Dr. Whishaw walked with a sense of horror, in the rust pervaded hallway of his asylum. A petrified difference in gait; tonight was going to be tough, and the old doctor knew that the storm was only minutes from taking centre stage.
‘Could I have stopped it?’
The doctor asked himself.
The situation at hand needed more character than courage, and Doctor Marion Whishaw was well versed with both.
‘I’ll have to find a way; circumvent this impending disaster. He was perilous when brought here, but now, this is past precarious. This is it!’
The old doctor thought to himself, still wobbling towards the end of that somewhere, where a monster was all set to walk down the aisle with the Grim Reaper by his side.
Seven Days Prior:
Sylvia lay in bed, moaning softly. The sex was never this good. And for him, maybe, for the first time in seven years, he had never referred to it as sex. Tonight was not about ‘sex’, tonight was about ‘love making’.
The crimson moon cast a ghastly shadow beneath the window, citrus tastes in her saliva, left Sylvia wanting all of him for all of her.
She was begging of him now.
He woke up from his rest chair, placed adjacent to the sliding door of the balcony. The silence of the room was indulging in some sort of love making escapade with the dark of the room. The door was shut like Jesus’ grave. So were the windows. Yet, some bellicose wind was willing to tear them down.
Getting out of his pants, he walked over to the bed; no vision, all instincts. He thought he knew the room; the walls; the window panes; the hinges on the door; the fragrance in the desks. He was about to find out— as the night was denuded of the dark — that he was all but delusional.
He walked over to the bed, Sylvia lay there, naked as humanity. The way he looked at her, with those azure eyes, gave her the orgasm of a lifetime. He ran his fingers through her hair, and settled on her breast; the tenderness of which, started sending all kinds of electric signals to his brain. She moaned without effort, like tea leaves been plucked from a tree.
As he lifted her to kiss her, she pulled him over. The organ between his legs made her smile.
‘Is this the place, I used to love? Is this what I’ve been dreaming of?’
She caressed his hair, as she whispered in his ear.
Somewhere in a neighbourhood window, a light came on. In a matter of twenty seconds, every window in the block was illuminated with fake, golden lights.
Out of the thousand phone calls that the London Emergency Services had received in the past half hour, one was the most strangest of all. Alicia Owen, the operator, had been told by a man that he had just murdered a women, and that he is now scared and that he thinks he’s sick.
Seven minutes later, the police arrived at 11-A, Floor -2, of the Lentil Branch building, to find Sylvia Bennett, with multiple stab wounds, and a hole where her right eye used to be.
The police found a man, seated in a chair, right in front of the bed; he was shivering, as he smoked his last cigarette.
‘She hit the wrong chords,’
He whispered, as the officers put a blanket around him, before cuffing him.
77 miles away from the crime scene, David Bennett’s phone rang.
Mr. Bennett was in the act of making luxurious love to his mistress, when the annoying noise of his own voice stopped him from entering her.
‘Who the fuck?’
He seemed to have not liked being disturbed.
‘Hello,’ said Bennett with lost authority, as he answered the call.
‘Sir Prime Minister, this is Lieutenant Grant Walsh of the London City Police…’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, just get the papers at my office, and I’ll sign them for you. Why do you wake up a man in the middle of a night to seek permission for something absolutely legal?’ Bennett barked, as he interjected the officer.
‘..uh, Sir, perhaps you haven’t been tuned in. This is not about the clearance for next week’s music festival; it is about your daughter. She has been found murdered at an apartment in China Town.’
David Bennett felt like he were falling off an airplane, 17 million miles above sea, and crashing into it; a sea of nothing-ness.
He felt a pang of anger run to his lips, and before he could say a word, his mind ended up making him say, ‘I am on my way.’
Marion Whishaw was a fellow of neural and psychotic science, at the Warwick Medical School, back in 2008. He was then moved to serve at the city’s central asylum as he had the penchant, and in Prime Minister David Bennett’s own words, ‘the balls‘ to speak the truth. It was clear as light to the old doctor that his ways of teachings had sparked furious reactions inside the Palace, and since the daughter of the Prime Minister of The Great Britain was in his class, even his fart would reach the Palace. But tonight, the doctor was trying to put behind everything, and make a valiant effort in preventing an impending disaster.
He was shown in to the chambers of one strongly built young men, whose coiffure resembled that of the Hindu God, Shiva.
‘How’s he?’ He asked an orderly.
‘Alive and ready to bite,’ the nurse spat.
‘Oh, dear oh, dear, Krista, show some humanity. It is the mind that is at fault, not the soul.’
The nurse tore the roof with her guilt laden eye.
‘How are you today, Wallace?’
The doctor asked.
‘Tonight, Doctor; I am good. I still cannot get the Sylvia murder out of my head, doctor,’ Gabriel Wallace said, as he tried to stand straight.
‘It is difficult, son; I understand, but there is something worse that is about to befall you; us,’ the doctor said with a tear of fear forming in his eyes.
‘What, exactly, doctor?’ Wallace asked, as he tried to free his hands from the chains of freedom.
‘As you must be well aware, the London Music Festival is supposed to be happening in the vicinity of Mansfield Park, at the newly built, open roof, concert auditorium, which also happens to be just two miles from here,’ the doctor started losing vision.
‘Yes, aware; Keane, One Direction, Coldplay, among others, are going to perform live!’ Wallace was smiling an unknown smile.
‘Yes, Son; and, given your medical condition, you must know, of all times, tonight, you are the most feared man in this asylum.’
‘But, doctor, bad music freaks me out; mellifluous music doesn’t.’
‘Among others, you had said, right, Son? Among others, there is Metallica and — a Black Sabbath reunion.’ The doctor cursed his stars as he said the words.
Wallace found himself losing control. The names of the bands had elicited a stimuli so strong, that even Gabriel Wallace on sedatives could not cage it.
The doctor was now seeing the signs. Bloodshot eyes, stiffening blood vessels, grass green nerves sticking out on top of the skin.
‘You have to move me, for your own safety,’ Wallace said, as the doctor administered him a high dose of an unknown sedative.
‘This is the strongest shot we’ve ever given anybody, this can keep an elephant down,’ the doctor half smiled.
‘When you subject a man to the abject misery of metal trash, not even the Gods themselves can cage him, Doctor, from breaking free.’
The doctor stood up at once, mortified beyond alarm. He collected his syringe, and stormed out of the room, and the orderly — equally scared, followed suite.
As it stuck 22:00 on the giant clock at the north east corner of the auditorium, fire crackers went up like the Indians’ common sense.
Through a rotating door, walked in the gentlemen who had made people pull out their wallets, and make a complete idiot out of themselves.
As the emcee barked in the mic about how they had become what they had become, the uproar reached President Trump, sleeping with a Muslim girl, in the Lincoln bedroom of his White House.
Harry Styles and others started singing about how some one did not know how beautiful she was, and something less vague.
Doctor Whishaw stood firm, as he heard the noise turn into music.
‘Doctor, the Prime Minister is here,’ the security agent called out.
The doctor ran like a cat escaping a mouse with seven heads.
‘Doctor,’ David Bennett said with a voice of authority.
‘Honour-able Prime Minister, my sincerest apologies, he is beyond repair.’
‘What do you mean beyond repair?’
‘Sir, Gabriel Wallace has been subjected to heavy, in-human metal music throughout the course of his childhood, and this has left a clear mark on his brain. Although his right and left brain are absolutely human, there are certain spots that are visible on the CNS controller area, when not indistinct, staccatos are played to him.’
‘Doctor, talk to me. Not gloat.’
‘Sir, Gabe has had a bad past. He has told us that his father was metal junkie — an unsuccessful guitarist, who would not quit playing and listening to heavy metal music, all day long.’
‘So what? I’ve seen a lot of those junkie arseholes turn out to be deaf and dead, why is he special?’
‘Sir, Wallace was four when all of this started — but he has flashes of those days. Days when his father would bring the roof down with his senseless heavy electric guitar chords. After being subjected — and forced to listen to heavy metal — Gabriel Wallace has turned up to hate every sound that is above 80 decibels. But, strangely, pleasant, melancholy music does nothing to him. If anything, sounds like those of Coldplay make him become his true real self. It is like they magically wipe out those childhood traumas, without ever gaining physical contact.’
‘Metal hurts his head. Music soothes his soul.’
‘What codswallop! How is metal not music?’ Bennett shrieked moments later saying so.
‘No, Sir. They are not.’ The doctor reached his coat to pull out a something, when one of the Prime Minister’s detail informed him of the time.
David Bennett adjusted his serviette, as he looked up to the doctor, and said,
‘You can take care of him. If things go haywire, plug in them — who?’ he was agape,
‘Coldplay,’ the doctor finished.
The Prime Minister turned around, and walked away like be had done after his daughter’s funeral.
At midnight, One Direction was forced to leave the stage, as Tom Chaplin and his cohorts had lost their temper, and had left.
The organiser was dressed for a massacre, and his vows were being added to, by the adamantly ugly crowd.
‘Chris, call Chris. They should go next; go;go.’ He was screaming his lungs out.
The AO ran as quickly as her heels could slow her down.
As the crowded chanted, ‘Zayn left in vain’; Metallica took stage. Somewhere in the middle of a crowd, a vagabond had taken his shirt off, and was ramping down towards the stage, screaming, ‘Enter Sandman’.
The place was a mess. Half of everyone in it were filth. The organiser knew it.
Prime Minister David Barrett was escorted to the VIP Lounge, and he ordered for girls and vodka.
The AO ran back to the organiser, and as she was about to say a word, the Metallica bomb exploded.
Doctor Whishaw could hear the noise in his intestines.
‘Sculley, lock them up. Lock up every exit; every entry,’ he screamed from inside his cabin.
‘But doctor, do you not think that we’ve mis-diagonsed him?’ The orderly from Wallace’s room asked.
‘Certainly not, dear,’ said the Doctor.
‘I don’t get it. Sylvia Bennett wasn’t even a metal fan, why did he kill her?’ She looked superciliously.
The doctor’s worst nightmare was coming to be. He knew he could never hide it.
‘Krista, my dear, she had read the lyrics of a Keane song into his ear, and because she wasn’t exactly, ahem ahem, mellifluous, he killed her.’
The doctor was astonished at his own audacity.
Krista dropper her syringe, as she froze.
‘I am sorry,’ the doctor said.
Krista nodded, and then, gestured towards the glass window.
As the doctor turned his head around in inchoate prayers, he saw Gabriel Wallace, disgorge the guts out of the asylum’s head of security, Dean Sculley.
‘The Virgin Queen!’ The doctor thought he saw Christ being exhumed.
‘Get 999,’ he shrieked, as he ran for the door. By the time Kristen could blink, Gabe was gone.
As the Metal Junks spun guitars and spanked Tarzan, the crowd burst into remedial joy.
Gabriel Wallace walked up to the auditorium entrance. Sight set on the stage.
His bloodshot eyes had a sense of lust around them. Covering his ears with both hands, he tore through the crowd.
It had started snowing, everybody was now starting to feel the chill.
As Wallace towered through the crowd, an elderly man with lot of metallic waste inside him, and no real life, spun his wooden guitar just enough to meet Wallace’s skull.
The blow stopped him in his tracks. He was forced to turn around. His eyes were losing him; his minds was running semi circles. The symmetry of the auditorium was starting to test his knees. When all gave in, Wallace fumbled, and landed face first.
As the crowd exploded into the night sky, Wallace woke up to find himself bleeding from his nose, still nauseated.
The stage seemed quite, but the music in the speakers was about to go off.
As Wallace collected himself, and took to his toes, he could see the Metal Junk walking off the stage. He pushed the old piece of non-metallic life and his guitar into oblivion, and militated through to the front. As Wallace geared up to set his spot on the Metal Junk, he heard something that he had missed.
Jonathan Mark Buckland and Guy Rupert Berryman were on stage, and there was Christopher Anthony John Martin’s magic.
As the soul sweeping music of Coldplay froze the snow, Wallace found himself swooned off his feet; beguiled to the place where Christ had sojourned the three days he’d pretended to be dead.
With a new found purpose, Wallace started walking towards the stage, singing, ‘Para… Para….’
From the north east corner of the auditorium, some drunk cosmetic skin and bones heard a shot; smelled smoke.
Twenty feet far, Gabriel Wallace lay dead, blood oozing from his head, as Chris sang,
‘This could be Para…..Paradise.”
To Chris Martin, Jonny Buckland, Will Champion and Guy Berryman — the best thing that’s happened to planet Earth, after life.