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Marbles.

     The tap opened easily and a little trickle of water
seeped through the masking tape. With a parched gargle the
hose strained under the pressure, then there was a hiss and a
slap as the fluid began to flow. I waved the hose hopefully at
some potted plants on a bench and looked around the garden.
I'd assured my neighbours only a week before that it would be
no trouble at all for me to pop around every so often to water
the plants while they were on holiday. A week of gorgeous
sunshine had followed, along with temporary amnesia. The
flowers had wilted and drooped about sulkily, hanging their
brown heads as the leaves became russet and crispy.
     There came to me, borne on the breeze the sticky smell
of diesel oil. I couldn't discern it's origin, then with a feeling
of guilt for getting distracted again I moved to the flower
beds. The earth was cracked and the flower's leaves were
dusty. I gave some marigolds a quick blast with the hose and
found that the plants looked a lot healthier after they had been
drenched in dewy water, like soft focus roses in a perfume
advert. Michael and Lucia Havelock had gone to north Wales
with their two kids for a fortnights break in their camper van.
Their house was nicely decorated and wouldn't have looked
out of place in a home & garden magazine. Although the back
yard was a little rough around the edges (discarded Tonka
trucks littered the bedding plants and rockery) it was certainly
neatly turned out. A broken gnome stared mirthlessly at the
sky from where it lay, discarded on the lawn.
     The smell of diesel mixed psychedelically with the
minty aroma of the herb garden as I passed the water across
it. A crunching sound issued forth underfoot as I strolled
across the lawn. Rapidly getting bored of my task, I left the
hose on a dry patch of the lawn and went to investigate the
oily smell. There was a small lane along the end of the garden
on which little traffic ever ventured (my neighbours stowed
their van there during the rest of the year), I peered through a
gap in the fence and saw about seven foot of tarmac bordered
by another fence. The Havelocks other next door neighbour
was Thomas Ley, a retired Physics teacher from the local
comprehensive. Stepping up on the barbeque I leaned on the
fence and peered into his garden. His lawn was also dry and
scrubby, artistically placed rocks lay scattered upon it and
each was circled with a splash of long grass whose blades had
stealthily evaded the mowers bite. On the patio, next to a
small generator was a large metal kiosk. The steel panels were
welded together inexpertly and had wires taped in bundles
disappearing into an opening in it's side.
     "Hallo there Mark!" cooed Thomas as he walked out
through the patio doors.
     It was then that my foot slipped on a patch of
congealed meat fat and I found myself lying face down in a
flower bed.
     "Mark! Mark! What happened? Are you hurt?"
     "Urgh! No, I'm fine." I called as I stood up carefully
to avoid crushing any more bedding plants.
     "So, what do you think of my invention?" he asked
proudly, obscured from view by the fence.
     "Um, what actually is it?"

     The machine looked smaller at close range than it had
done from over the fence, but nonetheless it was still an
impressive structure. Standing around seven feet tall and six
foot across it seemed just about deep enough to allow two
people to sit inside.
     "This machine," he expounded proudly, "is the
instrument through which it is possible to glimpse into another
persons mind!"
     "Oh."
     "I've spent five years developing a crystal-metal alloy
that resonates in sync with the brain waves of homo sapiens."
     "I thought that brain waves were just ions flowing
along neural pathways."
     "Yes, but these ions produce a magnetic effect which
this alloy is designed to conduct. The weak signals the alloy
produces are amplified and sent through a computer program
which decodes the pulses, traces their origin, and then finally
presents a list of possible thoughts. The more signals it reads
and has confirmed the more accurate it's predictions become.
It has reached a point where it can recognise around two and
a half thousand basic words and can roughly show up two
tone images and memories. I seem to be having problems
decoding the aural code though."
     "Forgive me if I seem a bit cynical." I laughed.
     "If you won't believe me I'll show you...... Plug
yourself in, concentrate on a single thing and I will tell you
what's on your mind."
     "This thing is safe isn't it? I mean, what's that thing
for?" I eyed the generator suspiciously.
     "The signal is very weak, and the amplifier needs a lot
of power, the mains cables aren't really designed to take that
level of current."
     "But why exactly does it need a lot of power?"
     "Well it depends, but I've found that some people's
brain waves aren't all that strong."
     "Oh, right."

     Tom took a firm grip on a niche in one of the panels
and gave it a sharp tug back. The door swung open to reveal
a little stool, it all served to remind me of a passport photo
machine.
     "Just sit on the stool," he handed me a pair of
headphones, "put these on your temples."
     Dissatisfied with the way I'd put them on he adjusted
them slightly and then continued.
     "Fix in your mind an image or a word or a number or
something, give me a couple of minutes to calibrate the
machine and then I'll tell you exactly what it was you were
thinking about. I have to close the door now, a necessary
precaution to avoid intercepting other people's thoughts.
Don't panic, the machine works best when you're relaxed."
     Then, with a clunk I found myself in total darkness.
Ever since I was little and children in the playground claimed
to possess telepathic or psychic abilities I used to test them all
with the same obscure thought. As people strained to guess I
would fix my thoughts firmly on the image and idea of frying
an egg over a candle. No-one had succeeded in reading that
one yet.
     The smell of diesel was quite strong again as I heard
the generator start up with a rasping sound of gears. The
headphones began to vibrate and at this point cynicism and
boredom got the better of me and I let my mind wander.
     I read somewhere that the sense most capable of
triggering memory is that of smell, the aroma of heavy fuel oil,
the darkness and confinement brought back memories of a
birthday party. The barbeque had gone well and we were
sitting in the dark in Susan's basement. Most of the guests had
been picked up and we were alone in the house while her
parents took the last few home and slipped down to the pub
for a quiet drink. I had been seeing Susan for nearly four
months and Richard, my best friend, had been having a long
running affair with Michelle, who he'd brought with him to the
party. We all sat there silently together I the dark oily smell of
scattered tools. A freezer hummed gently. The sounds of
Richard and Michelle's intimacy was our soundtrack as timid
lips met and fingers ran gently across cotton and denim. It had
been a long time since I'd thought of her, I knew that she
thought of me less.

     I was blinded as Tom opened the stuffy box. Fresh air
billowed in from the garden as the generator stopped with a
phut.
     "Well, it took a lot of calibrating but I can tell you the
answer. For the whole time you were in there you were
thinking of the number six. I have to admit that I was very
impressed, it's not often that you meet someone who can think
solely of a single number for a twenty minute stretch."
     "No, I'm sorry, but I wasn't thinking of the number
six. Honestly."
     "I don't understand.... maybe on a subconscious level?
Eh?"
     "Sorry."
     "Oh well, it looks like the old dear could do with a
little tuning up wouldn't you say?" he patted the machine on
it's side in a fatherly manner.
     "If I were you I'd forget about the whole thing, it can
only cause problems. Do you really want to see into other
peoples minds. There are people out there who I certainly
wouldn't want rummaging through my subconscious."
     "Paranoia & conspiracy," Tom gave me a wry smile,
"you've been watching too much American TV."
     "I dare say so, you'll have to forgive me but I have to
finish watering the garden."
     "Bye-bye then, I'll show you this again when I've
sorted out the minor glitches , by the way, what were you
thinking of?"
     "Frying eggs over a candle."
     "How strange."
     "Perhaps, but you weren't likely to guess it were you?"
     "No, maybe not."
     "Well goodbye then, let me know if you do get it
working."
     "Alright, bye. She'll be thinking of you I daresay." he
breathed gently and winked.
     I suppose it was just a lucky guess.


©1998 Mark Sexton