Tobol

By Mark W. Richards

On the morning of his twelfth birthday, Simon wakes to the realisation that he must visit the Tobol cubicle at the local shops. It’s an activity forbidden for children under sixteen, but he can’t back down. He has boasted to his friends, lied to his parents and stolen his father’s ID card. This simple, suburban defiance becomes the trigger in a sequence of events that escalate into a global catastrophe.

In this re-imagined recent past, Tobol cubicles have become ubiquitous – appliances which many adults use to seek solace from their problems. An automated combination of confessional and therapist. They seem innocuous yet prove to conceal an unimagined potential for harm.

When Simon arrives at school after his clandestine visit to the Tobol cubicle he feels triumphant. Disappointingly, Georgina is unimpressed. Simon is infatuated with Georgina. Her mother has disappeared, rumoured to have been murdered by her father, Joe. Her father’s political group, the Aman Harkat, had been under suspicion for involvement in the Sydney Hilton Bombing. He is mistrusted and alienated by their community, fuelling Simon’s fascination.

Reacquainted with Georgina in a chance meeting years later, Simon is drawn into her and Joe’s world of loss, rebellion, fear and hope while they fight to learn the truth of Georgina’s mother’s disappearance in a world blinded by its addiction to religion and the easy access to Tobol's quick relief from their problems.

Simon’s need to impress Georgina leads him to take a step which brings the true nature of Tobol to public attention. This is the trigger that results in mass murder and chaos. It’s a disaster Simon personally feels he and his friends precipitated and one that may destroy any chance of discovering what really happened to Georgina’s mother.

Simon’s four year journey of self-discovery is shadowed by the development of Tobol from an accepted part of life into the means for a psychopath to commit mass murder. Simon’s loss of innocence is mirrored by society’s realisation that faith without evidence is dangerous. But will this lesson truly be learned?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark W. Richards
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310684333

Mark W. Richards

Some would suggest that writing for advertising and marketing for 20 years has been fertile ground for me to grow as a speculative fiction writer. After all, great advertising copy transports an audience to another place. My first novel, "Tobol", had been germinating in my imagination for much of that time and is the realisation of a compelling desire to tell a story that I was passionate about. The frequently destructive and negative social force of organised religion, the manipulation of faith, the development and unquestioning acceptance of new technologies and the power of global corporations is a potent brew that lends itself to many more speculative scenarios. Now all I need to do is write them.

Book preview

Tobol

By Mark W. Richards

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Mark W. Richards

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Contents

Part 1

Drugged. Taken. Probed. Dumped.

Part 2

The Boast

Go Peacefully

Snubbed

In the Beginning There Was Darkness

I Still Feel Her Near Me

Pointing the Bone

Sputnik

Cast the First Stone

Cracker Night

Morna & the THC

Part 3

Georgina and the Dentist

Sabotage

The Aman Harkat

Sublime Movement

Pull of the Trigger

Wagging

The Calm Before the Storm

Four Corners

The Hopkins Beast

Doesn't Matter

Morna Wants to Help

The Old Man's Accident

Stigmata

The Reeling World

Hubble, Hubble, Foils & Trouble

Part 4

Thomas Finds a New Project

Oblivion

Tobolsk

A Part to Play

Part 1

Drugged. Taken. Probed. Dumped.

This is how I imagine the terrifying moments leading to her disappearance and supposed murder. The scene has swum into focus for me over the last few years like a photograph slowly raised to the surface of a pond. Although I have never heard a first-hand account, the related stories of others, the revealed facts and my own bitter experience has removed the imperfections and vagaries from my initial teenage imaginings. Now, alone at night when I replay the scene in my mind once again, I can see every detail and it rarely wobbles from its cruel clarity.

She is slumped forward in the vinyl chair within the Tobol cubicle, her arms stretched forward and her hands held fast within the indentations in the black-laminated shelf in front of her. Her head lolls on her left arm and the chair has swivelled slightly to the right so that her staring eyes face the automatic door she came in by. It's an awkward position and if she wasn't held there then I imagine she would have slipped sideways to the floor like her daughter's slime toy when oozed from its upturned container. Her position would ordinarily be very uncomfortable if not painful, but she has as much sense and control of her own body as a discarded and crumpled cushion.

She can see the yellow and black poster she taped to the wall by the door, hanging there in silent witness to her last act of defiance against Tobol. The poster's bold heading demands Who is Tobol?. It's meant to be provocative and to give her and her cohorts an opportunity to outline the dubious and dangerous nature of the organisation, but she is in no position to answer the question now and it hangs in her vision, impotent. Her khaki shoulder bag rests against the wall below the poster where she left it. A roll of tape with its torn end protrudes from her bag's open flap.

A video screen above the shelf where her hands are anchored displays the upper body of a middle-aged man, cleanly shaven and wearing a pale shirt. As the man on the screen speaks, his face nods and a hand comes briefly into view to emphasis his words breaking the near silence of neon buzz. Rest now. Soon, your struggles will be over. She is facing away from the monitor as if deliberately trying to avoid looking at the man or acknowledging his words - his proclamation of her death. She knows who it is represented on the screen. It is the founder of Tobol. The manifestation of their enmity. Karill Massimov. Her portable tape recorder on the shelf is recording his words, but she knows she will never replay them and no one else will hear them.

A string of drool leaves the corner of her open mouth to join a damp spot on the left sleeve of her cotton shirt. She can taste the drugs in the back of her throat; sour, cold and chemical. The taste recalls a childhood memory of the moment the anaesthetist slid a needle into the tube in her hand then pressed the syringe and asked her to count backwards from ten. If she could she would close her mouth and swallow, but every muscle feels like putty and even this action is impossible. She is barley breathing. The man on the screen watches impassively into the dim room. This pregnant moment of paralysis and fear delivers a sepulchral sense of doom.

There is a clunk-shhh as the electric door slides open revealing two figures silhouetted against the early morning light pouring in. They are standing close together just outside the narrow doorway, their shoulders overlapping so that they almost appear as one person with two heads. For a hopeful moment she imagines they are members of the Aman Hakart. Maybe they had realised this mission was unsafe, foolhardy even, given that the Tobol company would likely know their members by now. They had felt inviolable, but they weren't. They had a daughter. They had to stop thinking and acting like revolutionaries. What will happen to their child now?

The two figures appear ill-defined at the edges and strangely elongated like long-limbed aliens as they step inside and move toward her. Perhaps they have come to abduct the human and take it to their spaceship for bizarre experiments with probes. If she could, she'd smile at the irony of the thought. She is certain now that they have come to take her. She had volunteered to visit the Tobol cubicle to collect specimens; to use her own body as an experimental tool against Tobol. Now her blood will never be tested and after interrogation her body is likely to be dumped like one of the aliens' discarded and eviscerated cows. Drugged. Taken. Probed. Dumped.

This is how I imagine it.

Part 2

The Boast

Georgina arrived at our school at the start of year six. From the beginning I was infatuated with her. There was something about her that attracted my gaze like a reflective surface that flashes and makes you glance over. When the teacher asked me to hand around the marked test papers and I saw the name 'Georgina Hollingworth' at the top of her paper in her neat, cursive handwriting I surreptitiously sniffed the paper as if it would hold some essence of her, but it only effused the familiar dirt, chemical smell of photocopy.

She was included in the girls' group, but not entirely accepted. It wasn't simply because she was new. She seemed to stand apart and be more aware, more alert than the others, but maybe that was just my projection - a distortion of my candy love glasses. Stories repeated in the playground and at suburban dinner tables with various degrees of authority speculated on the facts surrounding her missing, believed dead, mother and her radical, violent father and his anti-Tobol protests. I didn't know how much of this was true, but this scant information added to my fascination. She wore a round badge pinned to her school bag that showed two hands facing palm out with the thumbs linked and silhouetted against a yellow background. I'd seen this image before on TV while absently watching the evening news and spooning Streets Ice Cream into my mouth like some some suburban mouth-breather. The symbol seemed vaguely dangerous and defiant, but I couldn't remember the details.

Georgina had a relaxed scruffiness. Every day at school there'd be one or more things amiss. I found myself anticipating the first sight of her in the mornings in order to identify the day's outré imperfections. Her hair ties wouldn't match nor completely contain her hair. Her cardigan would be an odd colour with bobbles and one arm would be hitched above her elbow and the other down to her wrist. The hem of her school dress would have dropped down at the back. One of her shoes would be missing a shoelace or a broken shoelace would be tied back together and looped through only the top two eyelets. Some days her socks didn't match style or colour. These things differentiated her from other girls who had a studied prettiness, like the child models I'd seen in the pages of K-mart store catalogues with their inane smiles and clean, pressed outfits grouped into clichéd interpretations of casual and happy children's situations. These other girls held no interest for me. Not like Georgina.

Stop staring at the girls, Grub, or your nose will bleed. Donald had said this loud enough so that the girls could hear. Some of the boys chuckled. He elbowed me in the side to bring my attention back to him and the other boys.

Rack off, Donald, I said.

It was true, my nose bled easily. I could be sitting at my desk and an outrageous red drop would plop unexpectedly onto the white page of my school book, a crimson gloss puddle insulting the paper in the glare of the sunshine that fell across my desk. I'd have to put my hand up, a martyr to my disability, and skulk out of the classroom with one hand holding a hanky to my face to sit on the bench outside with my head held back, the metallic taste of blood oozing down my throat. I'd wait for the clot to form and try not to sniff it down like a bloodied oyster. One teacher would come by and tell me to pinch the bridge of my nose until it hurt. Another would come along and tell me squeeze my nostrils. Then the original teacher would return and ask why I wasn't following instructions. Everyone's an expert. Kids learn this early. It's frustrating.

It was Donald who'd coined my nickname. I was a shit cricketer; a poor bowler, a 'butter fingers' in the field and an even worse batsman. After swinging the bat blindly and missing a number of bowls in a row, Donald had said, About the only thing Simon can hit is a mullygrubber referring to a bowl where the ball is rolled along the ground, usually as a ploy to prevent the batsman from scoring runs. Donald's words were probably true which made them strike home. He and the other kids took up a chant of Mully-grub-ber. Mully-grub-ber. So 'Mullygrubber' became my nickname. It didn't take long until it was shortened to 'Grub' . Much to my chagrin it was adopted by everyone – boys and girls alike. Nicknames are a virus. If they're contagious enough, they spread like wildfire.

Donald sensed weakness in others. Like the hyena I'd seen in a David Attenborough doco on TV a few nights before following the weakest antelope, nipping at its heels, soliciting the assistance of others to bring down its prey. You never knew when something you said or did would reveal your weakness and make you his quarry. He knew how to open up vulnerabilities for others to see and smell, like sluiced-out innards. He was skinny, but wild and unpredictable like a taught spring, which made confronting him dangerous. He had a flat face, small nose, brown eyes, thick black hair and dark skin with a splatter of freckles. Mum reckoned his family came from convict stock mixed with distant Aboriginal, but she didn't like the Jenkins kids much. At the time, neither did I, but like the rest of the herd, I still sought Donald's approval because it translated into peer power.

What are you going to do for your birthday tomorrow, he continued, Are you gunna have a tea party with your little sister?

Jane was two years younger and, for a sister, she was OK. Sometimes, when our friends were away, or by some unspoken mutual agreement, we walked home together in the afternoons. I never minded when she was around. We'd speak when we wanted and share each other's thoughts or walk quietly without speaking. To Donald, who only had brothers, hanging out with your sister was piss-weak. It was more ammunition.

I was determined to answer his question calmly, without appearing annoyed or embarrassed, even though I was already annoyed and embarrassed. It was important not to appear flustered with Donald. It just made matters worse, like the first taste of blood.

I don't know. I replied as evenly as I could. Then, as I looked around and caught Georgina's eye, I fell upon what I thought was an inspired comeback. In the morning, I was gunna visit a Tobol cubicle so I can forget all about your ugly face for a day.

Children weren't allowed to visit Tobol cubicles. Even if you decided to flout the rules, you needed an ID card to verify your age to gain entry. My reply was meant as a joke and to gain Georgina's attention, but Donald sprang on my words, seizing the opportunity to back me into a corner.

You wouldn't have the guts, Grub. Not without your little sister. And anyway, you're too young, ya baby, he sneered.

That's when I made the fatal mistake. I could have just used the old chestnut: Takes one to know one or similar, but I didn't. I had to raise the stakes. Georgina was still watching. Tough Grub.

Suck it up, Donald, I said, you'll see. By tomorrow, I'll be the only kid here who's visited Tobol.

As soon as I said it, the ground went spongy under my feet which seemed to happen when I went too far or things were out of control. Like standing in an ascending lift when it comes to a stop, or unexpectedly walking onto that foam imitation grass they put under climbing gyms in parks, or the moment a roller coaster crests the rise and begins its plunge. I was now past the point of no return.

Yeah, right. You're full of shit, said Donald. He looked around to the others to make sure they had seen where the battle lines were drawn and walked up the stairs into the classroom.

Go Peacefully

Although Tobol had only been around for a few years, many suburban shopping centres had their own cubicle, including ours. They were installed either inside larger shops, on small plots of previously vacant land or on the footpath like oversized telephone booths. Supermarkets made the space available because the owners were paid rent by the Tobol Company and because the cubicles brought customers. And, hey, what could be the harm? They were often located deep inside shops so that Tobol users had to pass the merchandise. Now I've had my Tobol fix, I'll just get some dunny paper and milk while I'm passing them in the isle. You know the score.

Local government councils agreed to have them in public spaces, once again because they were paid rent, but more importantly because people wanted them. They were seen as a public service, cheap to use and helpful to people who needed help. It would have seemed churlish and have been an unpopular policy if not downright discriminatory for councils to refuse them, much as it would be to refuse a church or prayer space. If they'd known the dangers they might have fought against them, but the only thing the residents and councils fought against was having a mosque in their backyard. They fought an imaginary danger out of ignorance and bigotry while allowing the real danger to flourish under their noses.

Depending on the location and installation, Tobol cubicles took the form of a small room within a store, or a small hut, much like 'Koban' police sub-stations in Tokyo. They were built from pre-fabricated materials in colours and styles designed to fit into the local landscape, but each was unmistakably a Tobol cubicle and recognisable because of its size and position and the stylised 'T' logo on the outside. A cubicle in Chinatown might have some Chinese style lintels or the word 'Tobol' in Chinese characters. I've seen federation-style cubicles in leafy, upper-middle-class suburbs and metal, industrialised cubicles near modern museums. As each new cubicle was installed, it would barely raise an eyebrow.

I positioned myself outside the Tobol cubicle at my local shops on the way to school and pretended to be hanging out, just waiting for a friend or parent to come out of the hardware store. It was 8am, so most shops were still closed and no one seemed to be stirring opposite. I only had to wait a moment before the street was clear and I wouldn't be observed entering the cubicle.

I'd taken Dad's ID card from his wallet. He always left his wallet on the kitchen bench overnight, so it had been easy to take his ID card after everyone else had gone to bed. After checking that I wasn't being observed, I inserted the card into the slot by the cubicle door and the panel above the slot prompted me for a PIN number. I have a good head for numbers and I'd seen Dad enter his PIN number often enough to remember it. I entered the four digits on the keypad and there was a small click and a hiss as the door unlocked and slid back to reveal a vestibule entranceway. The door and entranceway were large enough to fit a wheelchair to accommodate disabled access. The Tobol Company certainly provided equal opportunity. Thoughtful. Once inside the entranceway, the door slid closed behind me and a soft light lit the interior.

For a moment, while my eyes adjusted to the low light, nothing happened, then a male voice said, Welcome Stephen. Please, sit with me.

'Stephen' was Dad's name, although Mum and my parents' friends called him 'Steve'. I moved to the chair and sat down. I was nervous, but Tobol's voice was calm, even and kind, yet had a commanding edge that was hard to refuse. It reminded me of my father's voice only more serious and pitched a little lower like the voice my Dad would use when he was 'requesting' me to do something that I had no choice about. I remember him 'requesting' that I share an Easter egg I had been saving with Jane. God forbid that I declined. The consequences were hidden just below the tone.

I was seated in front of a TV screen, mounted and recessed into the wall like a window into another room. On the screen was a man. I assumed this was Tobol. He was in his late fifties, with a calm face and gentle eyes looking directly at me. There was a smile on the edge of his lips that managed to look pleased without being patronising, as if the man was happy to be with me. The man didn't seem to be moving, but as I watched him, I noticed he was shallowly breathing, blinking, slightly changing posture and moving other parts of his body like someone sitting and watching you. Kind of spooky, but not really threatening.

As I watched him watch me, I was struck by how much he looked like my Dad. Not exactly him, but some composite of all of my father's side of the family. Dad's family all tended towards the 'too skinny' end of the spectrum. This man was fuller in the face. Dad told me that as a teenager he'd once been called a demented telegraph pole because he was so thin. The man before me, then, seemed somehow to be an improved and meatier version of my Dad. Maybe it was just my own guilt and nervousness that made this man remind me of Dad. Who knows. I had stolen Dad's ID and I was jumpy, half expecting him to turn up at any time, knock on the door and demand his card back and an explanation as to why I had it.

It has been some time since we have been together, Stephen, spoke Tobol.

Tobol's lips didn't move. There was a slight inclination of the head for emphasis at particular words, or a hand rose into view as if he was making a casual gesture, yet his lips remained gently closed. The impression was that he was communicating the words telepathically.

There were some trying times a while back that you and I worked through, Tobol continued. You've seen, that by working together, we can find effective solutions and provide you with the tools you need to make the changes necessary and move beyond the challenges in your life. We were able to explore your life situation so that, together, we could promote healing and bring clarity.

Dad would never have used Tobol lightly, so it surprised me to hear from Tobol that Dad had been before at all. Other people would visit a cubicle once a week, or even more, just for comfort and someone to talk to, but my father was more cautious, more private, than that. To Dad there was something indecent or even unsafe about giving personal information to a person or persons unknown despite how familiar they seemed and how acceptable visiting Tobol had become. There was something unsound about the process and he appeared suspicious of it. To Dad it seemed such an easy way out of your troubles: to be lazy or to indicate a person lacking in character, in substance.

One morning I'd said jokingly It's enough to drive me to a Tobol cubical to get over my sister's annoying habits. Dad had turned and looked at me frowning and said, I know you're joking, Simon, but Tobol is not something that you should joke about. It's for people with real problems that they can't sort out either themselves or with the help of family and friends. There's a reason why they won't let anyone under sixteen visit Tobol, and in any case, I'd hope you would come to your mother or me first.

So why had Dad visited Tobol in the past? It was disturbing to think there'd been something he'd felt unable to face with our family. It must have been something that involved one or more people outside the family. It was as if, with those few words, Tobol had taken some of the sheen, some of the innocence, from my family life. There was a secret my father had from our family and it cast a shadow.

I thought back to look for clues to this secret. There had been problems between my parents some time ago. I remembered the door to their room firmly closed and hearing muffled, serious voices inside and the thick, tense atmosphere that permeated our home and seemed to go on for months. Conversations at the dinner table were strained and Mum uttered sour