The Mandrake Effect– ONE– by P J Searle

The interstate jet was small, grubby and looked well used, which to Harry, with his dislike of new things, was marginally reassuring. He sat quietly in his seat in deep thought. This time, there was no flirting. He took his huge brandy without a second look at the pretty stewardess who served it, and drank it off without tasting it. His eyes carried the same tears and fears they had when he left Major’s office six hours previous, plus, as he sat alone in the crowded aircraft, a look of utter dejection.

Harry now drank dark, brackish coffee from a chipped enamelled mug. His sad face had not changed in spite of the change of location: New Orleans airport, police precinct. He is sat in a small, heavy wire holding-cage situated dead centre of a large, deserted room – a room within a room. After long hours of utter silence, Rex and Hamish enter accompanied by a huge, gesticulating police officer.

‘God-damnedest thing I ever did see,’ says the officer, in a high-pitch twang, ‘That there good ol’ boy,’ he points at Harry with a handful of keys, ‘was riding an aircraft with two syringes stashed in a leather shoulder holster, just like you’d carry a piece… both full of pure novocaine. Shit, the size of them things, took near on half a pint in each. What in hell was he about?’

Hamish condescends to answer, trying his best to confound: ‘We’ll vouchsafe him… we’ll take him back with us.’

’I don’t know about that there ‘vouchsafe’ an’ all – we got a major narcotics violation here. What is this guy to you anyways, he speaks like some kind of fruit foreigner?’

Hamish, feeling he has explained sufficiently, ignores the officer.

Rex, tongue in cheek, answers: ‘He’s Australian. You’ve heard of the Flying Doctor? Well, he’s the Flying Dentist.’ He turns away to hide his stifled chuckle. Hamish gives him a disparaging look.

‘What’d hell you take me for, some kind of cretin? Hell with it, take him. You boys’ as crazy as he is. Just sign for him an’ his hardware, that’s all I care about.’

‘Okay.’ says Hamish, snatching the keys from the officer’s hand. The officer looks like he might retaliate.

Rex steps between them. ‘It’s okay. My partner is a little edgy. We’d like to talk to the prisoner, while you get the papers.’

‘Suit yourselves.’ The officer walks off.

Hamish opens the door into the cell. Harry, staring blankly at the floor, speaks as they enter.

‘You set me up. Why?’

‘You pissed in the tent, Hal.’ says Hamish, ‘You leaked to the press.’

‘I didn’t put Casey on to you. That little man has followed me, on and off, for over a year… You all knew that.’

‘That’s irrelevant now.’

Harry turns from Hamish. ‘Rex, old man, surely you believe me?’

‘We can’t let you back, Hal. Seems we got two options: One, we give you to the cops. Or two–’

‘–Kill me! That’s it isn’t it? Rose was right. That’s why you wanted me down in this Southland bloody swamp! Well, it won’t sodding do.’

’Kill you? Hey! That’s a third option. We hadn’t considered killing you… thanks for that, Harry. – And New Orleans is not a ‘swamp’. It’s the birthland of the Blues – don’t you listen to the songs? He starts to sing, Sinatra style, ‘They nursed it, rehearsed it and gave out the newsss… that the Southland gave birth to the bluesss. – You got the blues, Hal?’

‘You bastard!’ growls Harry – he turns again to Rex, ‘I thought you at least were my friend.’ Rex shrugs, as to say ‘things have changed’.

Hamish leans into Harry’s face. ’You said ‘it won’t do,’ Hal. Why not, what did you mean?’

Harry stands up and hurls his words back at Hamish. ‘You think you’ve got me by the short-and-curlies. Well, I have news for you, I have insurance!’

‘ Insurance?’

‘You forget who you’re bloody dealing with, Hamish, old son. I told you before, I’m not some out-of-town bloody cowpoke. The British Government know that I’m here, and I’ve kept them up to date. If you look at my fax file––you’ve got my papers––you’ll see a rather large amount of international traffic, to and from my old university. And you know about our universities. Check it if you don’t believe me. If anything happens to me, you’ll have the Special Branch all over you… and the British newspapers. So you tell Major to bloodywell think again.’

Rex puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Killing you was never an option, Hal. The second option was to keep you down here for a few weeks until the new contracts are signed and sealed. But in light of what you’ve just told us…’

Harry is terrified, has he played his trump card too early? He manages to control himself, realising he is now bargaining for his life. ‘Look guys… ha, ha… let’s not overreact. It’s in a holding situation, I can call it in if I get assurances.’

‘Holding situation?’ says Rex, looking troubled.

‘Yes, holding. Look, I’ll go back to Edinburgh, you’ll never hear or see me again, I promise. You know me, I’ve got no axe to grind–’ he chokes on the word, ‘axe’.

Rex looks to Hamish.

Hamish shrugs, ‘It’s up to you, partner. For my money I’d finalize it here.’

‘Okay okay… It won’t come to that. You go back and pass this by Major. I’ll stay here with Harry.’ He turns to Harry and shrugs, ‘I hope we can work it out, Hal. I’d hate anything to happen to you.’

Harry starts to think about feeling a little bit better. ‘I should damn-well hope so,’ says he, beginning to adjust his clothes and smarten his hair, anticipating deliverance.

The police officer returns with a clipboard of papers. Hamish opens the cage door and Harry sheepishly steps out.

In the late evening dusk, Harry, under Rex’s guidance enters the run-down, but still elegant, New Orleans hotel. Rex makes the booking, takes the key and leads Harry up the ornate, dilapidated staircase to the top suite.

‘I say, Rex, old sport,’ says Harry with relief as he enters the antiquated apartment, ‘this is more like it,’

Rex shrugs, ‘You like this dump?’

‘Oh yes, it smacks of… decadence! I hate new things. It’ll do very nicely.’

Harry, his old self again, takes a drink from the well-stocked mini-bar and offers one to Rex.

Rex declines, ‘No thanks. Now, we’ll be here for a few days at least, Hal, so is there anything you need? – Oh, the cop gave you these back,’ he tosses the leather holster containing the two syringes.

Harry checks that they are both still full. ‘Thanks, old man.’ He puts them away. ‘Are we going out? I take it we have expenses?’

‘Yes, we have expenses. And no, we are not going out.’

‘Then I will need a few things. Look here Rex, old luv…’ says Harry putting his arm around the big man’s shoulders… Rex squirms uncomfortably.

’Don’t do that, and don’t call me ‘old love’ okay! God knows what the hotelier thinks.’

‘Ex,actly, exactly my point, Rex,’ says Harry, removing his arm, ‘If I’m to spend the night with you… you know,’ he winks, ‘it looks odd… all chaps together! Do you see?’

‘What the hell are you driving at?’

’What I’m driving at is… it looks a bit too cosy-wosy, if you take my meaning. What I suggest is… you have a word with the porter chappy and get us some, you know… company! ‘Expenses paid’ you said… some female chaperones, so to speak. What do you say?’

Rex is relieved. He’d imagined Harry was about to propose something quite different, but he is also shocked at Harry’s rakishness. ‘My God, Hal, don’t you ever let up? What about Rose?’

Harry looks quizzically at his minder, ‘Steady on, old mate… just a bit of fun. If you can rustle up, Rose, fair do’s, but she’s a thousand bloody miles away. I mean, who’s to know? Live a little, Rex, you’re a long time dead–’ Harry again chokes on his ill-chosen words, the reasons for his incarceration come flooding back to him.

Rex acknowledges Harry’s poignant choice of metaphor, he sees the fear return to his eyes. ‘Don’t worry Hal, we’ll work it out.’

‘What I meant was–’

‘–I know what you meant. Okay, you want some company. I’ll decline if you don’t mind, but I’ll dine with you if I may. I like you, Hal, I told you that when we first met in Edinburgh. Nothing is going to happen to you while I’m around… you have my word. Now, I’ll order us some dinner. And for your dessert, Sir: blonde, brunette, white, black, Oriental, female/ male?’

Harry balks at the last offer. ‘The devil do you mean?’

‘Joke, Harry… I make jokes too.’

After his obligatory half-cooked steak meal, Rex retires to his room, leaving Harry to prepare for his visitor, his bespoke beautiful callgirl. She arrives with a rap-a-tap-tap at the door. Harry opens it with a glass of champagne ready in hand. Smiles exchange. He daintily kisses the back of her hand depositing the glass of Moet into the same and leads her into the room. The poor girl is overwhelmed – this is not her usual salutation. They talk, laugh, dance then, inevitably engage in exotic lovemaking: Harry’s tender commitment to the sensual multi-climax is enjoyed to the full by both, plus encore after encore.

Finally satisfied in body, and reasonably satisfied in mind, Harry has a last glass of champagne from the cooler by the side of the bed, then yields to troubled sleep… his exhausted companion way ahead of him, lost in well-earned repose. The enormous bedroom is now in darkness, the rest of the apartment bathed in the gloomy moonlight. Rex, wearing just a dressing gown, is sitting in an armchair pulled to the centre of the main room. The rest of his clothing hung about him, tidily stacked on the backs of chairs ready for immediate action. The big man hovers somewhere betwixt sleep and consciousness, eyes half-open and transfixed on the door. Nestling lovingly in his lap, finger on trigger is a fully automatic Glock machine pistol. The main window is open and a slight breeze sucking at the grimy filigree curtains, flapping them lazily out to the balcony and into the warm night air.

Outside the window, all is quiet, save for the gradual rising noise of the approaching, woman’s footstep. In the street below, fast walking high-heels strike the stone sidewalk in a hollow click-clack-click-clack-click-clack, closing towards the hotel. The owner of the patent leather stilettos stretches out an arm, pushes the revolving doors, enters and walks up to the deserted reception. Her hand reaches to the register. She turns it to her view and reads the last entries.

A male receptionist comes to the desk from the annexe. He gives a disparaging look. ‘Can I help you Madame?’ says he, officiously turning the register back to himself.

Rosette, dressed to kill, gives an acrid stare. ‘I’m expected,’ she hisses as she taps the register at Harry’s name.

‘Jeeezus!’ quips the receptionist, ‘Not another one?’ She turns without further comment and walks off toward the elevator – one arm dangling limply.

Harry stirs. He awakens his companion with a hidden, beneath the covers, caress. She responds and they make love again, after which she gratefully returns to sleep. Harry ponders for a few moments then rises, puts on his dressing gown and heads for the bathroom. He enters and closes the door, strips and showers, gargling William Blake’s hymn, Jerusalem, through the steaming cascading water:

’Anrrrd drrrid thorrrrse feetarrr in anrrrcient tirrrmes


Walkrrr uporrrn Errrnglrrand’s mounrrr,tains grrrreen


Anrrrd warrrs the hoooly larrrmb orrf Godrrr

Orrrrn Errrnglrrand’s plearrrsarrrnt pasrrrtures srrreen?’

The main room is now in virtual darkness as wispy cloud momentarily hides the moon. Rex is still sitting in his chair. A movement, a vague shape flits momentarily across the room, then it is gone. Rex’s eyes are now wide open but showing only the whites, the irises driven upwards into the sockets in agony. His body is fused to the chair with his glutinous melting flesh – the Glock pointing aimlessly, held in blackened stick-like fingers, the index baked grotesquely onto the trigger guard. The clouds move on and a shaft of silver moonlight falls into the room. It illuminates in full horror the tortured, corrupting remains of Rex, shuddering, held in lingering death-throws. Harry, oblivious, is now standing in silhouette in the doorway, a towel rakishly wrapped around his waist and a champagne glass in his hand.

He walks into the room, up to Rex and smiles, ‘Come to buy you a drink old sport… sitting out here all on your–’ the glass slips from his hand. Without moving a muscle his eyes traverse the room, suddenly darting to the direction of the slight rustling emission from his bedroom. Following this direction: through the door, into the room to the bed and on towards the callgirl. She is lying in pink contrast to the blue moonlight, asleep, beautiful and dying. A slither of slimy flesh trails across the silken sheets drooling blood. Catalyst Rosette is hunched over her, fused in a delirium of ecstasy. The girl is now awash with the glistening mucus: ears, eyes, nostrils, and mouth, every orifice exuding blood-tinged slime. A movement, a rustle of sheets as Rosette slowly pulls the body off the bed and towards the door, to embrace Rex, in the next room, destined to turn one final trick.

Harry, still standing over Rex, is frozen in terror. His whole being fighting the urge to weep and wail, as the callgirl/Rosette combo, slither ever nearer. Somehow he manages to contain the approaching panic. In one chaotic movement, he gains the door with as many items of clothing and baggage in one hand, under arm, between teeth and under chin. His other hand is dedicated to snatching up his holster.

He stands naked in the doorway, his towel lost in the melee. After a parting farewell to his stricken lady friend, and a last look to the grotesque shuddering hulk that once was Rex, Harry empties half of one syringe, coup-de-grace, into the big man’s temple. Then delivers the other half into ecstasy-engrossed, oblivious Rosette and appended hooker, whose groping tentacles now encircle Rex’s arms and legs. Without awaiting the grizzly consequence he is off into the hall, half running, and at the same time trying to dress in a hop, skip, trip and wobble. As he negotiates Rex’s oversized trousers he desperately fights to keep anal-retentive, puckering his lips in tight unison. His feet barely touching the plush carpet as he runs, hitting every fire alarm he passes with hand and elbow, and screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Fire! Help… smoke! Fire, FIRE! FIRE!!’

Alarms clang and people pour out into the hallway – Harry’s warning cry being picked up and added to:

‘Fire!’

‘What fire! Where?’

‘The floor above, I think. I smell smoke!’

‘Smoke! What’ I tell ya, I said I could smell something?’

‘FIRE!’

‘Don’ panic, DON’ PANIC! FIRE!!!’

Among the panicking hotel guests Harry, half naked and carrying his clothes and baggage, is not at all conspicuous as he exits the revolving doors leaving utter pell-mell behind him. He steps unashamedly, ridiculously, fully clothed in Rex’s huge suit, shirt, hat, and shoes, out into the street like a male version of Annie Hall. A short way from the hotel he breaks into a trot, looking over his shoulder every second or so. Now running for his life into the early morning sunrise like the proverbial bat out of hell.

An hour later Harry is sat hunched in an aircraft seat, drinking off a huge brandy, staring blankly at the sky floating past, muttering and shaking with fear.