Revenge in a Clockwork Universe Read online

My memory of the precise way that events unfolded from that moment onward is somewhat hazy, possibly due to shock. However, I did retain very clear pictures of certain aspects of the Peacock’s appearance during what I quickly realised was an attack. Even today these images invade both my dreams and my conscious mind, flashing before me like stills from a film. I can clearly picture his bulbous feet and spiked claws. I’m still struck by the image of his strong, shapely body; every well formed muscle accentuated with the sort of astonishing anatomical detail that one might find in the equinal paintings of George Stubbs.

  I remember at one point feeling as though I was surrounded by eyes, staring at me from all angles with an immense collective power. His tail seemed to grow larger still and the room became even darker as he blocked out all traces of light with his wicked plumage. The Peacock’s countless eyes stretched open wide as he shook his tail rapidly and violently, sending gusts of icy cold air towards me and creating an enormous clattering sound as though I was in the midst of an orchestra of castanets.

  My limbs shook in a desperate attempt not to freeze solid, while my legs gave in and I fell to the ground. I could do nothing to fight his power as the cold air spiraled around my body and took hold of my internal organs. My heart cried out as my lungs tightened and pain darted from head to toe. I felt an unearthly power grip me tightly and squeeze my soul. The Peacock stooped over me, and for a while he quietly observed me as though I was little more than a guinea pig in his macabre laboratory.

  Quite unexpectedly, he blinked, jerked forward, and then made an horrendous ear-splitting noise.

  “Caaaaghh!” he screamed, spitting tiny darts of ice into my weathered face. The cold became unbearable as he flapped his plumage, creating rolling gusts of wind. Benumbed, I was entirely at his mercy.

  This style of attack continued for many years, seemingly without causing any permanent damage. It was only as my visits became less frequent that I could lucidly reflect upon the Peacock’s superb technique and defiant flair. However, as I aged and became stronger, the Peacock was forced to change the nature of his attack. While the hypnotic power of his abundant eyes, together with the chilling force of his magnificent train, still held me in a cryogenic state of complete insensibility, he was clearly unable to induce the same level of physical pain. Furthermore, I had even begun to use the Peacock’s torture as a form of morbid escapism. His attacks caused a physical numbness and dizzy light-headedness that proved to be a great relief; briefly ripping me from the terrible weight of responsibility that accompanies a mind such as mine. Having noticed this, he shifted his focus to words. By throwing the most outrageous and painful verbal insults at me, he was able to boost the intensity of his attack. As the time that elapsed between my visits grew, so too did the ferocity of his unforgiving abuse. Although now a fully grown man, I found myself, once again, entirely at his mercy.

  “The only thing you can write is a shopping list,” the Peacock would say. He often opted for “You don’t know and you don’t know you don’t know,” although I still have no clue as to the particular piece of knowledge that I don’t know, despite the fact that I probably should, at the very least, know what it is that I don’t know.

  Make no mistake - and it is the obligation of the author to make certain that no such mistakes are made - all this illustrates the incredible intellect of this strangely eccentric bird. During my most recent visit, the Peacock even found time to talk about his interest in literature and boasted that he had made friends with high profile authors and influential persons in the industry. He maintained that he had a friend, a Green Peacock, who had advertently stepped in to fund the latest written meanderings of the philosophical humourist, Fry.

  I simply had to visit the Peacock again. I felt that once he had experienced my prose, he would surely reconsider his approach. Our partnership would be enough for me to recalibrate my literary arsenal and commence the war of erudition. After all, no celebrated artist is an island, and even if he is an island, it is only the surrounding waters that permit him to be so.

  “How have you been? I’ve not seen you for a while,” I asked, having kissed my aunt on either cheek.

  “Oh, I’m alright, Dear. I’m just waiting to die,” she moaned through a calm smile.

  “You’ll be waiting your whole life for that to happen,” I replied.

  “I won’t have to wait that long. I’ll be dead soon,” my aunt concluded.

  Aunt Mary squeezed my hand before slowly turning around and waddling out of the lounge, probably to make me a cup of tea.

  “Would you like a cup of tea? I’m making one for myself anyway,” she said as she was walking away. I chose not to answer. The poor woman could hardly walk and would no doubt struggle to lift the kettle. It would almost certainly be nothing short of an ordeal for her to reach the tea bags in the top cupboard. I stayed in the lounge as I needed some time alone with the Peacock.

  Although I didn’t see him immediately, I knew he was in there as the lounge was somewhat colder than the rest of the house.

  “I thought you might be able to help me,” I said aloud, hoping to lure him out and show him that I was not afraid. There was no reply. The room was quiet, although not silent. I could hear the droning hum of life that guarantees the impossibility of absolute silence, and is the reason why only the first and last creature on Earth could ever know what it means to have a truly good night’s sleep. Clutching my manuscript tightly, I used its bottom edge to scratch the side of my right thigh. I battled to control the tiny pockets of perspiration that quickly spread all over my body. Unsure of the Peacock’s intentions, I began to feel slightly uneasy, but wondered if perhaps he was now more scared of me than I was of him.

  “Do you take sugar these days, Dear?” Aunt Mary shouted out. I could hear what struck me as almost an unnecessary amount of noise coming from the kitchen.

  “No, thank you. Just a drop of milk,” I replied, poking my head out of the lounge. While I faced the hall, I rolled my head from side to side and then peered up towards the top of the staircase. It was too quiet, I thought. I wondered whether he’d turned the heating off in the lounge in order to give me the impression that he was in there, when really he was hiding elsewhere, waiting to pounce and fan me with his huge tail. I took a few deep breaths and then a moment to calm myself down. I noticed that I was breathing so loudly that I may not even have heard the sound of him moving around behind me in the lounge.

  Having reminded myself that I was not to be afraid anymore, I turned back around and looked towards the far end of the room. I could see his shadowy outline moving slowly back and forth. There was no mistaking his shimmering blue body as he wandered in and out of the sunlight. I noticed that my legs didn’t feel quite as strong as they had done while they were confidently walking up to my aunt’s house a short time ago. I was desperate to tell him about my book and to point out that I had turned down many attractive offers before approaching him with an offer of my own. Surely he would see reason for what it is.

  “It’s not too hot for you is it, Dear?” Mary asked. I turned and leaned around the door frame to answer her once more.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” I replied.

  Unthinkingly, I spun back around and into the lounge. There he was! I flinched and twisted my face in absolute horror. I felt my skin shrink and tighten around my skeleton. He looked different; older and he’d grown a moustache and beard! His bushy copper moustache twitched as he rocked back and forth and began to breathe more heavily. His enormous tail sprung open and I collapsed onto the floor.

  “We wouldn’t want you to be too hot now, would we, Dear?” the Peacock said in an unctuous tone that sounded neither masculine nor feminine.

  I should point out that the years had been good to him. The smarmy bird looked as dynamic and as animated as he had always done. The bright colours of his tail shone as vibrantly as ever and each of his countless eyes seemed as unremittingly powerful as they had always been.
Once more I was crippled by the Peacock’s unforgiving stare. Nevertheless, he seemed to have a new trick up his train. His erect tail was translucent, sending out wonderful splashes of colour and dressing the room in green, blue, turquoise and red. He’d clearly been practising and was going for a particular patterned effect. I noticed the look of concentration he wore as coloured beams of light moved back and forth in sequence. The beastly bird had added a light show to his torturous repertoire.

  “What do you want?” he said, raising one side of his moustache. He looked resplendent in his immaculate facial hair. Nothing had changed. I lay frozen on the ground. I felt entirely pathetic.

  “You’re pathetic,” he hissed. He was probably right.

  “Please, no more! I was just…I wondered if…I need to…I have a…and then…no island…!” I frantically shouted, with the words that were lodged in my throat worsening my feeling of suffocation.

  “What’s that you have?” The Peacock leant down and glanced at the pages that had been separated from the bulk of the book. “What could you be writing that would be worthy of even two of my eyes?!”

  “It’s a sort of satirical take on Mechanical Philosophy,” I replied. I was amazed that even under