Apocrypha Sequence: Insanity Read online

  Apocrypha Sequence:

  INSANITY

  Shane Jiraiya Cummings

  Copyright © Shane Jiraiya Cummings 2011.

  ISBN: 9780987076861

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Except in the case of short-term lending, if you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  No reference to any living person is intended.

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Ian

  Stop

  Itch

  Song of the Infernal Machine

  The Black Door

  * * *

  Introduction

  Welcome to the Apocrypha Sequence, a collection of themed stories outside the continuity of my 'regular' collections, Shards (flash fiction) and the forthcoming The Abandonment of Grace and Everything After (short stories and novellas). The stories in the Apocrypha Sequence lie somewhere in between. There is some overlap between the Apocrypha stories and those in my collections, but this is because I have cherry-picked stories from my body of work to suit the themes present within the Sequence. For each book in the Apocrypha Sequence, I chose a story or two from my collections, a couple of previously uncollected stories, and the odd original or two. Each volume in the Sequence is a remix. You might find a story from this volume elsewhere (by itself or in one of my collections), but its inclusion in the Apocrypha Sequence gives it a more appropriate context—and in some cases, demonstrates its place in a shared world of directly-linked stories.

  Apocrypha Sequence: Insanity explores the human mind as it is pushed to breaking point. What if every man you'd ever met was named Ian? When would the penny drop that something wasn't quite right? Insanity can creep in at anytime. What if the stress of an unrelenting routine intruded while you were stopped at an intersection? How about while working on a top secret government project? Insanity is a darkness that can envelop you before you're even aware of it. Sometimes, it begins with an itch, sometimes, a mysterious invitation. Regardless of the catalyst, it never ends well.

  Read on and enjoy this volume, and if you crave more, please seek out the other three volumes that comprise the Apocrypha Sequence. Details about the rest of the Sequence and my other e-books can be found at the end of this volume.

  — Shane Jiraiya Cummings

  * * *

  Ian

  Every man I've ever met has been named Ian. I'm not exaggerating.

  I am the daughter of proud and doting parents, Ian and Margaret, and was raised in what Ian called 'backwoods' Tasmania, well away from anything that could be called civilisation.

  My Dad was a writer. He'd sold a few books in his glory days and could afford the isolation. Mum just fussed around the house a lot, although she did visit her cousins Sue and Shirley up in Burnie every month. Dad and I also went into town, for supplies, but only once in a blue moon. He enjoyed the solitude of his castle, and I was raised to know no different.

  When we went to town, we shopped at the grocery co-op. The store owner was a rotund man named Ian. He used to wave and smile and carry on when Dad came in. They would shout 'Ian' at each other like it was the funniest joke in the world.

  Dad home-schooled me, so I scarcely met another soul during my childhood. I read a lot of books instead. Fairy tales and rhymes like Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Jack Horner, and Jack and Jill. To me, all the boys in the world were called Jack. I knew no different; Dad forbade me new books or a TV. He said TV rotted the brain, and I was happy with the healthy brain I had.

  All the boys were Jack and all the men were Ian.

  There was Ian the co-op owner, Dad's friend Ian who visited from Launceston, and Pastor Peterson. The pastor came down from the Seventh Day Adventist Church in Somerset and led us through Bible study, at least, until he and Dad had a falling out. I only knew the man as Pastor Peterson until Dad wrote hateful letters addressed to a Pastor Ian Peterson.

  I accepted all this without hesitation. The one thing I didn't understand was why the Jacks changed their names to Ian when they grew up. I assumed it was a man thing.

  I had no reason to question otherwise until I found Dad's secret stash of books in the bottom of his wardrobe. I was dumbfounded. They featured wise or heroic men named John or Peter or Tom. I thought the names sounded exotic. I'd never met a John or Peter or Tom. Just Ians. I couldn't ask Dad, though. He would have killed me for going through his books.

  I lived for years that way, yearning for stories of these extraordinary men and more. Yearning for the caress of John Templeton (the spy from Casablanca Murders) or the intellect of Sherlock Holmes, who reminded me of my father in so many ways. I always chuckled when I read his strange name, despite myself. I still mutter 'Sherlock' like a cherished sin as I'm falling asleep.

  When I reached womanhood, I struggled with the urge to leave, to explore the world and meet a man not named Ian, or just to find a job in Burnie. Dad grew cruel and distant each time I mentioned it, while Mum just kept immersing herself in housework. I'd never seen the fireplace so clean.

  My husband-to-be changed everything. He was a survey geologist collecting soil samples near our cabin when we met. He was so rugged, so different to everything in my world. His mainlander ways took some getting used to, but he still swept me off my feet. We married within a year in a private ceremony.

  It was the most romantic day of my life; the drizzle forced us from the park, but we sheltered under a stand of gum trees where we declared our vows. Just like one of Mum's novels: the ones with long-haired men and women with torn blouses on the cover. Mum didn't come to the wedding; Dad forbade her. My beloved lost his parents as a teenager, so without my family, it was just the two of us.

  I became Mrs. Ian Robinson that day. I never caught the celebrant's name. I didn't need to. Not then. I just assumed.

  For the first time ever, I left Tassie, my family, and everything I knew. We settled on a station in the remote north of Western Australia; Ian had landed a job with a mining company leading a survey team in the remotest parts of the Kimberly and Pilbara. I was used to the solitude and the scenery was a welcome change from Tasmania's endless green. I came to enjoy the red dirt, although it was a curse on the laundry.

  Ian was gone for weeks at a time and rarely did he bring anyone home. His best mate was the exception. Also a geo on his team, his name was Ian. My husband enjoyed the 'confusion' this caused with his bosses in Perth. I had no idea why.

  I maintained my interest in books and Ian fed my habit. Books with men named David, Simon, and even Nigel (a lovely name, rhymes with angel). I wasn't stupid, but I was amazed by those authors' imaginations. To invent so many wondrous names was a feat.

  Yet my suspicions flared again. I'd met plenty of different women: Sarahs, Lindas, Hayleys, Stephanies, Kates, and Debras. The list goes on and on. But Ian was the only man who touched my life: Ian and Ian and Ian and Ian and Ian.

  When I asked Ian about the names of the men on his team, he laughed off my questions, at first, telling me how endearing he found my eccentric ways. He often told me how he enjoyed my simplicity. As my questions became more pointed, though—about his team and the men's names in the books and magazines—he smiled less and less. He came to look at me as though I were a stranger. That look in his eyes stung me beyond words and silenced my curiosity.

  I struggled alone
with my questions, putting on a brave face for Ian when he returned home from a survey. As my questions eased, so did the tension, but something ugly lingered between us, something unsaid. Without Ian, there were just the books and the occasional magazine. I craved answers but they held none.

  Maybe he sensed my frustration or maybe he was just bored, but either way, Ian suggested we install a satellite dish. Everything in my life had grown stale, especially me. The books were stacked floor-to-ceiling. Nuisances, like the red dust. Ian thought satellite TV would break my monotony. The very idea of television terrified me. Yet shameful butterflies tickled my stomach. My head buzzed with possibilities.

  I struck up a conversation weeks later with Ian, the Telstra technician who installed the satellite dish. He talked of his son, Jack, studying in Perth. I thought eighteen was a little old to still be a Jack, but when I asked the technician about it, he turned vague and changed the subject. I confided to him my yearning for children, too, but chose not to show further ignorance about the name change. Ian would tell me when the time came, I was sure of it. I blamed my parents for not raising me right. A mother had to know these things.

  The technician's description of the city's wonders enthralled me and decided me on my course. I had a television set to buy, although I had no idea what I was looking for. It was the perfect chance to test my theory (or hypothesis, as Sherlock would call it). Again, I had no real idea what I was looking for.

  I called up a travel agent the very next day, a nice man named Ian, who arranged a return plane trip from Broome to Perth. I made sure the flight was on a day Ian would be home so he could take me to the airport. I still hadn't learned to drive, which was another of my parents' failings.

  I asked Ian to drop me at the airport when the day arrived, telling him I was having the adventure of a lifetime—going shopping for a television and a new wardrobe while seeing the sights of Perth for a week. The lines around his eyes tightened but he seemed happy to oblige.

  A courteous older man whose name badge read Ian took my bags and checked me onto the flight. Once aboard the twin engine jet, I was oddly comforted to find the flight attendant was a woman. Carina. After we had been sailing over the ruddy Kimberly interior for twenty minutes, the Captain's muffled voice floated over the PA system. Ian Bennett was his name. He'd been flying for eighteen years, he assured everyone.

  With my head spinning from a million thoughts and one crazy hope, I closed my eyes, losing myself to sleep for the rest of the flight. I awoke to a bumpy landing. Captain Ian was a veteran, perhaps, but his landings could do with some work.

  After I left the plane, I entered the terminal to collect my baggage. It smelled of stale body odour, greasy chips, and dust. The people were all irritable or in a rush. I was too intimidated by the ruckus to approach anyone.

  Instead, I waited patiently for a taxi and watched the people bustle by. The burly, sweaty man who welcomed me into his car was talkative all the way to my hotel. His licence, plastered with an unflattering mugshot of his unflattering face, declared him as Ian.

  I checked into the hotel. I forget the name of it now; it might have sounded like a gemstone. Anyway, a pimply-faced but well-dressed Ian assisted me at the reception desk. At my insistence, he gave me directions to the largest shopping centre in the area. Once I had settled into my room, I set out on my mission in earnest. An Ian dressed in a business suit gave me terse directions to the train station.

  From there, finding the mall was easy. On the train, a trench-coated young man in dark make-up told me where my stop was. He told me he was a 'Goth' (quite a silly word), and at first, I thought that was his name. My heart leapt for joy! He corrected me but revealed his name as 'Eye On'. Still, my heart continued to flutter for my discovery, but I couldn't let it be. When I forced him to spell his name before he slunk away, it came out like everyone else's. I. A. N.

  Downhearted as I was after leaving the train, the sight of the mall lifted my spirits. It was huge, with signs everywhere. People practically poured in and out of its glass doors.

  Entering the mall, my head was buzzing in the strangest way. I aimed straight for the heart of the largest store. Along the way, I passed many women with name tags, including Suzette, Jody, Bianca, and Noelene, before I found the first man. His badge confirmed the worst. Ian.

  The drone inside my skull grew steadily worse as I stumbled into the throngs of shoppers. Grabbing men at random, I demanded they give me their names. The first few Ians responded politely, but as the pressure built inside me with my desperation, the Ians grew nervous at my approach. The chatter in the mall was drowned out by the chatter in my head. That same word over and over again. Ian.

  They tried brushing me off, these Ians, as I clawed at their sleeves. There had to be a Tom, Dick or Harry! Isn't that how the saying goes? Everything I'd ever read told me so. Someone, somewhere out in the world, any man at all, had to have a name from one of my books. Anything but Ian.

  I was a pariah as shoppers gave me a wide berth.

  Sinking to my knees, I clutched my aching head as people flooded past. The pressure wouldn't let up. The last things I remember are screaming, a blur of colour, and a sea of legs.

  A lifetime of pent-up frustration was released with that scream and those tears.

  'Ian!' I cried. The mall echoed the name to infinity.

  Every last man in the mall turned.

  #

  Ian visits me often now. Sometimes Ian does, too. They won't let me leave, though. They keep me in a little room, with only minimal furniture. In case I hurt myself, they say.

  I get to wander the common room for a few hours each day, where I chat with the other ladies. It's a welcome change to have so much company, and I especially enjoy watching TV in there. It's probably rotting my brain like Dad always said. There are Michaels and Stephens and even more outlandish names like Arnold and Sean on the TV. It's more than I've ever imagined.

  Every evening, a considerate man gives me three yellow pills that dull my throbbing head. I can't hear the chatter as loud as I used to.

  He doesn't wear a name badge or even tell me his name.

  I call him Ian. He doesn't seem to mind.

  * * *

  Stop

  STOP.

  The sign stood guardian to the intersection of Wedgewood Road and Joondalup Drive. A busy arterial feeding onto an even busier four-laner. This time of the morning, the peak-hour traffic was near-suicidal.

  STOP.

  Paul heeded the sign every day on his morning drive to work. It was the first marker of his daily drudgery. Every morning it was red and cheery in its way but always there to regulate. To safeguard and protect. He'd often nod his head to the STOP sign in those moments before a gap opened in the traffic that he could exploit. He'd sometimes mutter "hi" when he nodded, more to unrust his vocal chords than to greet the sign.

  This morning, the sign appeared sombre as he approached the line of cars at the intersection. The red octagon appeared darker, sharper, more intense about stopping the Wedgewood Road traffic. Ahead, a white Mitsubishi waited for more than two minutes at the intersection before slipping free. Paul noted the traffic gaps appear but the dark red of the STOP sign held sway over car and driver. Not even the honking of the three cars ahead of him could overcome the sign's thrall.

  STOP means STOP. In bold white letters. STOP.

  As Paul crept forward, intent on the flow of traffic, he kept glancing at his watch. The blue Toyota that had pulled to the front of the queue in the Mitsubishi's wake was halted for nearly three minutes. Again, the gaps appeared as cars rumbled along Joondalup Drive. Again, the driver delayed a fraction too long each time, caught in the red glare of the STOP sign. The Toyota eventually escaped to a chorus of car horns.

  Within a dozen metres of the sign, his pulse slowed and thickened. The "hi" and casual nod he'd mentally rehearsed faltered as much as the driver's nerve up ahead.

  STOP. There was a message in that. STOP.

 
He glanced at his watch again. 7.44 am. With a three minute average wait time to break onto Joondalup Drive, two minutes to the freeway, and an unbroken thirty-five minute run into the city, he'd timed his morning to perfection.

  Another car scraped into the flow of traffic. Its entry onto Joondalup Drive was sluggish and a minivan was forced to slow down to allow the car in.

  "Hi," Paul muttered to the STOP sign. Ritual was important, even if mistimed. His jaunty nod was barely more than a twitch.

  He looked up at the sign and stopped. It was crimson, as though flushed with blood.

  STOP. An eye with a white pupil swimming in red. Its gaze, stern and uncompromising, anchored him in his driver's seat. His legs were dead weights. Pins and needles tingled along them. The sensation pulsed through his fingers, too, as he gripped the wheel tighter.

  He blinked. The tradie's ute ahead of him had taken off. Brakes squealed as a passing sedan nearly slammed into the ute. To Paul, the ute moved like a sliding brick, seeming to lose momentum the further it pulled out onto Joondalup Drive. A crash was barely avoided when the braking sedan chopped into the inside lane, giving the ute a long horn blast as it went past.

  His turn now. A lull in traffic loomed, enough for him to merge with seconds to spare. He tapped at the accelerator, stuttered forward, and then pumped the brake. The car rocked from the sudden halt. His heart rocked with the car, filling his chest to bursting.

  A horn blasted from behind. He flinched at the sound, checked the rear-view mirror and saw an Asian woman scowling over the top of her too-big steering wheel. She blasted the horn, a staccato rumble from deep within the bowels of her Landcruiser, to dispel any doubt as to who was in the right.