Happiness is Benny Skittle
When Benny Skittle walked into a room people laughed. And if they didn’t laugh, they certainly made a damn fine effort at smiling. It happened all the time. Not just some of the time - all the time. In bars, trains, shops, offices and on one memorable occasion, in a sauna packed with a group of fat Japanese businessmen. A strange state of affairs by anyone’s reckoning and one that Benny, over the years, hadn’t failed to notice with ever growing levels of confusion.
It wasn’t that Benny looked funny, he looked pretty much normal. Asides from a fierce crop of strong sandy brown hair that grew out and up rather than down and hanging, and a collection of guerrilla nose hairs that fought a stolid fight against the oppressive rule of Benny’s little curved nasal-scissors, he was plain-wrapper ordinary. Neither was it because he did funny things – Benny was straight and safe and tended to go about his business in an enthusiastic but ultimately predictable and unspectacular manner. It just seemed that wherever he went, people responded well. Moods lifted, conversations turned in favourable ways, good things happened.
Except it wasn’t just the little, almost unnoticeable things like the moods and the smiles and the laughs. There were other things too – bigger things. Aunt Roberta’s miraculous recovery from her car crash for example. They said she would never walk again. ‘Impossible’, the doctors agreed. Considering the horrific muscle damage she had suffered it was a wonder she hadn’t lost her legs. And it appeared they were right until Benny started visiting. Aunt Roberta, a woman not prone to fanciful talk, still refers to it as ‘the day she pulled back the curtains and let the sunshine in’. During the seven weeks of school holidays when Benny visited (every morning except Tuesdays when Benny had his golf lesson) they talked, played cards, listened to music and ate fruit which Benny brought in fresh from the market and insisted was ‘Mother Nature’s Cure-All’. Roberta had sighed at that. She had also smiled wanly when Benny had first dumped the holiday brochures at the end of her bed. However the sunny morning in June, when she looked upwards into the cloudless sky then tentatively picked her way up the grand, white cruise-ship’s gang plank, walking stick in trembling hand, she remembered well that weighty feeling of the magazines on the bottom of the bed. And she remembered Benny more so.
Marv Gimble, the Skittles’ long time neighbour, beams uncontrollably when he reflects how Benny changed his life. “I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, no doubt about it” he gushes whilst picking away at dry skin on his bald, pink head. “Hopeless!....Sitting back, hating everything, feeling sorry for myself. Then, of course, I had the conversation over the back fence with young Benny. We talked about stuff and I don’t know what it was exactly but I felt .... well ..... better about myself, excited even. Time for a change Marvin I found myself saying. Okay, I still got ‘The Dreads’ now and again but a few more pep talks with Benny soon set me on my way. I just knew what to do. And look at me now - two years later I have my own butterfly pressing business, a Daluna 850 Ultra Aquarium bought and paid for, and I wouldn’t swear on it but I think my hair is starting to grow again.’
Cousin Jenny’s new job, Bruce Cotton at work’s book deal, old friend Darwin Montford’s whirlwind internet romance, Shaun the golf-club pro’s lottery win – look closely, and when the good times were rolling, Benny wasn’t far away.
And then there was Benny himself. He scarcely got ill, he won friends (and girlfriends) with uncommon ease, doors opened as if he held the master-key and life’s minor setbacks scarcely came visiting. His car never had a puncture in the rain, his printer never broke at an inopportune moment, things never went missing when he needed them most, nothing irritated him.
For Benny’s positive attitude was limitless. From the moment he woke up in the morning he was in gear and ready for anything. Even from an early age he felt like he understood things and always seemed capable of taking the world in his stride. When he didn’t make the junior golf team he happily accepted that he hadn’t been good enough and instead celebrated his freedom to play the game badly. When his mum died he knew it was for a reason. She was in pain and the end was a blessing - for her. For Benny? Well, in his eyes, that didn’t matter.
It took Benny twelve sun-soaked years to properly notice this phenomenon and another six years to admit it to anyone. He first mentioned it to his then girlfriend Jenny Hopper, sitting on the living-room couch, the day after his 18th Birthday.
“Jenny,” he whispered, valiantly averting his eyes from the shadows of her low cut top “ it's like a tidal wave of goodness that flows in front of me!”.
A moment of confusion had flashed in Jenny’s eyes. “You’re a nice guy Benny” she had eventually replied seductively, “Let’s go up to your room.” They did and the moment was lost .... or possibly seized upon, depending on your viewpoint. And the wonder grew.
His twenties came and went. Benny prospered modestly. He’d say he only set out to do the best he could but ‘only’ was, in this case, pretty good thank you very much. After a brief flirtation working with a demolition company (where he eventually got to be the man in the machine with the big swinging ball-on-a-chain) he set up his own landscaping and horticultural outfit, humorously insisting that he felt better growing things than tearing stuff down. His enigma persisted and he speculated more than once whether it was somehow down to him being too open or perhaps too candid with the people he came into contact with. As a result he tried being more withdrawn, saying less in company. But inside a fire was burning and he found it almost impossible to contain himself or his thoughts for more than five minutes at a time.
Aged 32 he went to a doctor who looked confused, prescribed a sedative and set up an appointment with a clinical psychologist. The clinical psychologist, a jaded middle-aged sagging-cushion-of-a-man, spent twenty minutes with Benny. He later confidentially told his wife he thought his latest patient was ‘nice but nuts’, then took her to bed for the first time in eight months where, unbeknownst to them, they conceived their first and only child, a little girl they would call Faith. Benny strode on, his suspicions growing, his graciousness undiminished.
Then came the Internet. And that was where he found Dr Rufus Bandwagger. A dull rainy night, bathed in the glow of his desktop monitor, Benny surfed for answers. After numerous Google searches on the likes of ‘positive mental attitudes’, ‘ psychological theory’, ‘mood transference’ and ‘naked busty cheerleaders’ he was drawn to an interesting listing suggestively linking him to www.sensoryinstitute.com. He excitedly read the entry’s bold blue writing;
‘.... the positive energy of your aura and how it affects others around you.’
Below, in a more subdued black font the Institute claimed to specialise in ‘....... rare psychic phenomena, Mood Transference Therapy (MTT) and Marriage Guidance Counselling.’ Clicking onto the site he immediately encountered a photo of an owl-spectacled, grey-haired bag of bones sitting smugly in a white coat in front of a wall of books, a nondescript red folder clasped in his left hand. Under the photograph in small swirly lettering were the words ‘ Dr Rufus Bandwagger MS VCMP–Founder Physician of The Sensory Institute’ . Benny scoured the site with growing interest then excitedly wrote an e-mail;
Dear Dr Bandwagger ,
Please forgive me if this all sounds a little bit ‘out there’ but I feel I have to talk to someone. To be blunt, Dr Bandwagger, for some time now I seem to have possessed an inbuilt ability to lift people’s moods and make them happier. I’m not sure whether this is directly linked to my own outlook of life, however I must admit to feeling upbeat and optimistic pretty much all the time and, having spoken to a few close friends and relatives, I’ve concluded that this isn’t normal. But it’s not just that. Its the stuff that happens too. Good stuff that makes me, and seemingly everyone I know, better placed in life. I could give you examples of what I mean that would stretch from your nose to your feet, suffice to say that yesterday I walked into the local grocers and found Mr Beaks, the proprietor, staring at an official looking letter, crying tears that the bank were going to foreclose and his business was ruined. By the time I had thrown out a few sympathetic noises and bought a Pot Noodle and a Mars Bar he was shrugging his shoulders jauntily and grinning like a madman. He waved the bank letter in the air, thanked me for listening and proclaimed the collapse as a boon since it ‘saved him painting the place’ and ‘he’d always wanted to move to Florida and swim with the Dolphins anyway!’ ...... all very strange wouldn’t you agree?
I read with interest the section of your web-site describing your research into how we can create positive fields around us and the effect this has upon our environment, and wondered if I may have something associated. If we could meet and perhaps talk about this further I would be eternally grateful. I’m not sure if this short letter has truly conveyed the nature of my circumstances however I would stress Dr Bandwagger that I need answers, and sooner would be better than later.
Yours in anticipation,
B. Skittle
Benny must have struck a chord. Dr Rufus Bandwagger responded the very next day intimating, in a guarded manner, that he found the case to be both ‘intriguing ‘ and ‘nebulous’.
And so they met. Dr Rufus Bandwagger felt immediately uplifted by Benny and by the time their first three-quarter hour meeting was over, Bandwagger had ran out of ink in his pen, found his favourite tie-pin in his inside jacket pocket - an object that he assumed had been lost months ago at the ‘Couch Society’s Annual Conference’ - and he noticed with pleasure that the tree outside his window was budding sweet pink blossoms. He also waived his fee.
***
Benny was delighted. The idea that he was finally taking control of his ‘condition’ made him even more positive than usual. After an initial question and answer session, and a pleasant morning stroll in the Institute grounds where they discussed amongst other things Benny’s childhood, his favourite work-shoes, and the decline in popularity of the colour mauve, Bandwagger introduced Benny to Minnie Hooper. Minnie (ironically a very large woman and owner of a wispy grey moustache and red, sink-plunger lips) was according to the doctor ‘The greatest, most insightful psychic of her generation'. During this vague yet lengthy ramble on Minnie Cooper’s many attributes Bandwagger took off then replaced his spectacles nine times and used the word ‘holistic’ thirteen times. Benny smiled as he counted.
After a less than satisfying lunch of Brazil nuts and buttered cardboard segments, Benny, Bandwagger and Minnie Hooper headed for the laboratory. Minnie Hooper stood expectantly in the white-tiled room crammed into a pair of black leggings which alarmingly appeared to be concealing a catering pack of links sausages around her thigh and buttock region. She shook her head as she had done earlier when they had first met. “Never have I seen such an aura” she drawled in a high pitched, airy voice.
“When we’re talking auras here what exactly are we dealing with?” Benny tried to sound both serious and matter of fact.
Minnie Hooper took a deep breath and stood her full five feet in height. “An awwwraaaah, my dear....” she declared dramatically, “is an electro-photonic vibration response ...”
Confusion flickered on Benny’s face.
“A field of coloured, luminous radiation that surrounds your body”, Minnie explained with less London Palladium-type delivery. “It shows your true nature my dear... your TRRROOOOO NAAAAATURE!” She harpooned him with a steely accusatory stare and let the silence grow between them. Satisfied that the moment had been won she continued.
“ The aura can be bright like the sun or dull as dishwater depending on the clarity of the subject’s intentions. Bright and clean.... good. Grey and dreary..... not so good. And then there are the colours...." She smiled and momentarily was lost in a world of her own. “Awwwlllll the colours of the rainbowwww" she continued shrilly, almost singing.
“Are you a real psychic or one of those other types?" Benny asked cautiously.
‘Real’ replied Minnie simply and without a trace of indignation. She took Benny by the hand and gently guided him around an opaque screen towards the centre of the room. Painted in the middle of the white, shiny floor was a collection of silver rings, one inside the other. Placing Benny’s feet inside the smallest inner circle Minnie then sprinkled a salt-like substance over his shoulders, arms and chest, drew a creamy, faintly sparkling curtain in behind Benny’s back, then scuttled over to a heavily buttoned podium that looked a lot like a prop from the old Star Trek series. Dr Bandwagger took off his glasses, replaced them, and looked on seriously.
“As I said most people have some form of aura that surrounds them” Minnie sang in a light, ethereal manner. “They tend to be pretty dull and typically less than an inch wide. Those with really positive energy... well, their auras stretch out maybe about.... so far.” She held up her left hand stretching her thumb and first finger as far as she could in a measuring sense.” From what Dr Bandwagger has told me about you I think we can expect some pretty nice yellows and a touch of orange.... Maybe even turning to gold. “ she added thoughtfully.
“What would that mean?” Benny asked anxiously, raising his voice to carry across the room.
“Oh, the yellow would confirm such things like joy, freedom, generosity and contentment,” Minnie replied. She screwed up her face and fiddled with another large knob on the panel.
“And the Orange?”
“Uplifting, absorbing, inspiring!” Dr Bandwagger injected sharply, evidently keen to be involved in the conversation. “A sign of power!” he completed with a triumphant look on his face. Minnie flashed him a look then turned to Benny.
“Yes indeed, Dr Bandwagger is right....” she trailed off. Then, just as it appeared she had nothing left to say she added in her highest, screechiest tone yet, “..... Upliffffting!!!" She accompanied the shriek with an exultant stretch of her short, corned-beef arms which she pressed hard against her ears as she pushed magnificently skywards.
Regaining a level of self-control Minnie turned another small knob high on the panel in front of her and the light in the room dimmed to a soft blue hue. She reached into her pocket, yanked out a pair of thick rimmed dark protective goggles and pulled them over her eyes. Licking her lips she slowly reached for a second dial in front of her and, after hesitating only momentarily, she turned it slowly clockwise. A low humming noise emanated from the floor, noticeable but not enough to shroud Minnie’s gasp as she stared through the screen in front of her. The room was bathed in bright yellow sunlight. Minnie put a pair of chubby hands over the rim of goggles shielding her further.
The floor hummed ominously as Minnie Hooper stood, again hands held up heavenward. “Awwrrraaaa” she managed to whisper to no-one in particular. A similarly goggled Bandwagger scribbled wildly in his pad and stole brief but penetrating looks at the increasingly uncomfortable Benny Skittle. After a further passage of arm waving and some disconcerting high-frequency cackling, Minnie Hooper reached for her control panel and the vibrating noise subsided gently into silence. Benny let out a deep breath and his shoulders visibly slackened. He remained on the ringed section of the lab floor, rubbing his elbow and throwing Bandwagger and Minnie Hooper alternate unsure looks. After what seemed an age he finally cleared his throat and spoke in a dry, croaky voice.
“Emmm, my aura then – Is it more than inch wide Miss Hooper?
Minnie laughed and shook her head. “An inch? She stopped and shook her head again. “AN INCH ? she repeated shrilly. “Benny nodded and Dr Bandwagger’s glasses fell off.
Benny, my Dear, your aura is the size of this room. And with that the doctor and the psychic nodded, turned to the door and marched out with distinct purpose.
***
It was like a snowball rolling down an alpine mountainside. Benny Skittle was suddenly the name on everyone’s lips. Like the latest amazing find on a TV talent show or the exposure of a guilty pop star. An avalanche of exposure had heaped itself on Benny and he didn’t know what to do.
It had all started with the experiments.
Bandwagger had lined them up. After the initial success with Minnie Hooper he had introduced a group of five unrelated cases from his files. A textbook collection of depressive, low self-esteem, insecure individuals all of whom had been more than willing to take part in proceedings. Under the watchful eye of the doctor and his tripod-mounted video camera, each one met Benny on a number of occasions and to Bandwagger’s delight, each one rapidly showed a visible change in outlook and demeanour. In a follow up session four weeks later, the five not only demonstrated a vastly different mood set but testified to experiencing significant upturns in their fortunes. Sitting in Bandwagger’s office completing the last of a set of seemingly endless questionnaires Benny had dropped his writing hand to his lap and looked at the doctor sitting at the other side of the mahogany desk. Benny repeated the question he’d just read out loud.
“Do I feel differently to when I first came to the Institute?” Benny looked at Bandwagger.
“Well do you?"
“I think I feel .....validated in a way i didn’t before.” Benny had said. “In truth though, i’m just happy that those people I talked to got something from it. I’m still not sure why they did or why it came from me but its good that they did.” Benny handed in his sheets and went home where he absently made himself a boil in the bag curry then went to bed where he slept the longest uninterrupted sleep he could ever remember having.
Two days later Bandwagger telephoned in a state of anxiety. One of ‘The Five’ had, evidently, gone to the press. A high flying banking executive called John Deely being treated for a guilt complex the size of China. Why he did it no-one was sure. It may have been money, it might have been the fame. Benny privately suggested to Dr Bandwagger that the man ‘...probably just wanted to tell people he was feeling better.’ Bandwagger held his scepticism tightly. Either way gruesome murders, parliamentary scandals or attacks on defenceless pensioners were in short supply that week and Deely’s story was picked up by two of the nationals. It was enough to set things in motion. A small clutch of seasoned hacks visited the Institute, massaged Bandwagger’s ego suitably, and got their story. The doctor had, at first, courted the idea of client confidentiality but eventually opportunity and excitement got the better of him and, names aside, he pretty much spilled the beans in respect of Benny, Minnie Hooper and what he was now referring to as the Phase Two Experiments. He did manage to assert that it was ‘early days’ and ‘nothing firm’ could be assumed or concluded at this point. However he finished the interview with the announcement that more tests were to follow and that he was confident that the words ‘Natural Phenomenon’ wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration.
One paper moved the story up to page 3 while three others joined the gang. ‘Human Beacon of Hope?’ one of the broadsheets speculated. ‘Doc shock over Cheery Queery!’ a leading tabloid announced.
There was a gaggle of journalists in attendance when Benny finally emerged from his second string of ’experiments’. They pushed and jostled at the foot of the chalky white steps leading down from the building’s grand entrance and shouted a hundred questions. Questions that all simply merged into one big one. Was there a story here ?
Bandwagger shielded Benny protectively with one arm and raised his other in commanding style. The crowd of excitable hacks hushed in expectation.
“This is Benny Skittle,” the doctor began in a deep, dramatic tone,” He is a very special young man!”
The crowd exploded. Cameras swished and flashes blinded him and a volley of insistent, demanding questions beginning “Benny?...” “Benny?......” “Benny?......” began in earnest.
***
Within weeks Benny was at the epicentre of what could only be described as a hurricane of mass hysteria. They had discovered his home address soon after the impromptu press conference at the institute. First it had only been a group of flies-around-perfume journalists staking out the modest two-bedroom semi. Then one by one, the sick and the old and the sad and the lost started to arrive. In dribs and drabs to start with but eventually in their droves. By the time Benny agreed to decamp to the Institute, the police and their substantial collection of orange and white traffic cones had completely lost control. The thousand strong crowd clamouring for a meeting with Benny Skittle - helper, healer and friend – had found a shrine and they weren’t about to let it go.
Bandwagger called them the Phase Three Public Research Sessions but it was really as close to ticky-tacky Reality TV as scientific research had ever come. For four chilly March days, a line of paying hopefuls snaked round the ample grounds of the Institute waiting to be randomly picked out (by way of a numbered badge pinned to their back, depicting four thick black digits beside a small picture of Benny’s smiling face). They were filmed and interviewed as they waited and their stories appeared, sometimes with cringe-worthy clarity, on a prime-time evening show called ‘The Successful Ones’. The program aired every night for a fortnight and by the final episode, which included a short interview with a tired-looking but congenial Benny, it was the most viewed, non-sporting, television programme in broadcasting history. The ‘successful ones’ – over a hundred of them in the end - were allocated a strict, ten-minute, televised slot in which to meet Benny. Bandwagger of course remained in attendance, scribbling away in his trusty pad. He was however joined this time by a group of four eminent white coats who scribbled just as hard and fast in similar pads. They sporadically nodded or raised appraising eyebrows as each case, one after the other, proved the same point – Benny had a gift.
And so it went on. Benny appeared on numerous TV chat shows, clips of the Second Phase experiments found their way onto Youtube clocking up a record 227 million views worldwide, and he found his face on the cover of weighty publications the likes of Time, National Geographic and Sheet-Welders Monthly. In a well-publicised media event he met the Pope who announced during his Easter message, in a deliberate, echoing address ‘Bennee Skeetle gives hope to evvverrryone..... throughout the world..... no maaaatter whaateeever race or reeligion. The sun-drenched St Peters crowd applauded, wiped their brows and wondered.
Everywhere Benny now went he was greeted by throngs of jostling onlookers. They tried to speak to him, photograph him, touch him. The burly, thick necked Men-in-Black who he had been adamant he didn’t want or need now became very much wanted and totally needed.
The ‘Waterman Show’ proved that.
The almost inevitable crowd had been waiting outside the studio. In the ensuing melee a man near to the front had first spat on Benny as he passed by then bundled his way into his path and aimed a punch. Thankfully the blow only glanced off Benny’s forehead and security had lost no time in dragging off the wild looking character who persisted in screaming ‘I’ll kill you, you Fake!’ over and over. Benny though, had been suitably shaken. On live TV, sitting in front of Lucy Waterman, world renowned chat show host and media Rottweiller, Benny had completely unraveled. In a mock experimental set, three studio audience members all shrugged their shoulders and swore they had felt next to nothing in terms of positive feelings or anything similar. Waterman had gone for the jugular – Benny’s reflex remark that he ‘frankly didn’t care anymore about everyone else’s inability to take responsibility of their own lives’ went down, with the studio audience and beyond, like a call for increased taxes.
Never had Benny been happier to be alone as he was that night. Even with the power cut that deprived him of his dinner and the ruining of his favourite shirt by staining it with candle-wax, Benny had never been so glad to be home. With the boos and cat-calls still ringing in his ears he slumped on his bed and wondered whether searching for the truth was necessarily a good thing.
***
Benny sat low in the back of the limousine his backside wedged as far into the black leather seat as it would go. Beside him sat Milton Dervish – Press and Public Relations facilitator. Tall, dapper and silver-haired, Benny thought he was a waste of space. He found his raison d’être tenuous and mannerisms slick and annoying. Like the way he constantly fingered his thick gold-nugget rings luxuriously. Like the way he gargled ‘Benjamin my boy...” in an upper-class, faintly condescending tone. Like when he talked about himself in the third person – “Just leave it all to Milton Dervish.” he’d drawl, “You have to get up early to get the better of Milton Dervish!”, “Milton Dervish will prey on your predicament and take all your money for nothing more than a piece of old rope in return.”
“Milton ‘Bloody’ Dervish”.
Benny felt alien feelings when to came to Milton Dervish and they didn’t feel good. He sighed as the car glided through the city streets.
”I don’t like this Milton.”
“Benjamin my boy...”
“But its not even working anymore. I can feel it inside me.”
“You’re just tired”
“I’m NOT JUST TIRED!” Benny snapped “And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it too?"
Milton Dervish looked marginally uncomfortable and Benny pressed his argument. “When you met me at first how did you feel?”
“I would admit I felt ... something ..... some kind of ........ goodness running through me.”
“And now?” Benny asked.
Dervish hesitated. “As I said you’re just tired."
“You don’t feel it any more do you?”
Dervish looked sightlessly out at the passing urban scenery and the limo slid softly onwards.
Benny fingered the cuff of his shirt and was about to persist with his line of questioning when he felt a sharp pain in his thumb.
“DAMN!” he cried pulling a small, sharp object from the end of his sleeve.“WHY DO THEY NEED TO PUT SO MANY BLOODY PINS IN A NEW SHIRT?” Dervish didn’t respond. Benny stuck his finger in his mouth and tasted his own bitter, metallic blood.
“Now you know what to say Benjamin my boy. This is our last press conference before The Bennyvent" Dervish’s pronunciation - BENN-EEE-VENT – in that smooth self-assured burr again in a way that found Benny irritating
“I hate that name.”
“Hate it or not there’ll be a hundred thousand people there.”
Benny looked uncomfortable. “And what if they don’t come?” he asked weakly. "The papers have been killing me. And I spoke to Cara, she said they had only sold about five hundred tickets so far. I’ll be a ........”
“They’ll come” Dervish interrupted, still looking out the window. Benny was about to press further when Dervish noted in a mater of fact tone “Right my boy, we’re here”
‘Welcome Benny!’ the sign announced cheerfully. The dark man in sunglasses who Benny knew only as ‘Kingdom’ knocked twice on the outside of the heavily tinted window, opened the car door and uttered in a low ominous voice, ‘Okay Mr Skittle Sir, lets go.” Benny had tried to get Kingdom to call him Benny but so far the huge black, American-footballer-in-a-suit had steadfastly refused.
It all happened very quickly. They had fought though a pressure cooker crowd packed on the hotel drive around a mound of grass and three out-of-place palm trees, then squeezed through revolving doors into the relative cool and calm of the hotel foyer. There, Benny had been introduced to a line of suits where, together with Dervish and a watchful Kingdom, they loitered awkwardly in close proximity to the tall, ridged metal elevators waiting to be escorted through to the private suite booked (by one of Milton Dervish’s minions) for the press conference. Benny smiled and shook the hand of a man whose name slipped by his left ear. As the man embarked on some pleasantry or other, the lift door on Benny’s shoulder suddenly pinged open and in an explosion of movement three men in Balaclavas rushed out in his direction. There was confusion, shouting and a glint of black gun-steel. Benny felt a powerful grip on his shoulder before being hauled backwards off his feet. Within a matter of seconds, he found himself in the elevator, doors closed in front him, surrounded by the cast from ‘Guerrillas on Broadway’. One of the balaclavas, the tallest one, held Benny in a vice like grip, one arm shielding his chest, the other bending Benny’s arm painfully behind his own back. The men were silent. A reedy instrumental version of Abba’s ‘Fernando’ glided in on the ice-cool air-con as the lift climbed smoothly upwards. Only the rapid, shallow breathing of the men in balaclavas broke the tinny musak. Hitting the top floor the elevator rang out that the journey was done and the door slid open.
Benny was manhandled across a dull lit corridor, through a door and up a flight of stairs. The leading balaclava burst a final door open where a blinding light and gentle draft hit Benny’s face. Dragged into the airy sunlight of the hotel roof Benny’s vision quickly adjusted to the scene ahead. Two more anonymous figures dressed in black, with enough ammunition hanging around their person to take over a small South American country, were waiting in front of a sleek, black helicopter. Beside them, lying lifelessly on the ground were two uniformed men.
The helicopter rotors whined in a blur of motion as the nearest of the welcome committee crossed the white cemented roof towards Benny and his captors. He approached Benny and stopped directly in front of him. In appraising fashion he moved even closer and tilted his head slightly to the left. The man was now so close that Benny felt his breath creep under his nostrils. The potent combination of garlic and old socks made Benny visibly wince.
“Benny Skittle.” The man stated in a thick but friendly sounding American accent.
Benny’s first instant reaction was one of relief. Until the man punched him in the face and a wave of fear overtook him like he’d never experienced.
“Benny Skittle," he repeated in the same tone, “You have been taken by the Guild of Toro! In the name of Our Lord and Master, Glory be to Toro! The five men in balaclavas raised their right arms in a fist and yelled something that sounded to Benny like “Chickeninnabaskett!!!”
Bonding completed, one of the goons slipped deftly behind Benny, violently yanked his arms round until his hands touched the back belt loops of his trousers and tied them tightly and painfully with something that felt to Benny like a roll of barbed wire. A flannel rag was thrust in his mouth, and tape was roughly stretched over his mouth. Again, in a matter of seconds he was hustled through the now gale force wind and thrown into a seat inside the waiting helicopter. Without any further communications the band of terrorists clambered aboard, the door was rattled closed and with a ‘wagons ho!’ hand gesture from their American Leader, the helicopter rose into the air.
Benny looked out wide eyed, his cheek pressed heavily against the window. As the helicopter banked and headed into the sun he watched the crowded mayhem shrink below and wasn’t sure of anything.
***
The room smelled of old damp cheese. Sitting on a hard seat with painfully bound hands and a numb left buttock was one thing, doing so with the persistent smell of rapidly ageing dairy produce was another. When they finally removed the itchy hood that had been thrust over Benny’s head during the bumpy car journey to wherever they were, Benny’s fear had temporarily been replaced with severe irritation. His captives had proceeded to engaged themselves in wild celebrations of back-slapping, macho posturing as well as an impromptu ‘Who-can-yell-spurious-political-doctrine-the-loudest’ competition, all of which had done nothing more than irritate Benny more and add to the ridiculousness of what was already a ridiculous situation. The American sounding leader, who, in all probability, had won the shouting contest, dramatically spat on the floor and his comrades had quietened.
‘So Benny Skittle do you have any questions?’ Benny's first inclination had been to say ‘Yeh, what’s that fucking smell?’. He had held his tongue though and when pushed again muttered a quiet ‘What are you going to do with me?’ American Leader had laughed through his omnipresent balaclava and replied “That depends on a lot of things Benny Skittle.” Benny chose not to speculate.
After a flurry of purposeful comings and goings, Benny was now alone save for one hairy looking individual, clearly placed on first guard duty and who was obviously cultivating a Che Guevara look about himself. Concerns over anonymity now clearly a thing of the past, his fellow room-mate sat, balaclava-free, at a wobbly wooden table in the middle of the room, stroking his facial growth and intermittently ramming a dark-skinned finger up his not inconsiderable right nostril.
After a particularly productive howk Che examined the goods on the end of his nail then self-consciously turned to face Benny.
Benny smiled. “What news from Bolivia?” he asked with a serious look on his face.
“Wha?” the guard barked defensively.
Benny shrugged.
“Don’t laugh at me Dog.” Che growled in a heavy Eastern-European accent,” That gag we had in your mouth earlier?.........Sergei’s pants.” He looked pleased with himself, gave a wheezy laugh then broke into a convulsion of phlegm-stoked coughing. When he stopped he looked up at Benny . “Used pants Dog ....” he rasped again, “.... and Sergei ? Not one for showering regularly, heh heh.”
“Why are you doing this?” Benny asked trying to sound upbeat but to-the-point.
The guard waved his finger at Benny. “Nahhhh, I’ve heard about you Dog. Giving out the ... vibes. Thinkin’ you can make everyone nice and friends-like.” He paused and grinned a big, yellow toothed grin. “Well no mores Daawwg, I feel nussing of yours.” With a look suggesting that he had established something that had been lost he settled back down and resumed gazing in front of him whilst mining for gold in the dark recesses of his nasal passages.
Benny sighed and rather than spectate over the Booger-King in action, he surveyed the room around him. There wasn’t much to look at. The only piece of furniture other than the two occupied chairs and the table was an old 1970’s wooden-cased television sitting in the far corner of the room. On the main wall in front of him a limp soiled-looking net curtain covered a single, small window. By the light coming in through the curtain Benny speculated that it was early evening outside - outside in the world where time meant something. Dominating the bare white-washed wall to his right was the crudely painted face of a bull in what looked like red and black emulsion. Underneath the glowering image the claim ‘The world is Toro!’ was savagely etched.
“Why are you doing this?” Benny repeated
“Because our cause is just!” the Che look-a-like fired back without thinking.
“So why don’t you just live it, and to hell with the rest of us. Why drag us in?”
“Because people like you suppress us."
“People like me?”
“Yes you - togethers with the people who.... buy you and who want us to die. They are afraid of us, yeh? Afraid that everyone will see our way is right and that they will lose their grip.”
“So you fight and hurt and kidnap and destroy?”
“It is a war.”
“Fighting a war when you could be living a happy, productive life instead?” Benny snapped, exasperation etched on his face. His tension pulled on his bound wrists and he involuntarily winced.
“Tell me,” he continued in a smoother tone, “When was the last time you sat in the garden at home and enjoyed the world eh? You know, watched the clouds float by on a sunny day, watched a bee hop from flower to flower, drank a beer and got a tan.... eh?”
The guard looked at Benny as if he had just suggested breeding tartan parrots. The look quickly ignited though. “We ARE productive - Our cause is just!” he slammed his fist on the table “And your garden nonsenses ...... You are so stupid and you don’t even realise it!”
Benny started to ask why but the guard cut him off, dragging his chair back loudly and stalking to the door. He opened it and turned briefly to face Benny. He spat a disgusting looking deposit in the direction of Benny’s feet and held him in a fiery stare. “YOU ARE NO GIFT FROM THE GODS!” he screamed with venom. He slapped the wooden door frame heftily in a white temper then disappeared out of the room slamming the door behind him.
“I never said I was.” Benny lamented to the empty room and with a deep but fretful sigh he turned his head and pondered the crude emblem on the wall.
***
He must have fallen asleep. When he jolted forward in his chair the room was a dull version of its former self. What light there was shone apologetically from a bare bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling.
A man was standing in front of him. Tall, thin and pale with a grey bald head and a long drooping black moustache.
“Apparently reports of your powers have been greatly exaggerated Mr Skittle." the man taunted slowly in a familiar twang that sold him instantly as American Leader. “Ivan will be coming back in to guard you. I suggest you don’t wind him up any further. He can be a bit ....... dangerous .... when he gets agitated.”
“What are you going to do with m...” began Benny but was interrupted by the American who pointed a threatening finger almost touching Benny’s nose.
“THE WORLD WILL KNOW OF TORO!” he yelled menacingly. "They will maybe pay to have Benny Skittle back. And it they don’t pay, well .... no matter, The world will reflect and the true power of Toro will become known.”
Benny made a snorting noise and tried to sound confident above the wild banging in his chest. “You’re wasting your time, I’m already yesterday’s news. People hate me.... I have no power, as you may well have noticed. I’m dry.”
“Then we’ll kill you anyway." the American laughed as he strode out the room.
He was left alone. His thoughts spun wildly in his mind before eventually blowing themselves out. Belying the gravity of his situation Benny again drifted off to sleep. When he awoke this time the room was bathed in a light blue hue. At first he couldn’t place his strange surroundings but when he focussed on the silhouette hunched in front of the chattering TV set, his heart lurched and it all came flooding back.
Ivan ‘Che’ Guevara sat absent-mindedly tapping the barrel of a revolver against the side of the chair. He turned and looked at Benny.
“Friends eh?” he said nodding towards the TV, “ Good program. Even though you seen them all theyz still funny, yeh?”
Benny nodded.
Che got up with a knee-click that sounded like snapping twigs and stiffly wandered over to where Benny sat. He aimlessly waved the gun around then bent in to Benny’s face.
“Which one am I?” he asked casually.
“Sorry?”
“Which of Friends I most remind you of?”
“Emmm .... Joey?” Benny plumped for hopefully.
“INDEED!” Che cried enthusiastically, “Many peoples say this. Eeese the way I act eh?” he sloped over to the middle of the room, turned round sharply and in a stilted, bad American accent rumbled “Howz you doin’?”
“Ahhhhh, yeh.... very good.” Benny agreed nodding uncomfortably. Pleased with himself Che turned back to the television. The show had apparently finished and had been replaced with a cheerful advert for Thrush cream. Che grunted, scratched himself subconsciously, and moved the TV up a channel. As the familiar LIVE CNN logo nestled in the corner, a pretty female reporter with solid looking hair talked rapidly into a candy-floss microphone;
“.... despite growing concerns over Benny’s safety and no clues as to his whereabouts, close on a million people have turned out worldwide for the Benny-vent .... this gathering at the foot of the Washington Monument together with the hastily arranged vigils in Hyde Park in London and on Paris’s Champs Elysee making this collectively the biggest event since the Seattle Peace Rally in 2012. You only have to look across the crowd to understand the depth of feeling people have for this young man...... “
Benny stopped breathing as the camera panned across an endless sea of concerned, sombre faces. Thousands and thousands and thousands of them. And as he did he felt a warmth spread inside him like he’d never experienced. The camera kept panning, picking out banners with messages such as ‘Benny Skittle – The Real Deal!’, ‘Free Benny!’ and a huge bed-sheet proclaiming ‘Forgive us, Happiness IS Benny Skittle!’ And the more Benny saw, the more the golden inner warmth kept building.
Che snapped the television off and turned to face Benny. A strange uncertainty hung in the air. Neither man moved or uttered a sound for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly in a croaky, unsteady voice Benny spoke.
“Think ...... about what .... you could be doing with your life........ Instead of being stuck in this room ....... full of hatred in your heart.” He focussed on the heat radiating inside him but held the guard's eye.
“I know....” replied Che meekly.
Benny’s face softened and for the first time in a while he smiled a genuine smile.
They talked quickly and quietly and both men felt more aware of their selves and their purpose than ever in their lives. Benny knew he had to escape. Che knew he had to let him.
“I’m going to get you out.” The guard whispered, already fumbling with the chord tying Benny’s hands together.
“How will you do that?"
“Those in this house have been drinking and are mostly asleep next door. The rest are not due to reach the compound until tomorrow. And you are not so far from humanity as you thinks.” He raised an encouraging eye-brow. “So .........."
Ivan ‘Che’ Guevara described in detail the best route of escape and seemed pleased to do so. He lead Benny stealthily past silent doors, helped him avoid the creaking boards as they crept down a dusty old staircase, and in one heart stopping moment answered a muffled query from behind a ground floor door with a muttered ‘Iss ok, iss Ivan going for peee.” At the end of a corridor, beside an ill-fitting, slightly ajar, metal-panelled door Ivan gripped Benny by the shoulder.
“Benny,” he whispered from the darkness.
“Yeh? “ Benny whispered back.
“I iss going to be an actor”.
Benny nodded, touched the guard briefly on the side of the arm and slipped into the moonlight.
***
He laid his pen down on the table beside the delicate, half-full flute of pale, gently fizzing beer and looked out to sea. From his comfortable wicker chair on the pink villa’s ornately tiled balcony, the view below was breathtaking. The hillside was awash with colour. Purples and yellows of lavender and jasmine jostled with the lush greens of olives, Cypress and eucalyptus. He held the single hand-written sheet in his hand and read it over to himself.
Dear Dr Bandwagger,
Thank you for your kind letter, I am indeed well settled into my Mediterranean haven. Words cannot begin to express how beautiful it is here and once again I have to voice my gratitude towards everyone who made this possible. I must admit I can’t quite get used to seeing myself with short blonde hair however the glasses do at least lend me a look of intelligence I never had before.
Unfortunately I feel I must decline your generous and admittedly interesting offer at this time. I appreciate that further research could open up so many other possibilities in terms of harnessing this sort of .... condition (i still don’t know how to describe it) however i’ve thought about it carefully and I think I’d rather succeed in helping the small number of people close to me than failing to help the whole world. Maybe that’s what this is all about – maybe you can’t influence the whole world. Maybe its about being nice to those around you and hoping that the goodwill spreads.
I hope you understand and respect my view and I wish you every success for the future,
Kind Regards,
Benny Skittle
Benny folded the single sheet of paper and carefully slid it into a waiting envelope. A noise from behind him caused him to turn around sharply. From the cool shadow of the room a cheerful accented voice rang out “It is ok Monsieur Poon, it's only me.”
He smiled and turned back to his view. “Okay Nina.” he replied. He looked at his tanned arms and felt the late afternoon sun gently stroke his skin. In an afterthought he stumbled “I’m ... ehhh sorry the place is a bit of a state Nina I ... ehhhhh.....”
A perfect olive-skinned face appeared from the darkness smiling, stopping Benny mid-sentence. The girl, possibly in her late twenties, ran one hand through short brown hair whilst letting a soft yellow duster hang from the other. “ No problem, this is ....” she paused slightly for thought, “... what I here for.” Her smile broadened farther as if fuelled by the sun she had just ventured into.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” he agreed warmly. They looked at each other and a gentle breeze blew in from the hillside below bringing with it a sweet smell of Spring. With a jaunty flick of the duster she grinned and disappeared back into the room. He angled his chair slightly and for a few moments watched her busy around inside.
Benny Skittle turned his head to face the sun and closed his eyes. The light appeared bright orange through his thin eyelids and as he sunk another few inches into his seat he let out a deep breath and felt the heat on his cheeks and forehead. He fingered the envelope still in his hand and opened his eyes again to look at it. Its clean whiteness shone in the sunlight. With a sense of contentment he laid it on the table tilted his head and followed the slow progress of a drifting cotton-wool cloud. His attention wandered to a large fluffy bee droning and hopping from flower to flower and slowly he reached for his beer.