February

It was early in February that I found myself on a train bound for London. As predicted, January’s kidnapping incident had taken its toll on poor Jennifer Garner, my gold-fish who was experiencing sneezing fits and some often rather violent mood swings. I had, nevertheless, decided to drop all charges against lady-human-the-actress-Jennifer-Garner (alias Alias out of Alias). What she did was morally indefensible, it’s true, but her apology – texted from a Los Angeles steam room – was so heartfelt and so sincere that I accepted her pleas for forgiveness and, in fact, posted her my Cactus Jack Panini sticker album as a gesture of goodwill. I hear she’s now living a happy and law-abiding life, though both Alias and Electra have failed to fill the perceived niche awaiting a female Hollywood action hero to make big at the box office.

In any case, I was speeding toward the capital to meet an appointment I had made with a fish specialist – a Scotsman who operates out of King’s Cross (the underground station not the district of London!) and who was recommended to me by an old school friend – an Irishman who operates out of habit – and his wife, a welsh doctor who wears a habit and operates out of a kind of hopeful, desperate guilt for her previous failings in the Emergency Room. Jennifer, on the plastic tabletop before me, was not helping the journey to go smoothly, it must be said.

With each of the fish’s powerful sneezes, a jet of murky water of considerable size was propelled in the direction of the gentleman and lady who had the misfortune to be sitting across the aisle. Thrice had the occupants of this seat been doused with Jennifer’s ejaculations and thrice had I shrugged a silent apology, each time offering a polo mint and a meek smile, both of which were refused with scowls.

Dripping wet and reeking to high heaven, the unfortunate couple decided to leave their drenched seats as we approached Tavistock – to alight, or simply to change carriages, I know not which. A glare and muttered chorus of obscenities was the last I saw of them but I noticed, as they forced themselves through the narrow doorway of the vestibule with a curious plopping sound, that they were Siamese twins, joined at the hip, shoulder, head, ankle, elbow and hat.

For the next few minutes I continued in silence, with the entire carriage to myself. Curiously, the gold-fish’s disruptive sneezing had abated as soon as our co-joined counterparts made their exit but I began to grow concerned now at the low level of water remaining in Jennifer’s bowl. The poor fish was forced to lie with his mouth pressed to the floor and was tapping on the glass rather feebly with a fin in an attempt to arouse my attention.

As I was about to carry the bowl, fish and all, to the buffet car and inquire as to the price of Perrier, a pale-faced gentleman took the seat opposite. Before I could ask him politely to keep an eye on my coat and overnight bag, he raised a finger to his lips and bid me silence (stay awhile) and produced, from his cloak, a ceramic pitcher of water, which he poured into Jennifer’s bowl with a wide-eyed and stretched-mouthed smile. As he finished the act with a flourish and hurled the empty pitcher forcibly into the next carriage, words failed me. I sat back and gleefully applauded, as did the ticket collector upon whose head the jug had somehow become wedged. Faint cries of “bravo” and “well done” could be heard echoing around within.

For the next hour or so, and much to my delight, my new travelling companion proceeded to entertain with similar tricks, all performed in silence and each culminating in some wonderful surprise: a bunch of flowers, a white dove, lightning striking a nearby church, a tiny plastic moustache for Jennifer. The fellow – he spoke not a word – was dressed in a tight-fitting, striped, Breton-style shirt and black pantaloons. His wide, expressive eyes were each surrounded by a ring of black mascara and, perched upon his gelled-back hair, rested a small bowler hat with a daisy in the band. My gold-fish and I looked on, open-mouthed, as he placed a toaster on the table and then slotted two slices of bread within this appliance.

Despite there being no plug on the toaster (it was a simple pink child’s toy replica), within a few moments the bread popped back up and was, incredibly, toasted a crisp golden brown. Steam rose from the device as if to dispel any doubts. The chap grinned once more, gestured elaborately for me to take and taste a slice but, as I made so to do, his face contorted into a furious glare. Whisking the toaster and its contents from the table, he looked at me in the eye as he broke his long silence.

He was, I was informed, the cChosen oOne, the last of his people. He named his race, I think, a longing in his voice and eyes as he said the word, but he spoke so quickly and feverishly – as if making up for his long silence – that it was all I could do to follow the gist of what he was saying.

People are undeserving of the Earth’s beauty, he said. Their lack of belief in magic will be their undoing. In terror, the human race clings pathetically to vicious lies, he told me. Clementines sometimes have have pips, he asserted, and it says so on the packaging if people would only look before making a purchase. The endtimes, he promised, were coming. More like him were destined to follow.

There are, I was told, certain areas of certain European cities wherein womenfolk strip naked for the arousal of paying customers. Seated in booths, hiding behind glass partitions, the customers are allowed – even encouraged – to perform self-abuse until their seed is scattered upon the tiled floor.

But this sordid business, I was assured, is simply the beginning.

As dawn breaks and these bestial theatres close their doors, the world’s most accomplished scientists are called in to extract DNA strands from the spilt semen. They are, my companion informed me, ever searching, ever seeking – from Amsterdam to the back streets of Barcelona – for the genetic code that will allow mankind to be reborn anew: the DNA sequence that, separated from its tangled, natural mesh, will allow the cloning of an army – a legion – of others such as he.

I confess, I drifted off at this point and, when I awoke, just outside Reading, the curious gentleman was gone. Across from the gently dozing Jennifer and a small puddle of drool I’d left on the tabletop was the only clue that he’d ever existed: a small pile of toast crumbs and a jumbo photo album full of dozens of snapshots of our encounter (taken, presumably, from a hidden camera in the luggage rack).

No matter! I awoke Jennifer Garner with a light tapping on his glass. Soon we would be in London.