#AllUsers

By R. A. Barnes

Wielder of special powers by night, solemniser of marriages and distributor of healthcare aids & appliances by day, Tarquin Murphy lives for the moment. From a position of power in the asylum he torments his opponents and bestows commodes on others. But a dark and evil force is out to upset Tarquin's applecart. Can he discover the culprit and avoid being named, shamed and imprisoned for embezzlement?

"#AllUsers is a satirical novella of earth-shattering literary inconsequence." Mrs Murphy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marble City Publishing
• Release date: Jan 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497771208

Book preview

#AllUsers

by

R.A. Barnes

Copyright © 2013 R.A. Barnes

All rights reserved

Epub Edition

ISBN-10 1-908943-45-9

ISBN-13 978-1-908943-45-3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from R.A. Barnes.

Contents

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 8

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

Day 12

Day 13

Day 14

Day 15

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Day 21

Day 22

Day 23

Day 24

Day 25

Day 26

Day 27

Day 28

Day 29

Connect with Ruby Barnes at Marble City Publishing

Other books by Ruby Barnes

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Getting Out of Dodge

The Baptist

Koobi Fora

#AllUsers

The New Author

Coming soon...

Day 1

My arms are tired, aching up to the elbows. She was heavier than she looked. Funny how some people are like that. Then struggling with the body, taped up in black bin liners. Nothing to get a hold of.

What was I thinking? The boot of my car, in broad moonlight. Anyone driving past might have seen. Nocturnal carelessness.

It’s still early, about seven, and the sun is a lazy riser in winter Ireland. I unfold out of bed, grab a towel from the rail, my favourite purple one with Tenerifa written across a map of the islands, and wrap it around my waist as if going to take a shower.

Downstairs, open the front door and put it on the latch; I don’t want to get locked out. It’s cold outside, a frost on the windows of my SEAT Leon. The hatch creaks as I lift it and look inside for the body. Nothing there. This dream was so vivid and the ache in my arms so real that I was sure I really had topped my sister-in-law and stashed her in the Leon. It’s not a big car. Could a body even fit in that boot space?

It takes my wife half an hour to find me. I’m lucky she heard my banging and shouting before she drove off in her Skoda. ‘What the f...?’ she says as the hatch opens to reveal me blue and shivering in a beach towel.

‘You were snoring and I couldn’t sleep. So I came out here. I mean, you were really loud,’ I say, or try to but it comes out as a cold mumble.

She gives me a stern look, a stiff hug that doesn’t warm me at all, and heads off to work.

What have I learned so far today? The boot of my car is an effective prison, even for someone who is alive and well.

Ten minutes in the shower and I can feel my feet again.

Breakfast consists of three high fibre yoghurts with sell-by date today, Monday 1st of February. Waste not, want not, as Granny used to say.

The neighbour’s barking dog has been annoying me again. That’s probably why I had another bad dream. They have a dilapidated bicycle outside the front of their house. I always warn them someone will take it, but maybe that’s what they’re hoping. It’s a tight fit in my car, even with the back seat folded down. I have an old cycle lock in the shed somewhere. By the time I find what I need it’s late and the traffic has diminished.

Five flights of stairs up to my office. Eighty steps per flight. The Victorians didn’t leave any room for a lift in these towers.

I have a great view from my office across the Pitch & Putt course, owned and run by my employer. No one is playing today. It would have been more fun in the old days when this asylum had inpatients.

Just one appointment to interrupt my daily grind – an Indian couple scheduled for 11:00 a.m. They arrive with an excited entourage, looking to make a full Bollywood event out of it. A motley selection of cars with wedding ribbons pulls up outside the mental health day care centre, where the Registry Office is located.

‘I’m your Solemniser,’ I say to them, solemnly, as I walk through the throng and unlock the office door. ‘Did you bring your witnesses?’

Ten minutes later and they have been despatched to their fate. The Marriage Register has another line completed. I flick back through the pages to my predecessor’s handwriting and try to decipher the scrawl of Roderick McGinty, now retired. My own calligraphy is neat if a little small.

Lunch in the canteen. Lumpy mashed potatoes, random overcooked frozen vegetables and an improbably large breaded chicken breast in pepper sauce. One of their better days. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the mental health consultants stir a mug of tea and pocket the stainless steel teaspoon. That gives me an idea for tomorrow’s diabolical trick. I take my inspiration from real life events.

The afternoon is busy enough and I attend to my other job. Five crutches, two staircase handrails and a commode. The financial year restarted in January and I can afford to be generous with the dispensation of Aids and Appliances. This paperwork tells me the commode request has been in the system for thirty-six months but I can honestly say I haven’t been sitting on it. I’m a man of quick and incisive decisions.

Five cups of tea today – three lemon and ginger, two green tea with jasmine. No milk required, I just use the kettle in my office.

I make my second toilet inspection of the day; everything seems to be in order.

6:30 p.m. last man standing, as usual. The door to the IT section has no lock on it and I waltz in, switch on a desktop and log in with the credentials of the IT manager. She has done me many a disservice.

Mail to: #All Users

Would whoever has chained a bicycle to the radiator in the exercise hall please remove it immediately.

Day 2

1972 and my brother and I are in our shared bedroom, listening to a tape recording of the TV comedy Porridge. We know all the words and mouth them silently as Ronnie Barker cracks his one-liners and the audience cackles in genuine mirth, before the days of canned laughter.

When the tape runs to its end and switches off, I make the usual formal approach to our last ritual before sleep. ‘Does Chi Chi want to talk to Teddy Robinson?’ I ask in a piping voice.

‘Yes,’ my brother’s falsetto replies on behalf of his panda bear.

We exchange a few high-pitched pleasantries and fall asleep.

Then things get weird. We’re now adults and he’s performing a sex act upon me. Initially I object but I remember reading in a James Michener novel that the receiver has much the same experience, regardless of who the giver is. Nevertheless, it feels totally wrong.

‘Tarquin, wake up,’ my wife says, rousing me. ‘You’re shaking the bed, stop it.’

I wake but keep my eyes closed and try to pretend what just happened didn’t. But it really didn’t. What does it mean? Did Mr Bean have