Dick Longg: Sexual Saviour of the Universe (22 page)

The man who asked the question nodded and another serious looking man seated behind him spoke. ‘This mysterious figure, this ‘harlot hunter’ you’ve created, I’ve never seen anything like him. He’s not like any old Tom, Dick or Harry’.

The audience murmured in agreement. Dick walked over to the mechanical man still standing silently on the stage and put his hand on its shoulder.

‘You’re right’, Dick agreed. ‘He’s special. He’s not like any old Tom, Dick or Harry. His name is Jack’. He paused. ‘Jack the Ripper. He was inspired by a historic figure I came across in my research. A figure from the original Victorian era… so you see there’s a certain symmetry to his reappearance now’.

Another eruption of applause. The entire audience was again on its feet giving him an unprecedented level of vocal support. ‘Fuck you, Dr. Hargreaves’. Dick thought, ‘This is
my
show!’ Dick walked to the front of the stage, his arms held out, basking in the adoration directed at him. If he’d known that the whole demonstration was being filmed and watched remotely he probably wouldn’t have acted so over-confidently or so arrogantly. Many miles away the observer made notes about what had taken place and his thoughts about Dick.
 
The last note written was ‘cocksure’.

The Leader put his pen down and sat back to contemplate what he’d just seen.

CHAPTER 17

‘How are you feeling?’, enquired Vera as an old man hobbled painfully into the empty office early the next morning. The old man was actually Dick, except he wasn’t actually an old man, he just acted like one. Slowly and painfully he lowered himself into his chair. He winced and he grimaced. He even flinched and cringed. His whole body ached; his bruised back was a fetching shade of black, purple and blue. His left shoulder was acutely painful – the result of it being popped into place after he dislocated it. Dick didn’t know what made him leap off that stage into the audience. Well actually, he did. It was the whole buzz and knowledge that at that moment, all the spectators loved him. The problem was that none of the assembled Party members, scientists or technicians in this era understood the concept of crowd surfing.

Rather than catch Dick and propel him over their heads as he leapt off the stage, they panicked and performed an impromptu impersonation of the
Red Sea
. Dick remembered hurtling towards the unyielding floor and then, nothing. He’d been unconsciousness for about a minute before being revived and examined by a medical doctor in the audience who diagnosed the dislocated shoulder and kindly relocated it for him.

‘I’ve just seen the official report,’ Vera said, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Dick recoiled in agony.

‘Sorry!’, Vera exclaimed. She replaced her hand much more gently and gave Dick’s shoulder a soft, almost sensuous, rub. An anxious Dick turned his head to look at her hand but in doing so cricked his neck, causing him yet more pain.

Vera spoke as she continued rubbing, ‘The Party observers found your methods severe, yet satisfactory, and have made unconditional recommendations that Jack should be sent, ‘into the field’, as it were, to commence his work’.

Her caresses continued in gentle circles. ‘I like brutality in a man’, she said in her low voice. ‘It’s a very appealing trait…’

The rubbing was soothing and Dick gently closed his eyes, enjoying this temporary release from pain. He knew his solution was brutal.
Taylor
had told him that the Party was ruthless which is why he felt they would approve of his solution. The display was frightening in its violence but Dick didn’t have any qualms about sending Jack out to perform his dirty deeds. These were only robots after all, robots that were being decommissioned, as Jack would be, after his work was done. Dick suddenly shook himself alert and opened his eyes. He saw Vera a few inches from his face, staring into his eyes. In a reflex move he let out an involuntary scream and an equally shocked and alarmed Vera screamed back.

Dick’s dislocated shoulder turned out to be a good cover for his protracted absence from work. In addition to wincing whenever he twisted or turned in an awkward way, Dick spent the rest of the day going about his normal duties; drafting reports, poring over statistics and analysing research findings. Project
Gladstone
was still very much under cover and as far as Dick was aware, no one in the department knew anything about it apart from Vera. She’d left early for a meeting and the office was empty apart from Dick who was just finishing his work for the evening, and Benjamin who sidled up to him.

‘I’m glad you’re back at work Jeremy. I’m pleased you’re recovering’, he said. ‘What exactly happened?’

Dick gulped. A gulp which said, if it was at all possible to interpret gulps, ‘Fuck. I’ve just realised I never checked with Vera about the cover story for my illness and my time off’. ‘Er, I fell over at home’, Dick said rather unconvincingly. ‘Clumsy accident really. I slipped getting out of the shower and dislocated my shoulder’.

‘Dislocated it, eh?’ Benjamin gave him the sort of look that indicated he didn’t think this was a serious enough injury to warrant two weeks away from work.

‘Yes. Dislocated it and also fractured it. In eight places. Cracks everywhere. Terrible mess, terrible. Lucky I still have use of my arm. And my shoulder’. Dick switched off his computer terminal. He wanted to leave before Benjamin asked any more tricky questions. Unfortunately he was too late.

‘Really?’, said Benjamin. ‘We were told you were ill in hospital’.

‘I was’, Dick said, completely and utterly forgetting that this had been part of the cover story. ‘There were, er, complications’.

‘Such as’, Benjamin enquired.

‘Pardon?’, said Dick anxiously, playing for time.

‘What sort of complications were there?’, pressed Benjamin.

‘Pardon?’, said Dick again, playing for more time.

‘What complications occurred?’. Benjamin wouldn’t let this go.

Dick said the first thing that came into his head and for once, it was quite a good first thing, ‘I got an infection from the fracture and it caused problems’. He pointed to his lap and whispered, ‘Down there’. Benjamin raised an eyebrow. Dick knew he had to say something about his condition that would put an end to Benjamin’s prying and this meant something so personal and so unpleasant that no one would want to say something like, ‘Let’s have a look, then’.

‘I got acute blood poisoning of my testicles’, Dick explained. ‘They swelled up like footballs and secreted a thick greenish crispy pus out of my scrotum that smelled of vinegar and stilton. It was awful Benjamin. Just awful! It’s still weeping a bit now’.

‘I see’. Benjamin’s tone indicate he didn’t believe a word of anything Dick had just said but his expression implied he certainly wasn’t going to call his bluff and ask him to verify it. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway…’, he added, ‘Congratulations!’

‘On my recovery?’, Dick enquired, as he attempted to find a pain-free way of putting on his jacket.

Benjamin sidled even closer to Dick and lowered his voice. ‘No. On your recent demonstration. I hear it was quite a success’.

Dick frowned as Benjamin continued, ‘News travels fast, especially, if like me, you’ve got a close relative in the Party’. He looked at Dick more intently. ‘Yes, that’s right Dick. You’re not the only person to have this sort of association. It seems your solution to Project Gladstone has been highly regarded.’

‘Glad-what?’, asked Dick, this time frowning more severely to try and elicit the right degree of surprise.

‘I know all about it!’, exclaimed Benjamin, with more than a trace of annoyance in his voice. ‘And I know a lot more, too’.

Dick gulped as Benjamin continued.

‘I’ve used my connections and I’ve been digging. Believe me, I’ve dug deep, really deep. Subterranean almost. You know what’s really odd? Despite what you told me, I can’t find any trace of you having a relative in the Party. None whatsoever’. Benjamin’s voice was now raised. ‘I thought if you’ve lied about this, what else have you lied about? The annoying thing is that your personal record checks out. It even confirms you were hospitalised last week. But I’m certain you are not who or what you seem and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it’.

Dick shrugged his shoulders and after wincing again from the sharp pain that shot up his back, immediately wished he hadn’t.

What Benjamin said next came out sounding like a threat. Not the sort of threat like ‘Unless you give me the map to the hidden treasure I will introduce you to Mister Pliers and his companion Señor Red Hot Poker’, but a more subtle form of intimidation.

‘The Party obviously values your successful solution but I know something they will value even more’.

What Benjamin said next filled Dick with dread.

‘The unmasking of an impostor in their midst’. Benjamin leant close to Dick and narrowed his eyes. ‘Need I say more?’

Dick knew Benjamin didn’t need to. He’d said enough. More than enough in fact. On a scale of one to ten, if ‘enough’ was five, then Benjamin had said thirty-two. Dick was very worried. There was no knowing how high in the Party Benjamin’s connections were or even what resources he had at his own disposal. Working alongside an annoying prick of a work colleague was one thing; he could tolerate that. Working alongside an annoying, jealous, interfering, suspicious, distrustful prick with access to his records, who was determined to reveal Dick’s real identity was another.

Benjamin doffed his hat and began to walk out. Pausing in the doorway, he turned to face Dick, ‘Have a good evening Jeremy’. He turned back round and walked out. Without breaking his stride Benjamin nonchalantly added, ‘If that is, in fact, your real name… ‘.

And with that, he was gone.
 

- - o O o - -

The next day, things had returned to normal. Well, as normal as they could be, considering that your co-worker had threatened to reveal your most deeply kept secret which would inevitably result in cruel and unusual punishments and your eventual death. Benjamin never referred to this recent conversation and went about his business as usual. He met in private with Vera once more; Dick hoped this was part of Benjamin’s new campaign to persuade her of his abilities and not part of his campaign to unmask him. Or maybe it was both - that way he would be extremely well-positioned to assume a senior role. Dick tried to immerse himself again in the various National Hat Week tasks but found it very hard to concentrate. After working on Project Gladstone he found the whole hat project as unstimulating as a hotel pay-per-view ‘adult’ movie channel. While Dick pushed paper around his desk, Jack was being fine-tuned and undergoing last-minute checks from the technicians. There was nothing more for Dick to do.

He felt a bit resentful that all progress on the project was being communicated directly to Vera, and that, for the time being, he was well and truly out of the loop. He was slightly aggrieved that no one from the Party had thanked him directly, but wasn’t sure if his expectations had been too high. Dick appreciated that his previous thoughts of a ticker-tape parade were unrealistic but still hoped his achievements would be sufficient enough to bring him to the attention of the Party hierarchy. Of course, this assumed that his solution to Project Gladstone would be a total success. What would happen if Jack too, went rogue? Or worse. What if he caught fire, or his head exploded or he started attacking real flesh and blood women like his infamous namesake? This was all completely out of Dick’s control and this made him frustrated in addition to resentful. Even with his limited knowledge of the Party, Dick knew that a consequence of Jack failing would be his own falling out of favour. Because of this alone, Jack
had
to work. This was his one shot to infiltrate the Party; to use one of the taglines Dick had devised in his previous career for a RomCom about dental technicians, ‘You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression’.

While Dick continued to worry about Jack’s mission, a great drama was unfolding in the entrance lobby at the Ministry of Information which, if Dick had known about it, would have caused him even greater anxiety. Stationed there were a team of two security guards, one of whom was Frank, a pock-marked, unattractive, heavy-set man who suffered from a birth defect; an extra Stupid chromosome. While pleasant enough, or as pleasant as anyone working in a security role can be, Frank was particularly dim. He’d been hired for his bulk not for his brain on the basis that a criminal element would probably try and force their way past him, rather than force him to enter into a discussion about Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and existential despair. Frank was the type of security guard, who, if finding a fountain pen on the floor would pick it up, look at it and think, ‘Hmmm. A fountain pen’, and put it into the lost property container that was kept behind the reception desk.