down the concrete stairwell. There were a few other people too but nobody was speaking. When we pushed open the double emergency doors at the bottom it was raining and cold outside. We crossed the road with our hands over the backs of our heads and looked across at the building. He slipped his arm under mine and we watched the tired residents file out of the emergency door with their pyjamas on. Others in the building looked down at us from their balconies, smoking cigarettes.

- Cold, I said.
    – Yeah, he said. You want to sit down?
    – I’m okay. It’s wet.
    – Yeah.

People were chatting under the cover on the other side of the road. We could still hear the alarm, and every now and then, the recorded voice telling people to leave the building immediately.

- I’m hungry, he said. Do you want to go find some food?
    – Is anything open?
    – I don’t know.
    – Okay, I said.

We ducked out of the cover and jogged away with our hands over our heads.

Her hair was Cadmium Red, in a bob curled up under her ears; she wore a floral dress with straps that hung loosely on her sunburnt shoulders. She was Canadian, and her accent lingered over the cash register long after she took my money and wrapped up the three tubes of oil paint I’d taken absentmindedly.
    “What do you paint?” she’d asked. She was short, and she looked up at me with wide eyes.
    “Paint? Oh, not much, lately. It’s hard to be inspired these days. Not much new to see.”
    “Oh, that’s not true.”
    “I need to travel. Been here too long.”
    “Oh, no,” she said. “This city is magical. There’s always something new to see.”
    “You think?” I said.
    “I know!” She smiled.
    “Thanks – see you,” I said. but I stayed there as she smoothed back her hair and crumpled a receipt and threw it in the bin.
    “You alright?” she asked.
    “Would you show me?” I asked.
    “Show you?”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “Forget it.”
    “No, no – I’d love to, I mean, I have to work until Friday, but – the weekend is okay. Maybe, Saturday afternoon? Nowhere too far, we could meet here and walk?”
    “From here?” I asked. “I mean, there’s nothing – you’re sure?”
    “Oh, I’m sure. Saturday morning?”
    “I’ll be here.”
    “Don’t stand me up!” she said.
    I smiled and nodded and thought about her accent on the way out. I walked home, not by the busy highway but down the rows of tree-lined suburban streets which ran crookedly to the main beach’s promenade. Those were the streets I grew up in; there wasn’t a low brick wall or nail-marked telegraph pole I hadn’t hidden behind with a water-pistol in hand. I’d stumbled back home up those hills drunk; weaved across them effortlessly on bikes and skateboards; photographed ceramic pipes exhumed outside renovated homes, and written poems about the sound of the lorikeets in the straight palms and hunched gums. I thought of the Canadian girl leaning on one of those trees, maybe at the park off Shirley Street or up by the headland, grinning, stroking her flame-red hair, and asking me what I thought. I would hug her and tell her it was terribly inspirational.

On Saturday I waited outside with my hands in my pockets. She came out of the shop wearing high shorts and a t-shirt, the strap of her bikini tied behind her neck in a yellow bow. She was holding a plastic bag with four small tubes of gouache, a brush and a pad of paper in it. Her hair was as brilliant as ever, and I wanted to touch it to see if it was real.
    “Hi!” she said. “Here, this is for you – a present. And don’t open it!”
    It was sealed by a thin strip along the top edge.
    “Oh, you didn’t need to, I mean I have plenty of paint. This way? Thank you, though. I’ll use it.”
    “Oh, you’ll use it alright.” We waited at an intersection while glossy cars filed past around the corner.
    “Scarlet red?” I asked, looking at the contents of the clear bag. “Aquamarine? I guess we’re not going for a bushwalk.”
    “Very clever! Here, this way.”
    “We can go down here, if we’re headed to the beach. It’s a nicer walk,”
    “Sounds good,” she said.

We left our shirts and Havaianas on the sand, between the lifeguards’ red-and-yellow flags, and walked to the corner of the beach where the shore met the rocks. I carried the plastic bag limply, not sure of its purpose.
    “Are you ready?” she asked, looking back at me. She was standing with one bare foot on a shell-encrusted rock. She smoothed back her hair again, pushing it behind her ears. I thought she might pull it off; reveal a bald and smooth scalp shimmering in the bright sun. But she only took my hand, and we waded out into the water.
    We swam out around the broken base of the headland. The bag of gouache was clutched in my trailing hand as I tried to keep up with her. The sun was bright and it was hard to see in the glare – I wanted to ditch the bag, submerge myself completely and overtake her from below. But I didn’t – I let her lead until we had rounded the corner, past where the fallen rocks became sheer wall, to where there was nowhere to climb out. I didn’t know if she wanted to swim all the way to the next beach; all the way across the city’s rough and battered coast.
    “Here,” she said, spitting out a bit of salt water. “Follow me. And careful of the bag!”
    There was a little gap at the base of the cliff I hadn’t noticed; a narrow slice which was covered and uncovered with the lapping of the waves. She dived down and I saw her red hair just below the surface until it disappeared under the cliff. I ducked down too, struggling to swim in the darkness, with my left hand holding the bag to the surface. I wasn’t sure if there was room to breath but I came up anyway when I couldn’t swim any further. It was dark in the cave, too.
    “Hey,” she said. “You alright? You can let. You can let the bag go.”
    “I’m alright,” I said. A wave washed over my mouth. “Dark in here.”
    “Yeah,” she said. The sound of her words echoed up with the sound of the water slapping the rocks in the low lying cave. “It’s nicer at low tide.”
    “I’m sure,” I said.
    “You can,” she said. She spat out more water. “You can sit at the back and see the sunset coming through the gap. At low tide.”
    The bag of gouache bobbed in the dark water next to me.
    “Do you want to go?” she asked.
    “No,” I said. “Let’s wait a minute.”
    And so we waited in the dark cave for while, until our fingers were wrinkled from the water and the bag of paint floated out under the gap and we had to follow it.

When Arnold brought his tablet to work on the day of the Christmas party, people talked. They talked about how he’d been leaving later, with emails from his work computer sent after midnight. They talked about how he had lost weight, and the way that his navy trousers barely stayed up over his hips. They talked about his relationship, and how he’d taken down the picture of himself and his wife squinting and smiling atop Macchu Picchu. They laughed and all looked at him from their huddled group. Arnold finished the rice cracker he was eating and went back to his desk.
    The image on his computer screen, as always, was a leaf. It wasn’t a picture or a drawing, but a three dimensional model; he hunched himself over with his stylus pressed against the tablet to watch it, rotating it to see the light green underside and the veins which laced the surface. Towards its tip there was a blank space, where the dull grey of exposed model replaced the intricate floral texture. He brought this segment to the fore, zooming in and then out again, squinting and tilting his head.

- You know we ship the week after New Year’s. What are you doing? Here, just fill that and we’ll get it in before release. Relax. We’re done. Arnold?
    – Yeah. Sorry? Do you think the Botanic Gardens are open on public holidays? 
    – Huh?
    – The gardens. If the office is closed over Christmas, I might spend some time there.
    – I don’t think so, Arnold. Just get it done, or we’ll roll it back to the last revision.
    – But the last revision – the last revision was completely wrong, it would look absurd.
    – Arnold. It’s a leaf. Fill the damn model, email it to me and go home. If you’re really still concerned go to the gardens over Christmas and start thinking about the sequel. Alright?
    Arnold looked back at the screen.
    – How about I-, he said. I think I need to go for a walk.

The only birch tree in the area was between the carpark and the highway, a scrawny and bent specimen that looked like it might have been run over by a delivery truck and then propped carefully back up. Its white and naked branches spiked up at the grey sky like bones. Arnold kicked at the grass and flat dirt under it. There were a few old leaves, but all were imperfect – soggy, dead, they had been torn by footsteps and beaten by rain. He could only find one worth taking back. Shaped like a heart, he held it to the sun to examine the slight blush along its innermost cheek. He slipped it in his shirt pocket, looked again at the tall tree and then trudged back through the carpark with arms crossed high against his chest.

- You alright there, Arnold? I’m heading off. There’s some cake left in the fridge and, ah. I guess I’ll see you next year.
    – Oh, sorry Shelley. Yeah, I’ll see  you next year.
    – Have a good Christmas, okay? Arnold?
    He peered up over his cubicle. Shelley was standing by the doorway with a backpack slung over her shoulder.
    – Oh. Merry Christmas.
    – Will you remember to turn off the lights? I’m not sure when the cleaners will be in. Goodbye, Arnold.

At nine o’clock Arnold remembered the leaf in his pocket. He slipped it out carefully and placed it on the tablet. He traced around it idly with his finger, then lifted it again and held it against the light of the display. It was thin enough to see right through – its dessicated veins thrusting out from the central stem in parallel. He noticed something about the way the ragged edges merged at the tip; the way the lines angled inwards until they met in a single spike. When he went back to his stylus and tablet, he began to gently manipulate the nodes of the model and brush on new textures.

By five A.M. on Christmas eve, the leaf was finished. It glowed perfectly at the centre of a white canvas, angled slightly so the tip was at the fore. Arnold rubbed his eyes. In structure it was a replica of the one sitting on his tablet, but the digital version was alive. Once dead and wet, it had been summoned up behind the tiny pixels of the monitor and rejuvinated with green blood. The leaf would make it to release. It would be multiplied countless times on a forest of polygon branches, viewed from all angles and illuminated by the coloured light of a hundred different sources. And each time, it would be perfect.

He left his tablet and the leaf behind. He turned out the lights. On the way home, he stopped at the convenience store to get ham and eggs for Christmas breakfast.

As Arnold slept soundly in his silent apartment, and the bells of strange magic tinkled outside the windows of children around the city, the dead leaf on Arnold’s tablet rose up in the dark. His monitor buzzed as it clicked on and the white light it created washed the leaf and Arnold’s empty chair. The leaf began to spin and, in tandem, its on-screen copy spun, too. It lasted for a long time – unwatched at the end of an empty office hall. When the dance ended and the leaf finally fell back down to the tablet it was green and real, as alive as when it had first sprung from a curled bud. And looking over it from the screen, behind a wall of tiny pixels, was its brown, soggy replica, angled so its broken tip pointed to the fore.

He approached the city from the west, through a blackened field of charred corn stumps, holding a square paper bag. The peaks of the three church spires guided him, even from this distance, like fingers thrust into the smokey sky. There was no light coming from the city, not even the orange backlight of low flames which had smouldered under the buildings for so many days.
    He passed an upturned tractor; it was as black as the corn and as slain as the driver, whose half-crushed bones were pinned under the cab. Where the field bordered the road he slipped under a wire fence and walked alongside the old spines of blackberry bushes. Before the fields had given way to flattened homes the silent traffic began – long rows of halted cars, their curved hoods and flat roofs thick with fine grey ash.
    Where the old Punt Bridge had joined the motorway to the city he climbed a wall to follow the river, carefully balancing along the top of the concrete embankment. The tide was low and the sulphur-stench of exposed silt lingered with the smoke in the air like gunfire, like fresh explosions.
    His little wooden boat waited for him, tied to a metal ladder which rose up from the mud on the outer bank. He descended and balanced with one foot on the boat’s rim and another on the ladder, to untie the rope – he held a corner of the paper bag firmly between his teeth. He had to step down to push the boat out to the brown water. He sank up to his knees and struggled to haul himself back in. When he rowed he left an ugly clump of bearded mussels on the outer bank and was welcomed on the other side by a prone silver fish, infrequently spasming in its last gasps for water.
    A boy watched him from a pier, as he navigated the rocky bank between the boat and the next ladder; the child sat with his twig-thin legs dangling like lures over the mud. When he passed underneath he thought he heard a song, not loud but spoken slowly and deliberately. He didn’t stop. He went on over the loose and crusty rocks until he reached the ladder, which he climbed with the paper bag again clenched in his teeth.
    He followed the road again, between empty houses with cracked windows and exposed upper bedrooms. As he progressed along the cobbled roads and came closer to the first of the high church spires, there were bodies on the road; mostly face down and blackened by fire, but some in positions of uncanny animation. A woman scalped of her hair had fallen backwards, with her calves underneath her. A man slumped against a picket fence with no black marks or wounds, a perfect wax-work soldier but for the red spot of a bullethole in the corner of his forehead. 
    The bodies became denser in the commercial district; he had to step carefully and slowly between their fallen limbs. Some barred up shopfronts were intact but many gaped open like gutted beasts, the litter of their stocks a pool around their smashed frontages. Outside restaurants the chairs were upturned and the pubs’ signs had collapsed under the rubble of their detonated dorways.
    The church that he walked through was without a roof – it lay in shattered tiles on the floor of the hall, between pews which seated no bodies, living or otherwise. The hollow place didn’t echo with his footsteps, the noise just dissolved into the low grey clouds overhead. At the alter he passed the unscorched bible without stopping and did not look up at the painted sculpture of Jesus Christ nailed to its crucifix.
    On the other side of the city, in one more suburb of broken town-houses, he entered a decapitated home through its swinging doorway and crept quietly into the basement. He saw his mother propped in the corner, dead, and the fly which buzzed about her belly. His wife was lying on a bench still, saying nothing but staring at him with wide eyes. She breathed heavily and sharply. Her right arm was bandaged from the collarbone to the palm, with thin red fingers which dangled from the wrapped fabric like severed tendons. Her eyes followed him still as he opened the paper bag, lifted her good hand and gave her the heart-shaped chain of daisies.

You can’t see much, from between the galaxies. Distant smears of white light; a few sharp glints from outlying stars, in a pattern vaguely like the curve of a breast – a static wall of pinpoints. A vista that does not budge over the days with any rotation or significant relative movement. There are no colourful explosions of filtered nebulae, or grand ringed planets in aquamarine hues. The most awe inspiring view from the Cobalt II was the painted landscape of an English farm in the recreation room. The Doctor had even managed to grow a potted sunflower just underneath it.
    The crew were halfway to their destination: a star system whose name was printed in an orange envelope, stashed in a drawer in the unmanned bridge. All of the crew had read the briefing notes several times since they had left, but few of them remembered the details. The name of the target planet had as many numbers in its name as letters, and they would not be staying longer than a few brief months in the heavy alien atmosphere before returning to Earth. The journey, the uniformed officer had told them as they were preparing to depart, would be the real work.

It was Sunday. On Sunday, the crew gathered for a communal meal and brought up their concerns. Then the two old men of the ship, Henry and Buddy, would clear the table quickly to begin their weekly game of chess. The five others would move on to the observation room to share a bottle of wine, which they drank from white mugs, and have the only animated conversation of the entire week.
    – But you can’t. You can’t say that. How can you say what’s happened while we’re gone?
    – Well, you know, it’s a guess. We have to guess. We either guess or we sit here and don’t think at all.
    – But you’re bound to be disappointed… It will never be how you think.
    – Oh so what? It never is. When in life – and I mean normal life too, not just out here – when in life do you ever know for certain how things are going to be?
    – It’s not the same, though.
    – Human experience is the same wherever you are. There are never such certainties about how things will work out.
    – I don’t think I agree, I don’t know. Hang on, anyway. Jessica stood up. I’ll be back. Hold that thought.
    Jessica left the conversation and walked back through the glossy rounded corridors to where the two old men were playing chess. They were both hunched over the dining table so that their heads nearly met in the middle, with the plastic chess set shadowed underneath. They were silent as usual. Jessica passed them, opened up a cupboard stuffed with tins and cardboard boxes, and took out a plastic bottle.
    – Can you smell that? asked Buddy.
    Jessica walked back past them.
    – Jess? Can you smell that? Henry can’t smell it.
    – Smell what?
    – I don’t know. Something. He looked up and squinted, then adjusted his glasses.
    – Can’t smell it, said Jess.
    – I can smell it, said Buddy.
    – You’re crazy, said Henry. Come on. Your move.
    When she got back to the observation room Jessica sat back down and listened to the conversation again.
    – Yeah. I miss her a lot, but you need time apart to appreciate each other. Oh, can I have some water, Jess? When you’re done? What were we talking about, anyway.
    Jessica finished her swig of water and handed the bottle to the Doctor.
    – I forget, she said. It was a dumb conversation anyway.

On Monday morning the Doctor went to water his sunflower. It was always wilted, with sad orange petals that curled up and littered the carpet every day; but it survived, as long as the Doctor remembered to bless the black soil with a few drops every now and then. Usually the room was empty, and he could water his plant and sit down and appreciate the English landscape, and the fine brushwork on the stable and the bloom on the horse’s back. But on Monday morning Buddy was standing in the corner, looking at the ceiling.
    – Buddy, said the Doctor.
    – Oh! Doc! Good morning. Sorry, I’ll leave you… Hey, Doc, just quickly – do you think anything could survive? Up here?
    – Well, we’re surviving. That plant’s surviving.
    – No, like, say, in the walls. He looked up, squinted and adjusted his glasses.
    – I find it unlikely. There’s no nutrition. Insects, you mean?
    – No, I was thinking, more like… Only I’ve been smelling something for the last few days, and I figured out what it was last night.
    – Oh?
    – Possum shit.
    – Possum shit? Like, faeces?
    – Shit. Yeah. Can you smell it? It’s strongest in this room.
    – I find it unlikely.
    – You can’t smell anything?
    The doctor looked up, then looked back at Buddy.
    – No, not really. It’s not the soil you’re smelling? The flower?
    – No, no. It’s a distinct smell, I remember it vividly from the old days. There are two things that smell like that – kangaroo shit and possum shit. And there’s sure as hell no bloody kangaroo on here, haha.
    – Let me know if you need anything, Buddy.
    – Right, right. I’ll leave you to it then.

Jessica didn’t recognize the dark figure in the observation room. It was silent and the lights were off, as if a crowd had hushed to gaze out at something in the stars – but there was nothing out there, other than the same distant dots.
    – Who’s that?
    – Shh, said the figure. It’s moved.
    – What’s moved? Buddy?
    – Just, shh. Come here. The possum – it’s above us.
    – What are you talking about? The possum?
    – Can’t you smell it?
    – Buddy? I think you need a rest. Are you feeling alright?
    – Tell me if you can bloody smell it! Ah! Shh.
    Jessica looked up and sniffed.
    – I don’t think so. Buddy, what’s this about a possum?
    – I heard it. It’s gone. Fuck, bloody fuck. Buddy shoved past Jessica and marched out of the observation room. She stood silently for a while, then paced between the walls twice before turning on the lights and taking up a yoga position.

The Doctor was worried about his plant – he hadn’t watered it in three days. He held the bottle of water before his eyes as he walked to the recreation room, tilting it to try to gauge whether there was enough fluid in there to sustain the flower. When he went through the archway into the room he stopped abruptly and spilled the water all over the floor. Buddy was sitting on a stool and pointing a shotgun at him.
    – Hey! Put that down! Ah, the heck are you trying to do?
    – Ha! Almost had you there! G’day, Doc.
    – Good day, Buddy, look – put the gun down, alright?
    – Alright, Doc. Just keep quiet. The possum, he tilted his head backwards, is gonna be out soon. But not if you’re watching. It likes the plant, I think.
    – There’s no – Where did you get that gun, anyway?
    – Brought it on.
    – You didn’t.
    – Alright, I didn’t. I built it, then.
    – You? Ah. There’s no possum, Buddy. Ah, shit. Now I have to go get more water.
    – Already taken care of, Doc.
    The Doctor glanced over Buddy’s shoulder at the plant, which was in the same wilted state it was three days ago.
    – You watered it?
    – Can’t let it die. It’s my bait.
    – You’re not well, buddy.
    – Like hell I’m not. I can smell that possum shit. You guys are the mad ones – can’t let yourselves see something that’s so, hah, unlikely.
    – There is no possum, Buddy.
    – Smell it! Smell the bloody air!
    – There’s no possum. I’m going.

The Doctor had his face in his hands. A plate of steaming vegetables was untouched between his elbows.
    – I’ve been thinking. He’s not a dumb guy, he – I think it could be a tumor. Doc?
    – It’s not a tumor, Jess.
    – I’ve read enough literature in my day, the signs are there – he does seem very certain about the smell. And the conditions, Jess raised her arms, God knows how we aren’t all riddled with disease.
    – It’s not a tumor, look, said Doc. The psychologist said we’d be starting to have some funny reactions at around this point. I’m surprised we haven’t seen any sooner. It just, it just happened a bit more suddenly than I expected.
    There was a loud blast from somewhere else on the ship – then a call, from Buddy – ‘Sorry, Doc.’ Jess stood up.
    – Sit down, Jess.
    – Look, asked one of the others, Has anyone smelled anything? Anything at all, when Buddy’s asked?
    – No, said the Doc. He put his face back in his hands.
    – No, said Jess. Well, not possum shit… maybe just a musty smell, you know? No, I’m sure – it’s a tumor. The guy never eats well, no exercise. Just put it to him, Doc. He’ll listen. There must be some test you can -
    – There’s not. And no, I’m not going to tell a man on a gun rampage searching for an imaginary possum that he has brain cancer.
    – Is there anything else you can do, Doc? asked Henry.
    The doctor put his face in his hands again.
    – There are some things, he mumbled.
    – Pardon?
    He looked up at the rest of the crew, who were quiet and pale-faced and none of them had eaten any food.
    – There’s a thing, he said, and drew a deep breath.