UNREAD STORY by DF Lewis and Margaret B Simon
There were various reasons why Archie murdered Susan—reasons that were actually beyond the mere gratuitousness of the times. There was, of course, the love-hate relationship. Also, he had a passion for her feet. Perhaps that was because he'd had his own foot amputated during the BALKAN WAR (2003). Such a fetiche, furthermore, was enhanced by her feet having beautifully slender ankles, with each toenail varnished crimson. He also thought she aimed to murder him first.
Both had been anonymously named on town centre noticeboards in recent weeks, along with all the other about-to-be-murdereds. Ever since television and the press in general were banned—subsequent to the PROPOGANDA ACT (2005)—there had been an increased appetite for things like scandal, smut, provocation and just plain information syndrome and replacement soap-opera treatment ... and everybody was naturally aware of the black market in such material—not to mention the subliminal gossip columns and fiction fixes that could now be read between the lines of political meetings agenda and council committee minutes. Most were aware, indeed, of which 'publications' had become allowable in the world's neo-puritan age. So, yes, if it were not for the static noticeboards—old-fashioned in their use of drawing-pins and anaemic items of essential information regarding water supplies, curfew hours, transport timetables, faces wanted for crimes et cetera—nobody would know of Archie and Susan: both pictured with staring eyes, mean lips and minds with murder on them.
Whilst nobody was permitted a name following the Disnomenclature Act (2006), it was excusable to finger this otherwise notorious couple. They eventually declared their Banes regarding the dissolution of their marriage during the period when it was difficult to find a path—or audit trail—through the prevailing maze of Deed Polls and Powers-of-Attorney. In fact, Archie and Susan managed to squeeze the reading of their Banes between that of their daughter's and future son-in-law's Banns in the last Church Service to be held in Western Europe, if barely now under the jurisdiction of the United Nations. The next day they would have had to do voluntary community service even to earn the right to the Mr and Mrs titles—simply followed by a number instead of a surname. Otherwise, they would have been abandoned simply as numbers and nothing else. Mr 2748923 was so much more dignified than simply plain old 2748923. As it was, by the skin of their teeth, Archie and Susan were able to put the wedding in the past instead of in the unmagical present and, furthermore, they could retain documents proving their identities beyond the regimentation imposed by the I-AM-NOT-A-NAME-I-AM-A-NUMBER-! ACT (2007). However, such identities did involve co-habiting till kingdom come. No wonder murder rose to the top of their thoughts, floating clear of the other confusions—in the same way as death's perfect simplicity always seemed to arise from the midst of life's tangle.
If we take a closer look at their private lives, we find a disparagement of interests—in short, nothing in common except mutual hatred, by the time their marital documents were confirmed. For example, taped conversations at various times of the day or night were made accessible via the new government and sold to the public, without their knowledge or permission.
Snoring sounds—then breaking of glass.
“Archie! Wake up! Someone is downstairs mucking about!”
“Mmmurf?”
“Never mind, you blankety fool, I’ll check it out myself.”
Footsteps leaving the room, followed by shrieks and scuffling.
You okay, Susie doll?”
Heavy breathing.
The tape ends here, leaving the listeners in suspense until another cassette is available. In all fairness to Archie and Susan, most of these recordings were made in a government-owned studio and profits from the sales went directly into the treasury by SPECIAL ACT OF PARLIAMENT (EMERGENCY MEASURES)—or so the public was informed on the labels of the tapes, with a picture of a white-bearded jolly man wearing mittens and a red hat with a fuzzy ball on its end.
Another tape sample:
“Where did you put the salt? Don’t you know I hate it when I can’t find anything? Why are you always putting things where you think they belong? Blanknation, and I see you’ve let Spot play with my replafoot again!! It won’t fit. I’ll have to take it back to the...”
“Oh, shut the blank up, you blanket son of a blank! Here’s your salt!”
Sound of smashing dishes, fists on flesh, &c. &C.
“You blankety blank blank stupid son of a blankety blank! Now see what you’ve done to my kitchen!”
Tape ends here. The public eagerly accepts the imagined brute base forces at work between Archie and Susan.
“I just love travelling very fast along the motorways of England..."
Susan who had spoken Archie had not previously noticed sitting on her own in Service Station 2748923... eating her breakfast, at breakneck speed.
He turned to her, surprised that she was evidently talking to herself, but he was only met by an icy stare in return—so icy, that he assumed she did not want company, especially company like himself with a surrepitious recording-bug and a clandestine provenance as an erstwhile spouse. She continued speaking, however, as if to the air:
"You know, before television had colour, everthing was black and white. Everybody had to buy black and white clothes — boring grey ties and dark suits were all the rage then. When colour was invented, the Brain Washers authorised injections to let pinkness seep into the skin. The atmosphere was thought best filled with a vast quantity of blue gas (but, as it happened, insufficient to prevent varying degrees of grey creeping back in). And millions of zombies were given the job to turn the grass green with ear-wick dye..."
She could not help but cast an old-fashioned look fit to make him reel back on the balls of his mental feet, which momentarily caused him to abandon his sausage to its liberal dashings of grease. She then departed, with not even a bye nor leave, but he heard her muttering until her voice faded: "Thousands of busted bodies all over the fast lane, traffic jam..."
Archie veered from side to side of the psychological carriageway as his concentration slipped. Is it possible that there had been a fraudently constructed collective history? So incredibly well documented ... did Shakespeare's plays have words for colours in them? He couldn't quite recall. Funny what one thinks about over a motorway breakfast.
Susan was to be killed instantly by a pile-up further along the motorway, her severed joints pumping out a grey slimy matter as if all her arteries were brimming with unwashed brain...
Then he realised his own jalopy of a mind must have cannoned through the crash barrier, since the tomato sauce dispenser spirted wads of grey come upon the jumbo sausage.
Where had he put the salt?
Archie played back his recordings of primary sources when he had returned to his den. He now always had time to back-time travel, because reality was subject to THE NO WAY FORWARD ACT (2008) which cut down on the options quite a bit, bearing in mind earlier legislation such as THE NO TURNING BACK ACT (1997) and its corollary FEET OUTSTRETCHED IN FRIENDSHIP MOVEMENT of the same year.
Listening to the latest tape, he drew the conclusion that Susan had staged the motorway crash to fool him into believing that his earlier murder of her had been a waste of time. Pity all the times of his recordings, though, were in his own fair hand rather than system-dated.
Ice. Eyes cold, cruel-blue and misleading, like the frozen river filled with temptations of skating on such very thin ice.
So went Archie’s memories as he listened to his recordings. A mass of sound and stillness of cold, signifying nothing and everything. NO TURNING BACK< BACK< BACK ... articles, dicometrics, social pressures ... and the worst and indescribably horrid one was that he no longer had a ticket for the Pub One-a-Nighter. Disgrace added to his mood—the focal point of his once-joyous love (which was Susan, which was hope) flitting and batting him like a moth at an electric light. He picked up the diconanocorder and began The Confessional, according to THE NO WAY FORWARD ACT, item 14, page 10. This time, he took care to be specific, using the system-dated access entry.
After finishing his True Confession, Archie went into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. Surely there was some sort of pain killer for even a minor headache left—but no. Nothing. Due to the NO MORE PRESCRIPTION DRUG ACT (1998), he was left with the pain in his head—or possibly his inner soul.
In the medicine chest, Archie did find a solution to his headache and heartaches. His fingers were reaching for it when Susan abruptly pushed into the bathroom without knocking first which was an indiscretion of the THIRD REVISION TO MARRIAGE ACT and thus, Archie had no choice.
“You blankety blank fool!” (Susan)
“Why?” (Archie)
“You forgot to take me to visit Mother!” (Susan)
“Oh? Oh, yeah.” (Archie)
“According to the FIFTH REVISION TO MARRIAGE ACT, you are supposed to comply with my reasonable and family interpersonal relationships requests, right?” (Susan)
“We were invited for bangers and mash!” Susan continued (with only a gasp from Archie who couldn’t speak because she had his tie in her hands and was quickly pulling it tightly as one would do if one were preparing to strangle—)
“Archie, I’m sick of THIS—“ (Susan)
Astounded, Archie watched as Susan yanked the NITE-LITE behind him from the wall.
“Do we die, or do we perform a marital?” It was a mutual mental option, and they had (for once) no problems with doing ‘it’.
Afterwards, they awoke to discover a tangle of Acts. Circle of untenable laws, yet tenable by virtue of the circle. Indeed, Archie was in touch with how far round the circle went. He was everybody's friend. Women fought tooth and nail to be his shadow. A good guy ... a fine mover ... his the only mind worth the thoughts ... a slick talker ... a soul of any party. Yet, his Achilles Heel was a belief in real people rather than in numbers like 2748923 and 0007000. Not as a joke. Not with any sense of embarrassment. Not for the effect. He merely, simply, quite honestly, thought he knew.
In the early days (before their Banes) Susan often allowed herself to be escorted by him to social awareness classes, humouring his single peculiar quirk of faith with her own ability to vest people with at least an ounce of existence. What was the big deal, she asked. People, like vampires, were as likely as not. Not even worth a shudder.
In any event, misunderstandings were bound to arise—but I must not leapfrog ahead of myself. Up to the present, Archie has failed to prove by law (or even by common sense, let alone tape recording) his own existence, let alone that of other people. I've not yet met him in person, you see, and I need to do that before I can refer to his exploits with any degree of conviction.
Susan? Well that's easier, because Susan's me.
One can never be certain anybody exists. Susan's the most certain viabilty—for obvious personal reasons of self. Yet, when Susan was faced with the predicament of getting to grips with someone else who, as well as being at first a figment of her imagination, was also himself a self-confessed believer in people, people who may even be at a higher level of believability than the believer—well, I doubt that Susan is at all cut out to cope with such convolutions of truth and non-truth.
Even if she is me.
Especially if she is me.
I was born in a nondescript year with no ACTS OF PARLIAMENT or STATEMENTS OF JURISPRUDENCE —and with the current moment being at an indeterminate point upon the spectrum of duration, I still believe nothing except the nothingness whence I came. Doubting everything. But, as with most creatures, of which having human feet is simply one example, doubts were soon replaced with environmentally induced fixities: landmarks whence the horizons could be judged. I could not have predicted—even if I'd tried—that such steadfast cornerstones would sooner or later have no buildings to be cornerstones of. Call it death. Call it a relapse into doubt. Call it the return of something in the guise of nothing. Call it, indeed, nothing itself. Call it Susan.
So, Susan, how old were you when you broke the ANTI-GOTHIC ACT 1999 by reading books about vampires, those so-called undead creatures that peopled most people's forgotten nightmares? Ten? Eleven? twelve? The answer depends on the starting-point of measurement from the moment of the unborn becoming the born, I suppose. Well, thirteen's a round number, about the age I'd've guessed, given your predilection for the dark side. So, having straightened that out, when did Archie come into your life? Or you into his?
"I canna tell yer," said Susan, as if that was the expected answer. She pursed her lips as if making an adolescent promise to herself, if not to anybody else, that she'd remain steadfastly silent..
How old were you, when you...
"Blank you!" she blurted out, reddening with the sinking of her vow. "I canna tell yer nuffin—'cept haps the shadders."
The shadders, Susan? Her way, no doubt, of saying shudders. Or was it her way of mispronouncing shadows, her word for vampires and other such creatures of the dark?
"Nope, all that blanking shit about being dead and not dead all at the same time ... you should've asked Archie about crap like that, 'cos he speaks nuffin else but blanking fucking shit."
But where was Archie? She gave no sign of answering that all important question. On cue, a black shape emerged from the even blacker backdrop of night—putting his arm round Susan's shoulder ... and under her armpit ... and over her shoulder again ... and again. He then took his slithering endearments to her nude feet, sucking each toe into his tape-recorder mouth.
Yes, Archie knew how far round the circle went. Each circle is a self. Archie and Susan: a marriage made in Hell. Self with self.
But the only self-sufficiently believability on the scale of eternity was my own self. Feeding and feasting upon my own perpetuations of unred blood. A dark curve—mouth to groin. Shadder turned shedder.
Story unread (banned by the OBSCENE ENDINGS ACT (Literature) 2197
