CUCKOO SPIT - CHAPTER ONE

Almustus Fudge was a man, but only in the loosest sense of the word.

This was a feeling that was capable of coming to him at any - and multiple - points during his day, but never more so than when he was talking to his wife. She, Loretta Fudge, had grown up with a very distinct idea of the man that she was going to be married to, and was determined to chip away at Almustus until he resembled exactly the image that had been nestled in her mind for the last forty years. Even if, as it were, she *had* started out with completely the wrong kind of stone.

It was not that she was an unpleasant woman. Rather, she was simply a product of a portion of society which creates and promotes competition like no other, that drives individuals to better themselves; not for their own enjoyment or personal satisfaction, but purely to have one up on the folk next door. Loretta was *profoundly* middle class. Everything in her day revolved around her constant drive to make Almustus *better*;

'I see you've parted your hair to the left today. I really think you should part it to the right. To the right is so much *better*.'

Or;

'That shirt? Hmmm. No, I think the one with the duck egg pinstripes and mitred cuffs. The one with the duck egg pinstripes and mitred cuffs is so much *better*.'

And so on.

No, it wasn't that Loretta Fudge was an unpleasant woman. She did, absolutely, want the best for Almustus. She just happened to show it by making his life utterly miserable.

On this particular morning, Almustus came down the stairs of their semi-detached suburban home for the second time - the first had been before changing his tie ('that's *better'*) and sat down to his breakfast. His surroundings were the very picture of middle-class respectability. The kitchen was immaculate, as it always was, and economically sprinkled with the kind of homely tat that a person trying to achieve the picture of middle-class respectability might, indeed, sprinkle. No photographs or artwork adorned the fridge; Almustus and Loretta were without children. A sustained period of trying had proved fruitless and, after a handful of visits to the doctor, Loretta had come home one evening and without making eye contact informed him that the matter was now closed. Having convincingly pretended not to have seen the single tear running down her cheek, Almustus thought it best to leave it at that.

Before him at the table was his standard breakfast of porridge made with water ('so much *better* for you than made with milk') and one boiled egg. He ate quietly, quickly without rushing, and when he was finished wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin before folding it onto the plate in front of him. Luscetta had returned upstairs to apply her makeup and complete the rest of a routine that Almustus had never completely understood.

He stood and walked his plate to the washing up bowl, where he took a small pleasure in watching it slip slowly but inevitably beneath the bubbly skin. Walking out of the kitchen and into the hallway, he took a moment in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall just inside the front door. He looked himself in the eye and paused, before lifting his gaze and allowing it to drift slowly from head to foot.

He was above average height; not remarkably so, but in a manner which when combined with his thin arms and legs gave him a sense of not *quite* being in proportion. His suit jacket seemed to be both too long in the body and too short in the sleeve. Despite the best efforts of his mother, schoolteachers, and most recently Loretta, he stood with a slight stoop. The combination of these attributes served to give the casual observer the impression of adolescent ungainliness, as if somebody were not quite holding his strings at full tension. Facially he was distinctly unremarkable. Brown eyes (not hazel, auburn, amber or chestnut) looked out from under a head of hair which could perhaps threaten to one day grow to be unkempt, were it not so rigorously kept in check by fortnightly visits to the barber and a fingertip - any more would, he felt, be flamboyant - of Breelcreem. It was not that Almustus was a vain man, but simply that he had been raised to place great value in being at all times neat and tidy. His nose was ever so slightly prominent; just stopping short of adding a suggestion of character. His lips were thin and even at rest appeared slightly pursed, so that he often had the appearance of disapproving of whatever it was upon which he was looking. In this particular instance he met his reflection with neither approval or disapproval - in fact, his overriding feeling was one of boredom. Boredom was, in his experience, the appropriate response. It meant that he was sufficiently presentable to proceed out into the world.

He took his briefcase from its place next to the shoe rack (fourteen pairs of Loretta's; two of his own) and enjoyed the familiar weight in his hand. It didn't actually contain anything of any great importance - his wallet, an empty jotter, a selection of cheap pens and a spare tie in case of lunch catastrophe - but he considered it an accessory essential to the image that he was expected to convey. He made his way to the bottom of the stairs and spoke towards the light spilling out from their bedroom doorway. Loretta had a habit of keeping the curtains closed until she had completed her morning routine.

'I'm leaving for work now, dear.'

The silhouette of a curlered head appeared at the landing.

'Very good, dear. Did you finish your breakfast?'

'Yes, dear.'

'Good. Have you got your briefcase?'

Almustus' eyes momentarily flickered down at the briefcase clearly visible in his right hand.

'Yes, dear.'

'Good. And you don't need your umbrella?'

It hadn't rained in two weeks. It was June.

'No, dear.'

'Good. Well, I hope you have a nice day. I thought we could have casserole tonight. How does that sound? Casserole?'

'Again?'

'Pardon, dear?'

'Yes, dear. Casserole sounds nice.'

'Good.' There really was no way to know if she had heard him. 'Casserole it is. Have a nice day.'

'Thank you, dear. Goodbye'. He turned towards the door.

'Almustus!' He paused.

'Yes, dear?'

'Aren't you going to wish me a nice day too?'

'Of course, dear. I'm sorry. Have a nice day.'

'That's *better!*'

\*\*\*

It was about half a mile's walk to the bus stop. Almustus would walk at a steady pace, always allowing himself time to stop in at the newsagents along the way to pick up his copy of The Echo. Almustus wasn’t sure if he liked The Echo, but he bought it for three reasons. Firstly, his father had taught him that educated men were always up to date with the news of the day. Secondly, it gave him something to do with his hands during the half-hour bus journey to work. And thirdly, he liked the little old lady behind the counter, to whom he’d hand over his forty pence every morning. The little old lady - whose name Almustus had never learned (he was too polite to ask) - would always have a comment on the cover story of The Echo. Her comments always took the form of a question.

‘Isn’t it a terrible shame?’, she might say, if the story were about, say, a rail accident. Or ‘All that money. Can you believe it?’, if the story were about, say, a local lottery win.

‘Yes. Yes, it is’, Almustus would respond. Or ‘No. No, I can’t.’

Sometimes Almustus wondered what might happen if he were to disagree with the little old lady’s opinion one day. He suspected that as she always seemed so sure of his agreement, it would probably be very bad form, and perhaps offend her slightly. Almustus didn’t want that. He liked the little old lady. In any case, he really did agree with her almost all of the time.

The little old lady wished that sometimes Almustus would disagree with her. She thought that perhaps he was only agreeing with her to be polite, because she was a little old lady.

This morning, he stepped into the newsagents at exactly quarter past eight. Seeing the little old lady behind the counter, he smiled and inclined his head to her politely. She nodded back, smiling. Walking over to the news stand, Almustus went through the common but entirely pointless routine of scanning the front pages of all of the newspapers, as if basing his purchase upon which news he liked best. He always picked up The Echo.

Today, the front pages all held the same photograph. It was of a scene which, until the headline was read, didn’t seem to make a lot of sense by itself. It consisted of a man and a woman in the back seat of an open-top car, riding through a street crowded with people. All of the crowd were behind barriers keeping them on the pavement - apart from one man. He appeared to have wanted to show the man in the car something, and had stepped under the barriers into the road in order that the man in the car might get a better look at it. As he held out his hand to show the man in the car, his face seemed to indicate that he was very pleased to have the chance to show off what he had. In his outstretched hand, he held a revolver. The man in the car was looking at it as if it was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

The headline said: ASSASSINATION!

CHAPTER TWO

‘Blackie. Blackie, get up.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Get up, Blackie. Please, get up’.

Officer Cadet Cedric Black opened his eyes. Blearily and reluctantly, his focus fell on the underside of the bunk above him. The gaudy alternating dark/light green striped cover sheets were tucked in neatly under the mattress. This, combined with the lack of a bulge, told him that the bunk was unoccupied and had been made up. His gaze drifted downwards. The sight of his own sheets, crumpled and tangled around his form, immediately depressed him. He sighed and closed his eyes again.

‘No, Blackie! You can’t do this every bloody time. Get up now. I mean it.’

Blackie lay for a second, enjoying the power he felt in not having to see or process anything visually, simply by keeping his eyes closed. Very slowly, he opened them and turned to focus at the uniformed figure stood at the side of his bed.

‘Hullo, Gantry’.

'Bloody hell, Blackie.’

Officer Cadet Gantry was, it seemed to Blackie, the most sincere human being that had ever lived. He was short and slight, with a head of very fine straw-coloured hair which was already threatening to bugger off completely around the crown. His eyes were bright with intensity, which was not at all diminished by the pair of small circular-framed spectacles they sat behind. His eyebrows rested high on his forehead, giving him the look of being constantly surprised. At this particular moment, he was trying to frown, making him appear all the more owlish. Blackie failed to suppress a smile.

‘It’s not bloody funny, Blackie. Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s oh-eight-thirty.’

‘Hmm.’ Blackie looked him up and down. ‘Gantry, why are you in uniform?’

‘*Because* it’s oh-eight-thirty, Blackie! We're *supposed* to be in uniform by now! You were *supposed* to be on parade this morning!'

Blackie sat up slowly and swung his legs out of bed so that his bare feet were resting on the rough, brown carpet of the cabin. He lowered his head so that his face was resting in his hands. His skin stank of stale cigarette smoke.

'Did anyone notice?' He spoke into his hands.

'No. Well, I don't think so. But somebody's going to soon. This must be the third or fourth time in a couple of weeks!'

'Something like that, I expect.'

Blackie stood up, becoming aware for the first time of a dull throbbing in his temples. He took his dressing gown from where it had been hanging on the corner of his bunk, and slipped it on. Blinking, he looked around the room. He and Gantry were the only occupants. Other than his own, each of the three double bunks was made up in the same uniformed way; the bottom of the cover sheets folded in crisp hospital corners, the undersheet folded exactly A4 width over the top end, and a sharp crease running from top to bottom of the pillow case. The three wash basins in the corner were immaculate; each plug carefully placed in exactly the same spot with its chain coiled smartly and identically around it. Six wardrobes lined one wall, each of them indistinguishable from the others, and Blackie knew the same would be true of the contents. With, he was forced to concede, the probable exception of his own. Yawning, he padded across to the window and looked out. Light grey cloud covered the entire sky, and a curtain of rain drifted gently out over the bay in the distance. Two stories below him, a squad of uniformed cadets marched on the parade ground. His eye was drawn, as is always the case, to the one cadet who was slightly out of step with the rest of his squad. Gantry appeared at his side.

'I don't suppose you've heard the news?'

'You know I can't possibly have done.'

'Well, the Archduke has been shot.'

Blackie turned and looked Gantry in the eye for the first time since waking.

'He's what?'

'Shot. He's dead.'

'I see. That's....I see.' Blackie looked back out of the window, following the band of rain on the horizon. He ran his palm over his chin, feeling a probably unacceptable amount of stubble. 'I imagine that's caused quite a lot of trouble.'

'Of course it has! They're saying it could be war!'

'Well. Technically it always *could**be* war. It could be, but it isn't. Actually, the majority of human history *could* have been war.'

'And it was!'

'And it was, yes...' Blackie trailed off, not entirely sure what point he'd made.

'Blackie, don't try to be clever. You know what I mean. War, and soon. As in weeks, perhaps even days! Lieutenant Gladfail said that they're even thinking of accelerating our training.'

'Did he?' Blackie frowned. 'When did he say that?'

'On parade this morning.'

'Ah. Of course. Yes.' Blackie sucked his teeth. 'Well, I don't see how they can make that work.'

'What do you mean?' Gantry blinked.

'Weeeell. It's all very well for you engineering types. Extra screwdriver identification lessons. Additional wrench handling practise. Bring your exams forward...' Blackie smiled at Gantry, whose expression remained unchanged. 'Yes, I can quite see how they'd be able to get you operational a little faster. But I'm afraid it's a very different proposition when it comes to aircrew.'

'And why would that be?' Gantry huffed.

'Aircraft. We just don't have enough aircraft. Training or otherwise. Word from the chaps further down the training pipeline is that they're going days and days between training flights. Too many cadets, not enough aircraft. Or instructors, for that matter. No, they can accelerate our training all they want. Unless they double their training fleet, it won't get us out there any faster.'

'Mmm-hmm.' Gantry hummed thoughtfully. 'Well, anyway. You'd best get yourself washed and dressed. We have a session with the Chaplain in twenty minutes.'

'Oh, *God*. I rather thought I might get some breakfast first.'

'The dining hall has been closed since before parade. You won't be able to get any scran until lunch.'

Blackie winced. Cadets had the habit of picking up the military slang used by their instructors and divisional officers, and making a point of using it themselves. He supposed the idea was to make them seem more seasoned. For reasons he could never quite pin down, it irritated him immensely.

'Food. You mean food, Gantry. And don't you worry about that. I have a man in the kitchen. What do we have after the Chaplain?'

'Drill.'

'Drill?! Ridiculous. We've only just finished parade!'

'*We?'*

'Drill indeed. No thank you. And then?'

'PT.'

'Absolutely out of the question.'

'Oh, come *on*!' Gantry wailed. 'Blackie, are you going to come to *any*\-' He stopped short as a speaker mounted high in the corner of the cabin crackled into life, indicating an incoming announcement on the college's public address system.

*'D'you hear there?'* Atinny voice, with just a hint of uncertainty behind it, rang out, '*Officer**Cadet**Black**to**report**to**Lieutenant**Gladfail's office.'* A pause, and then a second, more distant voice, '*Very good, Clive. Would never know it was your first one...oh hang on, you're still holding down the button. Let g-'* The speaker hissed for a second, then was quiet.

Blackie drummed his fingers on the window frame. Outside, the out-of-step cadet, seemingly either unaware of or unperturbed by his lack of timing, ploughed on.

'I *knew* it!' Gantry sighed, 'I *knew* it was only a matter of time! You'll be for it now!'

'Mmm.' Musty mused, 'Hand me my towel.'

One of the - in Blackie's view, many - perks of not necessarily following the prescribed schedule for the day was that one tended to avoid the rush that came with dozens of cadets all trying to achieve the same thing at once. Nowhere was this more apparent than when abluting. Whereas the other cadets had, hours earlier, queued shivering for the showers, Blackie was able to take a far more leisurely approach. Indeed, the cubicles were each fitted with two shower heads; allowing two cadets to make use of them simultaneously. On the occasions where avoiding the rush was impossible, Blackie had developed a strategy to at least negate the possibility of sharing - any time another cadet joined him in a cubicle, he would immediately begin washing them, insisting that he was very happy to help and wouldn't take no for an answer old chap, there we go, soon have it gleaming. After only a couple of days, he found that he was left to his own devices while washing.

Having completed a particularly luxurious shower, he wrapped his towel around his waist and padded down the corridor to his cabin where he proceeded to dress himself. Outside on the parade ground, cadets were assembled in blocks of thirty, equally spaced across the square, and it occurred to him that he was looking out at his own intake. There was Vanguard division, then Vigilant, Victorious, Vengeance and finally his own - Viscous (the result of a typing error when the college was first formed, inexplicably never corrected and now seen as too much of a tradition to change). He could just make out Gantry at front and centre of Viscous, comfortably a foot shorter than the cadet either side of him, spectacles glinting in the morning sun. Once dressed, he turned to check his appearance in the mirror over the sinks.

One of the attributes of which Cedric Black was most proud was that he looked almost *remarkably* average. He was, technically,handsome; in that his face *made**sense -* although not to a degree where the handsomeness was memorable in its own right. It was a face which, upon meeting him for the first time, people would often claim to have seen before, but find very difficult to describe after the event. This was a characteristic which Blackie had found exquisitely useful since arriving for basic training. On his very first day, lined up with the other new entrants outside the College, all of them besuited and fresh from the bus, the Commander of Training had strolled up and down and given them a talk, the purpose of which was twofold. One was to let the new cadets know in no uncertain terms that he was very much a Big Swinging Dick, to be revered and whose approval should be sought at all costs. The second was to inform them that the very worst thing they could do during their time at the College was to become, as the Commander put it, the 'Grey Man' - anonymous among their contemporaries. He assured them that being an unknown would be a hindrance to their progression; depriving them of opportunities to further showcase their leadership and prove themselves to the higher echelons of the College. Blackie had at that moment decided that the Grey Man was *precisely* the best possible thing to become, and had spent the subsequent days and weeks striving to become as monochrome as possible. In this, he was aided by his appearance. He was convinced that at least half of his instructors would not be able to identify him by name. Even Lieutenant Gladfail - his Divisional Officer, with whom he was forced to spend more time than any of the other College staff - would occasionally seem momentarily surprised to see Blackie stood at the foot of his bunk during evening rounds.

The advantage of all of this, of course, was that if people got used enough to not *really* seeing you when you were somewhere that you were supposed to be, then they were most unlikely to notice when they *really didn't* see you at all.

He examined his uniform, noting approvingly that the creases in his shirt were sharp *enough* without being excessively so. Nothing was as sure to draw attention as poor uniform, but the last thing he wanted was to be noticed for having particularly high standards. Another of the Commander of Training's pearls of wisdom from that first day was that, for an Officer Cadet, the minimum was *not* enough. This had struck Blackie as being a very odd thing to say. The minimum was, by definition, enough. It was *only just* enough. But it was enough.

Satisfied with his appearance, Blackie took his beret from where it had been hanging on the back of the cabin door and stuffed it into his pocket. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. A casual observer might justifiably claim to have a detected a hint of apprehension, although if it was there at all it was gone in an instant. Blackie straightened himself up and proceeded out of the door. He walked briskly down the corridor, and at the end began to climb one of the several main staircases from the accommodation block towards the fifth floor, and Lieutenant Gladfail's office.

CHAPTER THREE

Almustus had worked at the offices of Throbbit and Girth for the last five years. He had joined straight from college, after successfully winning a place on one of their accountancy internship programs (everybody who applied was successful). His probationary period had, apparently, passed uneventfully, and he was now a fully-established member of the accounting team. His job largely consisted of checking that the firm's customers were up to date with their payments, and chasing up any that may have fallen behind their respective schedules. This had only happened twice since Almustus joined the firm, and on both occasions a politely-worded letter had rectified the issue. He had been very glad of this, as the next step was a politely-worded telephone call which he supposed was his responsibility to conduct. The thought of such confrontation induced in him a feeling of acute dread. His cubicle did contain a telephone, though he had never made a call to an external line from it. Indeed, he tended to keep communication with anyone at all to an absolute minimum, often eating his lunch in his cubicle so as to avoid the obligatory small talk in the queue at the cafeteria.

Almustus stepped out of the lift into the offices on the fifth floor. Throbbit and Girth occupied the entirety of the floor, which was open plan other than a row of three enclosed offices along one wall. Each office door was adorned with a brass plate containing the name of the occupant, who also happened to be the company directors - G.F THROBBIT; W.A GIRTH; T.H WUNT. Almustus had no idea as to the layout behind each door; a state of affairs that he was happy to keep. The other three external walls were made up almost entirely of windows, the idea of which was presumably to flood the office with natural light. Despite this, strip lights spaced at regular intervals flickered overhead. Almustus could not recall the lights ever having been switched off. In a nod from the architect to the particular quality of life associated with upper-story office work, none of the windows were able to be opened more than a couple of inches. The rest of the office space was divided up into cubicles by shoulder-height partitions on casters. In the event of a promotion, a sales target being reached, or the receipt of the Employee of the Month award, an individual might have their cubicle temporarily expanded, endowing them with a larger working space and a Sense Of Real Achievement.

Almustus made his way to his own (as yet never expanded, temporarily or otherwise) cubicle, nodding politely at the receptionist behind the desk at the door, who hadn't actually looked up as he passed. Placing his briefcase under his desk, he pulled out his chair and sat down. His cubicle was identical to the day it had been issued to him, save for the addition of a small framed photograph of Loretta which stood next to his in-tray. Visitors to Almustus' desk - few though they were - often found the photograph disconcerting, for at the moment it was taken Loretta had not been looking into the camera, but instead had been about to admonish Almustus, who was stood behind the photographer, for fiddling with his tie. This meant that she did not *quite* make eye contact with the viewer of the photograph, but was not looking away sufficiently for it to be obvious. This had the effect that she seemed to be looking *through* them, and served to make most people feel uncomfortable for reasons they couldn't quite put their finger on. A pinboard was mounted on the cubicle's partition, neatly arranged to display a calendar, an office code of conduct, and the company mandated motivational poster (a photograph of a blue whale inexplicably captioned with the word 'SUCCESS').

As he reached down to open his filing drawer, Almustus noticed for the first time a small typewritten note placed in the centre of his desk.

COMPANY MEETING. 1PM. ALL TO ATTEND.

Picking up the card, he turned it over to ensure that there was no further message on the reverse. There was not. Slowly, and what he hoped was discreetly, he stood and peered over the partition into the next cubicle. The occupant was yet to arrive, but Almustus was relieved to see that they too had a copy of the note waiting on their desk. He took his seat and paused for a moment, before beginning to arrange the day's paperwork in front of him. Unnoticed by him, and unnoticing him, other employees were arriving, and the background noise level had risen slightly to a comfortable throbbing chatter. People who had not given each other a moment's thought since last saying goodbye greeted each other warmly and enquired after weekends in which they could not have had less interest. People came to *work*.