Exquisite Fruit
By Richard Sampson
© 2010 All rights reserved.
Jake steered the battered rental into a space opposite the old church. He hated driving. All the time he was behind a wheel he couldn’t text, or email, or surf the web. To add to his woes, the bloody sat nav was on the blink, and the nearer he got to New Bedlam the less the mechanical voice believed it existed. He reluctantly resorted to using road signs.
As lead reviewer for popular podcast Wowza!, Jake felt he deserved a little more luxury.
He climbed out of the car and scanned the deserted streets. No wonder he had to drive. He couldn’t imagine many bus companies came this far out. New Bedlam was exactly the sort of place Jake detested. One church, one school, a few shops; nothing about it inspired him. He couldn’t understand what writers saw in this place. Barely hiding his disgust, Jake flipped open his touch phone and fired up the GPS.
The signal bar was empty.
“Bugger!”
He snapped it shut and slid a map out of the glove box. The very feel of the paper between his fingers wound him up. In this day and age, no one should be using maps. The digital revolution was here; about time someone told these folk.
After several confusing minutes, he decided to take a narrow passageway between a row of town houses.
The decrepit houses seemed to sag together like old women, and he felt a cool breeze follow him down the alley. Clouds of dust swirled around his feet and he was conscious of getting dirt on his gleaming trainers. Appearance meant a lot to Jake, and he wasn’t about to let his standards slip for some hippy writer.
Who was she anyway? Briar Wellington? Sounded like something from the old TV shows his Nan used to watch. No denying her success though. The Agnes Rose series of books had sold phenomenally well. Certainly well enough for their particular blend of horticulture and thriller to be featured on the January edition of Wowza!
The passageway ended and the buildings were replaced by tree-lined pavements. Flat stone quickly turned to gravel, and gravel to dirt track. Before long, he was wandering through a dark, close knit wood on his way out of town. He buried his hands in his pockets and kept his head down.
When he started whistling he knew the silence was bothering him. Reaching into his pocket, he unfurled the tangled wires of his iPod. A bit of Jay-Z should brighten up this place, he thought. He jabbed the ‘on’ button.
Nothing happened.
Jake stopped walking and peered at the device. He could have sworn there were at least two bars of battery when he got out of the car. In fact, he was adamant. Cracking the back open, he whipped out the battery, gave it a shake, and closed it back into place.
Again, nothing.
He carried on along the path.
Without the distraction of any of his hi-tech equipment, Jake became a lot more aware of his surroundings. The plants growing on either side of the track seemed to work on a very different scale to anything he had seen before. Huge leaves cast shadows in the afternoon sun and strange bulbous fruits weighed down branches. Jake was no expert on gardening, but these plants defied logic. They looked like props left over from some hokey Sci-Fi movie.
Up ahead, he could see a small cottage and the long line of smoke that weaved from the chimney. He got the distinct sense of going back in time, and felt like he was intruding on a world he wasn’t meant to see. As he neared the small white building, the frequency of the enormous plants and their gelatinous fruit increased. By the time he reached the door, they appeared to close in from all directions. The door opened before he could knock.
“Miss Wellington,” he offered his hand. “Hope I’m not too early?”
“Not at all. In fact, you’re quite late.” Her voice was quipped and sharp.
“Am I?” Jake checked his watch. Of course, it had stopped.
“Apologies, all my stuff is on the blink. Must be something up with this town. Don’t think they’ve quite got the hang of the Twentieth century, let alone the Twenty First.”
He started to laugh, but on seeing the woman’s harsh face, he quickly thought better of it.
“Come in dear.”
Jake had expected someone younger. Secretly, he rather hoped she was a lot younger, and a lot hotter. The woman he followed into the cottage was perhaps sixty, maybe sixty five. In and out, quick as a flash, he told himself.
Jake stood in a cluttered living room. He had to bend to keep his head from touching the ceiling. He didn’t think of himself as especially tall, but at six foot two he was having trouble. The place was clean and dust free, but every conceivable space was taken up by books and plant pots. Even the ancient television housed a collection of weathered paperbacks.
“Nice place.” He said, not really meaning it.
Miss Wellington simply nodded. Without a word, she disappeared into the kitchen and started clanging china together. Jake heard water running and the sound of a kettle firing up. He was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be his usual skinny latte, but welcomed anything to busy his hands with.
As the woman returned with the tray, Jake caught her scrutinising him.
“Take a seat.”
She placed the tray on an old, frayed foot stall. Two pristine mugs stood next to each other with a matching jug of milk. She didn’t ask how he liked his coffee and poured milk into both. He didn’t mention it.
He sipped the scolding liquid and winced at the bitter taste.
“Thanks for the drink. Are you happy to start right away?”
“Of course, my dear.”
Jake searched his small pouch bag for a mini recording device. He’d brought this model after a number of rave reviews and the apparent ease with which you could upload sound. In his line of work, it had proved essential.
He could barely contain his fury when it refused to turn on.
“Oh come on. This is ridiculous!” He vigorously shook the device as if it were a dying animal in need of revival.
“Something the matter?”
“I can’t believe it. Ever since I got to this town, none of my stuff will work.” He peered at the recorder intently, as if he might will it into life.
“Maybe I can make a suggestion?”
Miss Wellington walked over to an antique writer’s bureau and returned with a small note book and pen. She looked at Jake as if he were retarded.
“It may seem old fashioned to you, but there is very little that can go wrong with a pen.”
“Er… Yeah. Thing is, this is a podcast. I’m not sure if you’re up to speed on new technologies, and I’m not saying you should be, that’s my job. But we have to record it for the interview to be broadcast.”
The woman’s face flashed red with anger.
“Don’t patronise me you little dog! This isn’t a podcast. It’s an interview.”
Jake didn’t get paid enough for this shit. He had an overwhelming urge to chuck his coffee at the ungrateful old bat and drive out of New Bedlam for good.
“That’s a bit uncalled for…”
“Look young man. I’ve invited you into my home. You’ve drunk my coffee and had a good look around. Now stop being so childish and sit there politely, whilst you ask your questions. My time is precious.”
Jake studied his shoes. He couldn’t bring himself to look the old lady in the eye, and was horrified to feel shame burning his cheeks. Just get it done, he told himself.
“Ok. Sorry if I caused you any trouble. I’ll start with my first question.” He tried to ease the shake from his voice. “Your novels are quite unique. Could you tell me a little bit about your influences?”
And she started talking, and eventually he got the hang of writing quick enough to keep up. Despite the poor start, Jake was surprised to find the interview progressed as well as it did. The old lady wasn’t afraid to speak and gave numerous anecdotes from through-out her life. She came across so well that Jake couldn’t stop kicking himself for not bringing a back-up recorder.
“That’s really great. Just one final question, bit of a cliché, but my producer insists I ask all authors. Where do you get your ideas from?”
Until this question the answers had flowed freely. This time, Miss Wellington regarded him with such intensity, he shuffled in his seat and ran a finger round the rim of his collar. Silence descended and lasted for a minute longer than was comfortable.
“Let me show you.”
Jake was taken aback. He certainly hadn’t expected that answer, and the way it was delivered made it sound like an order.
“Show me?”
“You asked the question. Now I’m going to answer it. Follow me.”
Miss Wellington rose from her chair and headed for a narrow archway. The uneven wooden door opened on to a set of stone steps leading down into the cellar. Jake expected darkness, but a soft blue glow emanated from below. This is crazy, thought Jake. If it wasn’t for the fact he had such great material, and more importantly that he required the woman’s permission to release it, he’d have chalked this one up to experience and left. As it was, he found himself following her down the steps.
The walkway was narrow and he couldn’t see much other than the straight back of Miss Wellington. They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned left into the well lit room.
Jake’s stomach somersaulted and his knees gave way. His mouth bulged with vomit.
The room was large; its floor space mirroring that of the house above. A cluster of UV lights hung from the ceiling and spread intense blue light into every corner.
Bodies lined the walls. Faces writhed in agony and limbs flailed weakly. Each of them was distorted and torn apart by the plants growing out of their flesh. Long, thick stems sprouted from ruddy, weeping holes. Barbed vines swelled under the skin of the victims and stretched it to excruciating proportions. The whole scene looked like a twitching mass of green, red and pink; a tableau of biological violence.
Jake staggered against the wall. He saw the same plants from the road, weaving in and out of flesh. The jagged roots assaulted the body and the main plant sprouted from tops of their heads. Clumps of leaves exited from ruined eye sockets and obscenely stretched mouths. Out of the bloody, pulpy mess where their brains should have been, grew the purple fruits. Darkness threatened the edges of his senses and he felt his vision dip.
“Remarkable isn’t it? Who would have thought the human body would make such a rich and fertile vessel for these plants.” She reached above her head and clutched a particularly large fruit in her hand.
“These fruit are simply brimming with ideas. They grow straight out of the minds of these people. Some are as big as melons, usually they’re from artists or musicians – creative types. Others are a little small and under developed.”
Miss Wellington cradled the fruit in her hands and bit down. Dark grey juices flowed over her fingers and down her chin. The liquid was thick and gloopy, and riddled with meaty clumps. The old lady savoured the taste, tilting her head back and squeezing the fleshy bag into her mouth.
For a moment, she appeared horribly old. Decayed and worn. Then she simply turned her eyes upward and glazed over, as if she were watching a movie.
“Wonderful idea,” she whispered.
Jake felt as if the walls were closing in. He struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. At the back of his mind he tried to form the idea that all the plants outside grew from one of these ‘hosts.’ It was too hard. He could barely remember to breath.
“Oh god…”
His stomach felt worse. Tight. He didn’t think it was more vomit, Christ knows there was enough of it on his shoes. This was different, more alien. Something thick and uncomfortable was burning a trail from his belly up to his windpipe.
“What have you done to me?”
Jakes body was on fire. Sharp lines drilled through his veins and arteries, tearing bits of him away as they went. Pain exploded along his spinal column and heavy handed tendrils groped at the base of his skull.
“Two seeds,” she said. “I put them in your coffee.”
Rich Sampson is an Art School drop out with more comic books than is healthy for a man of his age. He found writing entirely by accident. He currently lives in Hampshire, England with his wife and two children. He welcomes comments at his website: http://www.rich-sampson.blogspot.com.
