The House In The Hollow Part 2 of 5
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The House In The Hollow Part 4 (of 5) free porn video
Painting and decorating are not activities at which any of the kuzkardesh
gara excel. It took Gillian and Hilary most of Sunday afternoon to remove
the last of the grimy rococo wallpaper left behind on the staircase by the
house's previous occupants; their daughters have made slightly more rapid
headway this morning coating the living room's skirting boards with
emulsion, though if they get much more on their hands and forearms the tin
will have run dry well before the task is complete.
Being taller and more robustly built than either of the teenagers, I was
asked to paint the living-room ceiling. I have little time to waste; a
blanket of low cloud is settling on the valley, and as the light
deteriorates it's becoming more and more difficult to see which areas still
need doing. Dressed like the others in just a loincloth made from an old
sheet and held together with a safety pin, I push the roller to and fro
with all the vitality my right hand can muster while I use my left to keep
the stepladder steady, my arms and breasts speckled with apple blossom
white and my hair almost certainly in the same piebald condition.
It's a small price to pay for staving off the boredom I'd be suffering
otherwise, sitting on the bed with only A New Approach To Cultural
Evolution for company. I'm also hoping that if I can convince the
kuzkardesh gara I've decided to try and fit in, they might relent and allow
me the occasional cigarette.
I wonder if Simon smokes? It might be awkward if he doesn't...
That ferry has left the dock, babe. As far as he's concerned, you stood him
up. And if Trisha's dragged my name through the dirt, which she's perfectly
capable of doing now that she believes I'm responsible for her father's
death, I might have more to worry about when I get back to the Gladstone
than losing a potential boyfriend.
Then again, a police cell might be the safest place for me until this has
all blown over.
Just be wary about what you're getting yourself into. Remember what
happened after you and Kerrie Latimer went sticking your noses in where you
shouldn't have.
Who'd have thought I'd ever be in a position where I'd regret not listening
to Sylv's advice?
Once I'm satisfied that every square inch of the ceiling has been covered,
I climb down from the steps, fold them up and rest them against the wall.
"I could do with a long, cold drink," I murmur to myself, raking back my
fringe.
Gillian and Hilary, who have been putting up shelves in the corner of the
room to the right of the window, lay down their tools. There follows a
short exchange of clicks and hisses, during which I catch the Ugur words
for 'milk', 'container' and 'new' - the last in the sense of 'fresh' or
'unspoiled'. The kuzkardesh gara go into the kitchen together, and as I
start rubbing turps across the backs of my hands I can hear through the
door the sound of a bottle clinking. Nothing, it seems, is too much trouble
for one who is 'okde'.
Only her liberty.
I dissolve most of the splotches from my arms and chest, then use my oily
hands to slick back my hair. I'm about to commandeer the bathroom when I
notice Hilary standing in the doorway inspecting my handiwork.
"Ongat," she remarks, her approval evident from her expression.
"Good?" I hazard.
"You learn quickly, Ruth Pattison."
"It was just a wild guess."
"There was nothing fortuitous about it. Your brain processed the
information it received and came up with the most likely translation."
"I don't think so. Not when it only had two syllables to go on."
"Ah, but did it? What about the visual signals Hilary Parker was
transmitting?"
I have to admit she has a point. If a person looks pleased, the chances are
they'll say something positive.
"Anyway, I'm glad you think it's okay," I tell her. "Much more of this and
I'll have bigger muscles than Geoff Capes."
Her ebony lips curl in a lukewarm smile. But only out of politeness;
converts don't have what any human would recognise as a sense of humour.
Gillian returns, carrying a glass of cold suyt. Although I'd have preferred
lemonade or cola, the subtle spices she's added to the milk imbue it with a
zest I'm beginning to find quite palatable.
As I take my first sip, she trails a bejewelled, black-nailed finger the
length of my upper right arm. I shudder, but resist the urge to jump away;
if I want to persuade her I'm settling in, I must grin and bear this kind
of contact.
Her breasts press weightily against mine as she leans closer.
"Siz yadaw," she hisses into my ear. "Hazir oturmak."
"That's not fair," I complain. "How do I know what might be going through
your mind when I can't see your face?"
"There are other ways," she replies.
"Such as...?"
"You should regard each part of our conversation as an event. Think about
the various contexts in which that event is embedded: our surroundings, our
reasons for communicating, the non-verbal cues that accompany each phrase,
the cadences, pauses and subtle shifts in volume. Clear your mind of all
extraneous thoughts and let the totality reveal its meaning."
I try my best to follow her guidance. I recall that 'siz' means 'you', so
she's either making an observation about me or suggesting something. And
her smile wasn't reflected in her eyes, which held a certain amount of
concern for my well-being. That's because I've been overdoing things, and
now it's time for me to rest.
"You want me to put my feet up for an hour or two," I conclude. "Can't
argue with that."
"Edil," she chuckles softly. "You see how easy it is?"
I gulp down the rest of the suyt, then hand the glass back to her.
"Tell me what it was like. When you realised you actually wanted to become
a kuzkardesh gara. What made you stop fighting it?"
She seems genuinely baffled by the question.
"The eradication of Gillian Dixon's individuality is a fact. It makes no
difference how or when it happened."
"But there must have been a moment when you agreed to have all your hair
shaved off, and your face painted and everything?"
"You believe that we were required to undergo some sort of initiation
ceremony? What strange ideas you have about us."
"So they did this to you bit by bit? And you just accepted it?"
Gillian tosses me a sympathetic grin.
"You want to know what to expect. That is understandable at such an early
stage of your conversion. Be assured that the details will soon cease to
matter."
"Is that what you reckon?"
"This is not a contest, Ruth Pattison. It is not you against us. We have no
influence whatsoever over your assimilation. Our part in that ended once
you were exposed to the meme. The replacement program is now working
independently to create within your subconscious mind an exact replica of
the neural patterns we inherited from Sorina Dascalu. It needs no external
stimulation; the process is as automatic as those taking place in your
other physiological systems."
"Bullshit. You're telling me I've got no control over what I think?"
"There is no 'you' to exert that control," says Hilary.
"Selfhood is an illusion," adds Gillian. "It is nothing more than an
accidental by-product of the interactions between the memes already present
within your brain. It has persisted in the human species only because of
its value as a survival mechanism."
"Wait a minute, you said you were replicas," I remind her. "If that's true,
you're not really a collective intelligence at all. You're just copies of a
single consciousness."
"The distinction has no practical significance."
"How d'you make that out?"
"What makes human beings think and act as individuals? Why do some behave
in ways that are completely unpredictable, often to the detriment of those
around them? It is because the memetic programming many humans have been
subjected to is both complex and contradictory. The memes are involved in a
continual fight for ascendancy, producing feelings of inner conflict when
co-operation between them proves impossible. But if the host minds were to
be infected with the same meme, one so powerful it absorbed and neutralised
all the others, from then on they would react identically to each situation
they encountered. In effect there would exist only one way of thinking,
that of the group."
"Sounds worse than having the world taken over by the Moonies."
"It means an end to war and hunger," Hilary points out.
"And no one will ever write a decent tune again." I frown at the greasy
film covering my palms. "I'm tired of this. Time I got cleaned up."
I run myself a bath, but don't allow myself to surrender to the water's
seductive embrace for longer than it takes to scrub and scour my pores free
of gunge. I have better things to do than lie here soaking; the kuzkardesh
gara appear to have a much deeper understanding of memes and the
technicalities involved in their transmission than I do, and I need to put
that right. A New Approach To Cultural Evolution may not be the most
riveting of reads, but if it helps me co-ordinate my resistance I'll put up
with the lacklustre, jargon-ridden prose.
During the hour before lunch - the word for 'fruit' was mentioned, so it
might even be edible - I dress, then sit on the bed to take a fine
toothcomb to the text. What I want to know is how can an idea, something
with no physical presence, alter the 'neural patterns' Gillian was talking
about?
One passage seems to strike at the heart of the matter. It argues that
every experience we have changes, to a greater or lesser extent, the way
our brains respond to the sensory information they receive. The more
memorable the experience, or the more often that experience is repeated,
the stronger the connection between the various clusters of neurons that
process it. A meme is merely a set of signals that act as the neural
network's input, arranged in such a way as to provoke a given output in the
form of a series of instructions sent to the body's various physical
systems. A powerful meme will establish strong, and therefore long-lasting
links; these will determine how future inputs are processed, leading to
permanent alterations in the long-term memory.
But what makes some memes more effective than others?
The author attempts to answer this question by rambling on for several
pages about evolutionary psychology. I struggle to follow his thread, but
the gist of it appears to be that memes reflecting our genetically driven
needs have more chance of replicating than others.
Try as I might, I fail to see how this explains why anyone could harbour an
inbuilt desire to become a kuzkardesh gara.
All most of us need is something to kick-start the relevant mental
processes.
Which implies that for some people it takes more...
That might be what my gift is!
Maybe I can resist this meme, stop it from changing me! Why else would the
hive be holding me here against my will?
Piece by piece, the rudiments of a plan begin to coalesce in my mind.
I'll be running a huge risk. I'm a strong-minded young woman, but so was
Helen Sutton.
We have no influence whatsoever over your assimilation. Our part in that
ended once you were exposed to the meme.
It's up to me, then.
I'm the one responsible for keeping this hound on a tight leash.
But if the changes are taking place in my subconscious, how can I keep
track of them?
It needs no external stimulation; the process is as automatic as those
taking place in your other physiological systems.
How long did Gillian hold out? Three days, did she say?
And I've been here nearly forty-eight hours already.
The clock is ticking down. If I don't act soon, the meme will have spread
too widely for me to control it.
I take a very deep breath, then stand and walk from the room. I notice that
Louise's door is open; when she sees me looking in, I incline my head in
the direction of her dressing table. She immediately puts down the shoes
she was lifting from the wardrobe.
"You are not yet ready to join us, Ruth Pattison," she frowns.
"No, but it'll be a relief to get the first step out of the way."
She smiles, knowing I'm telling the truth.
"Very well. If you would care to sit...?"
The kuzkardesh gara pulls the stopper from one of the phials on the table.
She wipes the brush on the rim, then proceeds to spread black lacquer
across my left thumbnail. Working with the dexterity of a seasoned
professional, she requires only a few minutes to finish both hands. While
I'm holding them out to dry, she paints my nipples - apparently it's normal
for them to spring erect like that - and finally my lips. It only remains
for her to fit silver rings adorned with heavy black gemstones onto each of
my fingers and thumbs, and the first stage of my transformation is
complete.
It has two unanticipated results.
The first is how wickedly sexy I feel.
The second comes when I go downstairs, and no one raises so much as an
eyebrow.
*
Yekshenbe, the meal traditionally eaten at sunset by the Ugurs of Xinjiang,
begins with an appetising minted salad, which is followed by the piquant
vegetable stew known as chorba. For dessert there's alma sheker, a dish
that can best be described as a candied baked Alaska. The fragrant,
slightly smoky chay we drink from decorated china bowls complements the
food beautifully - yet the rich variety of flavours and aromas only makes
me wish all the more fervently for a cigarette to round off the experience.
"I don't suppose you'd let me have just one?" I ask Gillian after the
others have left the table.
"Siz okde," she replies, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Taslamak
angsat."
For the third or fourth time since she taught me how to interpret
unfamiliar phrases, I empty my thoughts of everything except the
information that's being conveyed to me. Her tone was steady, her eyes
kindly but her body language stern and inflexible. She also reminded me of
the gift I possess, which suggests it may be of some help if I can work out
how to apply it to the situation in question.
"It should be possible to give them up?" is the best I can manage.
"Angsat," she repeats.
The movement of her jewelled brow makes the meaning clearer.
"Not just possible, but straightforward? Easy?"
She smiles and pats my wrist.
"The drug they contain works on the brain's system of reward circuits. All
you need to do is let the meme break it down by fooling the receptors into
thinking that they are receiving the chemicals nicotine would normally give
them."
"So I just say 'go ahead, meme, do your stuff'?"
"First you have to want your addiction to be cured. If you are sincere
about that, the rest will follow automatically."
I lay my hands flat on the table, recalling how quickly I became accustomed
to seeing my nails painted black. It was as if the mental compartment which
contained the antipathy I ought to have felt towards their altered
appearance had been closed off. Could I not do the same with my dependence
on tobacco? After all, the previous occupants of this body were both non-
smokers...
Suddenly the idea of lighting a cigarette, then inhaling the fumes into my
lungs seems not only pointless but downright stupid.
"You were right," I laugh. "I just thought about it and the craving's
gone."
Gillian rises from her chair and walks over to the sink. She crouches to
open the cupboard beneath it, reaching behind the pipe for the pack of
Marlboros taped there. I leave her to dispose of it while I make a start on
the dishes.
But the scouring, scraping, rinsing, stacking and drying can only act as a
temporary diversion from the widening vista of opportunity opening out in
front of me.
I'm okde.
I'm gifted.
And I'm only just starting to appreciate what that could imply.
In the kitchen window I watch my black lips curl mischievously. The MoD
have already put it about that I'm a menace to society. Who am I to prove
them wrong?
They're a totalitarian regime, a religious cult and a zombie plague all
rolled into one.
Yet this isn't the Bucovina hive. It's an imperfect copy, lacking most of
the sinister attributes of the original.
It is a question of priorities. Ours are food, shelter and access to clean
water. For everyone.
We can be a force for good...
No!
I draw back from the brink to which my own feet led me.
But when I walk into the living room, and Gillian turns from the fireplace
to touch a beringed, black-nailed finger to my cheek, it takes all my
resolve not to respond in kind.
And I suspect it won't be very long before I'm teetering on the edge of
that abyss again.
*
I sit up in bed with a start. The room is still dark, which at this time of
year means it can't be much later than about four. In any case I don't need
a clock to tell me I've had only a few hours sleep.
Pulling the covers closer against the draught coming from the window, I
listen for the sound that must have woken me.
There's nothing.
But I don't sink back into slumber. I need to stay alert, for who knows
what tales the local people have spread concerning the women of Sunny
Hollow?
It's one o' witches from up dale.
And if that's everyone's attitude...
Then I hear a voice cry out.
Donna?
I yank at the light cord and spring to my feet, stopping only to pull on a
clean pair of panties as I hurry to open the door. The kuzkardesh gara is
on the landing, leaning against the banister and clearly in pain. The tears
welling from her eyes - now bereft of their characteristic oriental slant -
make her appear refreshingly human, despite the row of gemstones set in her
scalp.
"Babek," she splutters. "Howp olum."
Gillian and Hilary emerge from their room carrying the gravest of
expressions. They begin weeping too.
I realise at once not only that Donna is pregnant, but that she feels she's
in danger of losing her baby. The fear that she may miscarry washes through
my consciousness like a wave, denuding it of all other emotions.
The tide withdraws, depositing layer upon layer of understanding.
Fate has brought you to us for a very special reason.
The others are waiting for me to do something. In this time of crisis they
are looking to me - or rather my gift - as their principal source of
strength.
"Okay, let's all try and stay calm," I say quietly. "Louise, take Donna
back to her room and sit with her. If the worst happens, or looks as if
it's going to, just yell. Hilary, get into some proper clothes and have the
Dormobile ready in case you have to drive her to South Tees. Gillian, you
fetch hot water, towels and whatever first-aid equipment you can lay your
hands on."
I don't wait for a reply. Kicking from my mind the images of sheets and
blankets covered in blood and goodness knows what else, I follow the girls
into Donna's room.
They're both still sobbing, and I'm a little tearful myself, but when I ask
Donna to part her thighs there seem to be none of the discharges I'd expect
to be leaking from her vagina if her body were about to reject the child.
"How far along are you?" I enquire, putting my palm to her forehead.
"Two weeks," she mumbles.
"Two weeks? You're joking! You can't possibly..."
"We are certain," says Louise.
"I mean, who the hell's the father?" Then I remember what Susan Dwyer told
me about the role of men in a kuzkardesh gara-dominated society and decide
I'd rather not know. "Sorry, that can wait. Just tell me how much it hurts,
Donna, and where."
When she describes her symptoms, I relax a little. I've come across this
kind of thing before, albeit in a work of fiction, and there's every chance
it's nothing more serious than an upset tummy.
I look up at Louise.
"The chorba Hilary made last night...what spices did she put in it?"
"Ginger, cumin, coriander and star anise."
"Well, you should think about leaving out those sorts of ingredients while
one of you is pregnant. Not long ago I read a novel called The L-Shaped
Room. It's about a girl called Jane Graham, who's expecting a baby and
living alone in a dump of a bedsit somewhere in London. One night she
treats herself to an Indian meal. She's hardly left the restaurant when she
doubles up in agony, convinced she's going to have a miscarriage."
"Hemme ongat?" sniffs Donna, gripping my wrist.
"They were both fine."
Louise goes downstairs with orders to find something that will settle
Donna's stomach. I hurry to pick Philip from his cot - the fuss has woken
the poor mite - and rock him against my breast until his mother comes back.
The medicine administered and five sets of cheeks dabbed dry, I gesture for
Gillian to join me in my room.
"I think she should have a check-up, just to make sure everything's all
right," I say to her. "I don't suppose you were given the number of a
doctor when they moved you here?"
She shakes her head.
"Not even somebody you could ring in an emergency? What if one of you fell
seriously ill? I despair of those idiots, I really do." I let out a long
sigh. "Look, you're going to have to address this sooner or later. It's not
just Donna I'm thinking about, there's Philip too. I haven't had children
myself, but--"
"Of course you have."
"That's lamentable, Gillian, even by your standards."
"They said you would deny it."
"Who did?"
"The humans who followed you here. They left before you recovered
consciousness. One of them provided us with proof that you have indeed
given birth to a child."
"What proof? Show me it!"
She leads me down to the living room, where she opens one of the sideboard
drawers. The document she hands me has the codename BELLADONNA stamped
across it.
SURNAME: Hansford-Jones (n?e Pattison)
CHRISTIAN NAME(S): Ruth Maria
SEX: F
DATE OF BIRTH: 2/9/55
PLACE OF BIRTH: Northcroft-on-Heugh, County Durham, UK
NATIONALITY: British
MARITAL STATUS: Separated from 2nd husband
CHILDREN: Charlotte Annabel, D.O.B. 28/7/74, Bromley, Kent, UK
"This is forged!" I laugh. "I've seen it before. The last entry said
'none'."
Gillian gives me a sad smile.
"It is futile to continue in this vein, Ruth Pattison. As aspects of the
universal female mind, we instinctively know when a woman has produced
offspring."
"Looks like your instincts have let you down this time."
"That is not the case. We--"
"You think I'd lie about something like that?"
"Yes, we believe you would."
My pent-up frustration explodes. I launch myself at her, going straight for
the throat. Then the room does a backward flip and I land on the sofa, my
wrists pinned behind my head and a pair of large, heavy breasts pressed
into my face.
"Get off me, you fat, bald-headed cow!" I try to scream, but the words are
muffled by the fleshy globes covering my mouth.
Gillian slowly eases her body from mine. I take several deep breaths, my
anger subsiding as I begin to understand just how counter-productive my
reckless assault has been.
"All right," I gasp when my chest has stopped heaving. "You believe what
you like, see if it makes any difference to me."
I get to my feet, shrugging off the helping hand she offers, then move to
the window and pull open the curtains. The valley and the wooded hillside
beyond are just beginning to be visible in the greyness of pre-dawn.
The humans who followed you here...
They're probably still watching.
The MoD won't let anything stand in the way of their experiment. They'll
use every means at their disposal to hasten my conversion.
But they've fucked it up this time. Someone forgot to tell the author of
that revised document where I spent Christmas. If I had a four year old
daughter, why didn't her grandparents ask me about her?
Unless they were told not to.
Maybe in a P.S. attached to the letter I sent them the week before my
visit, saying that as soon as the subject was raised I'd be on the first
train back to Portsmouth.
Suki had every reason to keep the child's existence from me. Learning that
I was a parent at such a crucial stage in my adjustment could easily have
caused me untold psychological damage. Later, it's possible that she came
to the conclusion that I'd adapted too well, and thought she might face a
battle for the girl's affections. And Charlotte had already lost one
mother...
Gillian is standing behind me. Her hands begin massaging my shoulders. I
don't have to turn and face her to know that the expression she's carrying
is one of genuine sympathy.
"It's not true..." I mutter. "It's not."
"That is not what your heart is telling you, Ruth Pattison."
I dash upstairs, heading for the one place in the world I want to be:
sitting on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. Of all the shocks
to the system I've suffered over the last six months, this is the most
upsetting.
I have a daughter.
I'm a parent.
I'm a mother.
And I have no idea how I'm going to cope with that knowledge.
Time passes. Whether it's a few minutes or several hours I can't say. Then
the door creaks open.
Gillian.
"It probably isn't worth going back to sleep," I sigh. "Not with all the
extra jobs that'll need to be done now Donna's incapacitated. Shall I use
the bathroom first?"
The kuzkardesh gara clicks her agreement.
"Gillian demlemek hokmunde siz yuwmak."
She might have said she was going to build a heated swimming pool in the
front garden solely for my entertainment, but I think it's more likely
she'll make us chay while I relieve myself and shower.
Charlotte Annabel...
I wonder where she is, and what she's been told about me?
Nothing good, I bet.
The countryside brightens, welcoming the imminent sunrise.
But I don't see the first golden rays touch the tops of the trees.
Before me shimmers a red-brick building, four storeys high, separated from
the road by a forecourt marked out with parking spaces.
The Gladstone Hotel.
From where the meme has the potential to be dispersed far and wide.
Planted in the mind of every woman who stays there, if I make full use of
the gift I've been blessed with.
And should that come to pass, not one of the self-appointed guardians
purporting to fight for humanity's survival can say they didn't ask for it.
Clover
- 07.07.2020
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