Gross Domestic Product: 10

Buer.

While mostly everything in this domain was bound by the laws of cause and effect, it was not, except in the most mundane physical way. It only needed to think of doing something to see the fractal of reactions which would fan out from such an action if it were chosen. It knew Prince would contact Bryce, that Bryce would try and cheat it and that Bryce would become a more suitable host, from there it would have access to the money it needed and would put that to good work, and somewhere along the line, not far in the future, one Arabian man would whisper into the ear of another and the tanks and soldiers would roll across the border and start a fire that would last well into the next Millennium. This was all inevitable, it knew that.

However it had been infuriated by the unpredictable presence of the stranger at the door. It had, on many occasions met other entities like itself, using humans as hosts, the species were riddled with such parasites. There was a hierarchy of such, from creatures that were gratified and intoxicated with mere visceral lusts all the way through to Archons of the Void, whose minds and plans were unfathomably deep, even to it. The stranger was not one of those but nor had it been merely human. The stranger had belonged to some category of being that it had never experienced. This had, in turn, lead to uncertainty in how to deal with the stranger but it was infuriated by the meeting, for such uncertainty had left it unable to track the patterns of consequence that would occur after it had shoved the creature through the glass panel of the residence.

It stood in the kitchen of the house trying to come to terms with this. Had it been a mistake not to kill the stranger? It could not be sure. It did not like this, did not like it at all, it felt as if somehow it had been blinded and tricked. The stranger had scuttled off and it hoped that was the end of it. By tomorrow, which was -according to all the local calendars- Thursday, it would be able to leave this Olivia body, The stranger was only concerned with the girl and had no idea it dwelt within it.

So it assumed. Yet knew that it was not safe to assume, it was uncertain, lost in a maze of what ifs. It suddenly knew what it must be like for humans, every day. Their limited perspectives and inferior thought processes bound by linear time meant they were uncertain of almost everything. It thought it safe to consider that the stranger, no matter what kind of clade or subspecies it belonged to, was of this realm, perhaps a mutation. That would make the stranger as limited as the humans it shared so much in common with.

It dawned on it that it was actually worried, a sensation it had never experienced. It knew it should delight in such, take time to enjoy and analyse the notion but it did not feel useful or enjoyable. It felt like stagnation and futility. It decided to consult the girl. It unspooled the lullaby cocoon in which it had had bound her, pulling at the long webbed strands of comforting memories scented with jasmine and lilly, sticky with narcotic neuro-chemicals. infused with the comforting warmth of the womb. Olivia was exposed in her own mind. What part of her awoke trembled in confusion. It consoled her with soft mother voices and promises. “It will be over soon. Everything will be alright, you will be granted your heart’s desires. Don’t be afraid.”

The dazed vague presence of her nodded slowly, even smiling, weakly. It forced an image of the stranger into her mind. “Tell me, Olivia, do you know who this is?”

She did not. It gently sent her off to sleep again, rewinding all that it had undone.

Staring out the window it saw a bird flutter onto the wall at the back of the garden. It was a bluish grey thing that the Olivia knew was called a pigeon. It just watched the simple behaviour of the beast for several moments before pushing part of itself out through the glass to destroy it atom by atom. The distraction, and it knew that was what it was, was not satisfying.

It withdrew itself into a point inside the girl’s mind and waited.

Chapter Ten.

When Pete awoke he was not surprised to find it was dark outside however he was surprised not to find himself in the squat he’d holed up in with Brian for the last few months. It took him a while to catch up with the day’s events which caused him to groan and stare at the lamp which seemed to be the cause of all the trouble. It shone bright, lighting the entire room. Pete immediately stretched over to the table and picked up some cigarette papers, the small lump of hashish he had and the bag of tobacco. His thoughts, glacial and lagging were not focussed, barely coherent. Fragments of memories slid through him slowly as if in a thick syrup, ugly memories, of a part he’d spent his life obliterating. An image of his brother, grinning, holding a petrol can, his friends dancing as Pete’s house and the entire block, was aflame. He recalled the screaming of the adults.

He tried to think of something else as he folded the papers together, to think of the money he’d soon have and what he could do with it. His brain was still too slow and instead took him down a path to a cold bright morning running from his town, chased by others, children, caked in soot and blood, wielding knives and spades, rakes and mallets. He had ran faster than he had thought possible, knowing if he got caught he would have been killed. “Mammy” had wanted him dead, had wanted everyone dead that were not her disciples.

His hands shook so much that he spilt a lot of strands of tobacco over the duvet cover. He was thankful for the distraction. Pete brushed them away along with the painful memories. He had not thought about home in the longest time. Why would it come to mind now?

As he considered that his mind turned to another painful memory. Auld Carmichael’s face came into view, like that of an old testament prophet fallen on hard times. He was, as always, surrounded by the pack of dogs that had followed him everywhere. They were a gang, a bunch of thuggish mutts that acted as his bodyguards, until one night they had eaten him. They’d attacked and eaten Big Lonnie and Janice too. Wasn’t much meat on either of those two, like Pete, they’d been on the skag a long time. Good folk though, no way to die, being eaten by dogs. It was like part of the city was still stuck in the middle ages. He thumbed his lighter, heating up the hash just enough to soften it, crumbled some of it into his other palm and then sprinkled it inside the papers with the tobacco.

The lamp seemed to dim, to twinkle, leaving the edges of the room in darkness. Pete barely noticed, he was too busy thinking about Willie Barr’s death, not even six months before. Barr had been a nutjob that worked for whomever would be irresponsible enough to hire him. He’d fallen in with Mental Dunkie and Gordon Harper. No one really knew what had happened but one night Barr had vanished off the face of the earth, Dunkie chucked the game and Harper ended up in the loony bin. It had been Pete who had found what was left of Barr. He had been beaten to a pulp and dumped under the flyover just off Seaward Street. His bones had stuck out through his skin and clothes, his head was crushed, but it was still barely recognisable as Barr. He was still holding that shotgun he always carried and it was still loaded. Christ knows what had happened to him. Pete had sold the shotgun and never went back to that little nook under the M8. Barr could still be lying there for all he knew.

He rolled the papers together, glued them with his tongue and stuck a roach, made from a part of the train ticket he’d bought earlier, in the end. Was it any wonder he shot up? The world was a brutal, horrible place, filled with murderers and maniacs and cults and all sorts of weird other-wordly shit. Compared to what else was going on, taking heroin was a reasonable position, so he rationalised.

He stretched over to the bedside table, lifted the ashtray, placed it on the bed and then picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. Nelson Mandela had been released from prison. Good news for a change. Last year the Soviet Union had started to crumble, the Berlin wall had came down. Perhaps things were changing for the better. Perhaps all the murders and maniacs and cults had had their day. He lit his joint and listened to the news, lying back, relaxing.

The hash always helped take the edge off the comedown and he found his thoughts turning from less grim matters, to money. What was he going to do? Get out of Glasgow, that much was certain. Perhaps go somewhere he could get clean, get straight, get a life even.

He fancied Portugal. Not that he knew anything about Portugal but it seemed like a nice place on the travel shows, warm, sunny, one long coastline of sandy beaches. It had to be better than this rotten hellhole, where it always rained, was almost always cold and dark and was filled with chancers trying to rip each other off. Aye, Portugal sounded nice.

He went into a waking dream, one in which he was walking along the shores at sunset, well fed and tanned, with a girl by his side. A local girl though, not like one of the ratty bags that he knew; raven haired, eyes the colour of melting chocolate. Through the fog of his blurred consciousness he gazed at the television. There were young black people celebrating and dancing on the screen and this mingled with his fantasy until he and his dream girl were walking through some kind of beach carnival.

In the distance, Pete spotted a gaunt, pale figure that stood out amongst the tanned revellers and then there, standing there, right at the edge of his bed. His lips were dark bruises. “Awright Pedro?”

“Fuck off Brian, you’re deid.” Pete said.

“Aye, deid, that’s on you that is.” The apparition of Brian accused.

“Is it fuck, I telt ye over an’ over ye were too generous wae yer cook, ye were bound tae drap deid at some point.” Pete said. He was annoyed by Brian’s bullshit.

“Aye I know, jist windin’ ye up.” Brian said.

“Whit ye wantin’?” Pete said, if he had to deal with a ghost, he thought it best getting it over and done quickly.

Brian’s head cocked a gesture towards the lamp. “That thing, you’ve got tae get shot of it.”

“Aye that wis my plan.” Pete admitted.

“Whit d’ye think ye were dain’ anyway? I already sold it.”

“Aye an’ screwed me out my cash ya greedy prick, well fuck you, it’s aw mine noo.” Pete scoffed.

“Look man, jist be careful. I foun’ it in a hoose full of deid cunts, then I died, then you foun’ it in a hoose full of deid cunts, you get the picture?” Brian asked.

“Aye, I’m no stupid, figured that oot a while ago. I’ll be shot of it the ‘morra. Thanks fur yer concern.” Pete sighed, bored already, he crushed the remainer of the joint out in the ashtray. “Noo if ye don’t mind, I feel the urge tae dae some smack. So fuck off will ye?” Pete said.

“Fine. Gie ma regards tae yer auld pal.” Brian said cryptically as he vanished.

“Fuckin’ ghosts noo, is it? Whit next, demons?” Pete said, to no-one but himself.