"Penny" by Adam Carlton

 

From OpenArt

Two in the morning in a misty, murky Cambridge. Street lamps haloed in cloaking mist dimly illuminate the empty road; the damp deserted pavement. I rest my back against the railings, my thoughts as empty as the street. What do I feel?

Sadness.

The sign on the building behind me says: MoD Botanic Research Institute. In smaller lettering it continues, Do Not Enter, Biohazard, Danger of Death. And then a lot of small print saying, I guess, the same thing. The prestigious Defence Research Institute opened this lab on the northern outskirts of the city. No-one had spelt out what they were doing here.

I had been walking half an hour from her flat, drinking my way through this almost-empty bottle still clutched in my hand. It's another half an hour to my own home, a resplendent flat over an ancient pub near the main station, south of here.

Stupid ... stupid!

We’d been for a drink in the Mitre near Trinity. Something we’d settled into most nights. She was as decorous as always: emerald dress, chain belt, soft brown boots. Always so stylish, Penny. Much more so than the average undergrad. Her ash-blonde hair, parted in the middle, reminded me of Alice Liddell, or better, that one in Abba. It seemed at first I must have all the luck.

My restless thoughts circle to another current fiasco: my interview results. Seems like I’m not quite what they need for the world's premier AI company. I didn’t tell anyone I was going. Not even Penny. Perhaps later, casually, if it had worked out. I must have aced the tests because I got an interview. Down in London in that famous building by the famous architect. The one in King's Cross.

I got the letter today. They thanked me and so on; told me I should feel free to re-apply in a year or two. Where did I go wrong? Perhaps it was a lack of initiative - I’ve always been the first to admit my background is rather conventional. Family in banking; minor public school. Not really excelled at anything. Blah blah. Can matrix maths really be that important to them?

I turn around and look more closely at the black railings. Fine droplets swirl around my face. Yet there’s enough illumination to see that I could get over this barrier. There, at the end, where it juts up against the neighbouring wall. It would be interesting to see what the military are up to here. A quick look. It’s deserted, I’m the only one around tonight. Show some initiative. Here we go.

I don’t normally drink this much. I’m not really used to it. After a few in the pub we caught the bus back to her flat. We opened the first bottle of wine and sat on the couch, watching something on TV. I say watching: of course we were too concerned with each other to pay any real attention. Penny is - was - accommodating. Accommodating, but unemotional. As usual I found that strange, that restraint. The clocks were striking eleven when I persuaded her to go to bed.

Her bedroom was hot. I pulled back the curtains; stood in the ivory light of a fading moon. She lay on the bare sheet, the duvet pushed to one side. How beautiful she looked, outlined in moonlight; how proportioned her body. She still had her lipstick on - how many girls do that, these days? It felt greasy. But not at all off-putting. Her skin felt hot and moist to the touch. But not at all off-putting.

So now I’m in the grounds, walking on the grass between shrubs taller than I am. This pathway leads deeper into the garden - somewhere ahead must be the mansion where I guess they do their R&D. I’ll have a peep in; see if there’s any intelligence I can glean. It’s just for interest. Still showing initiative here, right?

I think the wine was a mistake, and not simply on account of my performance. Which, let’s face it, wasn’t brilliant. Though you never know with Penny. She gave the perfect impression of having a good time. But ... I couldn’t tell. I never could.

Biohazard signs ahead. On posts. I suppose they have to have them. Health and Safety.

It must have been past midnight when we were done - and I was dressed again. Why was I dressed? I think I must have broached it from frustration. No, I don’t understand why I broached it.

It’s darker now. I must be twenty or thirty yards from the street and that illumination has almost died. Here, amongst the bushes and trees, it’s pretty dark and the mist is swirling around. And there’s a heavy smell in the air, musky and heady. It reminds me of Penny. She had such great taste in perfume.

I said to her, “Penny, there’s a room coming up spare in my lodgings. Why don’t you move in? We’d see each other much more often, we'd probably save money.” I think my motivation must have been both lust and frustration. Frustration because I couldn’t seem to break through her shell, penetrate her mystery. I don’t like to be defeated - I'm the sort who worries away at puzzles.

Ahead of me, the path leads into a green tunnel, composed of leaves and fronds. The alluring, pungent aroma is much stronger here. I read a sign: Danger to Life - Keep Out. I stagger on anyway.

I thought she would be pleased. We were going out with each other, weren’t we? How was this different? OK, it was different. But it was better! She shrank away. Not a scene of course. No anger, hardly any emotion. For the briefest moment she’d looked like a trapped bird; she’d looked hurt, scared - and then the mask came back: 'Go away, please leave; you don’t need to call again.' What? So I’m the bad guy?

I'm unsteady on my hands and knees, crawling through a tunnel veined with thorns dangerous as spikes. They're no obstacle here though, because they're folded flush against the fleshy walls. The passageway is quite tight, its surface moist and spongy. I push on. Thrust myself through regardless. The perfume's getting stronger.

The crawlspace is short; it leads into a green vaulted chamber five feet across. I can't see the back, the fog in here's too thick, suffused with misty light. I look around. The walls, the floor, the ceiling - are overlapping leaves. It's hard to see the details in this dank and humid gloom, so permeated with scent. I'm tired, euphoric; a little dizzy. I crawl forward.

A hazy image reminiscent of a girl comes into view, lying on a soft leaf-bed, her flesh olive-hued. I think of Penny in her emerald dress. Her limbs drift as if they float. Her face aligns with mine; our eyes meet; the semblance of a smile. I don't know who or what she is; her shimmering lips are very full. The very air weighs down. I take a breath. Hold in and savour the effect.

Reality billows like a gathering dream.

"Penny, listen," I whisper, "You don't have to do this, we can go back to where we were." Tears well up in my eyes; I reach, seeking forgiveness. Her limbs welcome, pull me in. I feel how moist she is, so damp with viscid, sticky dew. A warm secretion soaks through my clothes, saturates my skin. I crumple forward, enfolded by her tender, pulpy mass; surrender to her, taken back at last. I come to rest, relax, my vision dims.

Behind my softening form, the entry-thorns to this bewitching trap extend ... and silently lock shut.

The Venus Flytrap Sentinel Construct has passed another milestone for its developers. The illegal intruder has been secured and the process of digestion has begun.

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You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

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