Meanwhile…somewhere in Northern Holland

There is no higher form of love than that between a kitten and a

grown man

were the last words that ran through Major Tom’s mind as he regained consciousness.

He was standing up, apparently in the middle of a conversation with a receptionist.

His skull was throbbing, and his brain appeared to have turned itself into Swiss Cheese.

The clock on the wall read 4:16 AM.

The man was looking severely confused. Major Tom decided to attempt communication (again, it seemed).

“…What did I just say…?” said the Major.

“…Er…you asked wwwwhat…were you doing here, sir?”

A slight frown appeared on the man’s brow.

The words seemed to arive at his ears like vegetables floating in thick soup. A cotton wool-like substance had somehow developed around his field of vision.

“…Weeeeeell, wwwwwwwwhat am I doing here?”

The man’s eyes darted around for a split second, as if trying to find the exit.

“I don’t know…?”

So, the plot thickens… thought Tom.

“…Where are we?”

The man tilted his head and peered at the lost astronaut carefully.

“The hospital, sir.”

Brief panic.

“Am I…am I OK?”

The receptionist began to feel very uncomfortable. This was beyond the job description they had given in the interview. In his mind he had the distinct feeling that this was a set up. Actually he could not have been more wrong, because this was by sheer coincidence the exact same thought running through the Major’s mind at that precise moment also.

He looked at Tom from under his brows and lowered his voice.

“I don’t know sir…are you ok?”

A sudden rush of memories shunted into the astronaut’s brain like train carriages crashing into each other. Last night, they had drunk a considerable amount of Belgian beers with his old travelling companion and famous fashion pseudo-guru The World Travelling Artist, before smoking something potently exotic. Jaegermeister had been involved. A flurry of faces and events passed by his mind’s eye before leaving him with blackness after around 11:30 PM. How embarassing.

As if on cue the headache began.

He could be sure of a few things:

He was in Holland.

He was drunk.

He knew at least two people in the immediate area, possibly more, but more people would know about him.

It was time to cut his losses.

So this is what it feels like to go mad, he thought.

Deciding that the increasingly bizarre situation would not improve from here and that the worried little man behind the desk probably would not offer him any useful information, Major Tom moved outside.

It was a cold night, and he had lost his jacket. After a woman standing in the entrance talking on a mobile phone offered him a ride home in her taxi, Tom played Russian Roulette in his mind with the landmarks and the driver until he stumbled through the back door of the World Travelling Artist’s home, onto the couch and into oblivion again.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Voices in the darkness. A medieval war film playing on the television.

He opened his eyes.

“…”

It was coming from upstairs.

“(mumblemumblemumble)”

“(mumblemumblemumble) -if he is still alive.”

Wait! Thought Tom.

“BUT I AM ALIVE!” he shouted desperately.

Silence.

Sounds of battle came gently from the movie for a few moments, the flashes lighting the walls of the room in technicolour.

Then suddenly the door flung open in a burst of sparks and smoke.

A silhouette stood in the doorway, proud against the light. A lit cigarette burned somewhere in the region of its mouth, glowing in time to the sound of breathing.

The dust settled, and Major Tom lifted himself up tenderly on one elbow. He shielded his eyes agains the glaring light to get a better look.

As his eyes focused, he just noticed what appeared to be…a barbarian warlord…in a leather jacket standing in the doorway -

before it descended upon him, raven hair billowing out around his shoulders, his face a twisted snarl of rage in the dim light of the TV- rushing at Tom, eyes flashing anger and death in the half-light!

The Major jumped backwards, caught off guard, scrambling to get away from this new unexpected terror launched from his ancestral Celtic nightmares, and in his struggle leant his elbow on the television remote, turning the volume of the war film up to epic proportions -

‘BALBAM BA BAM BAM BAM BAM BALBAM BA BAM-’

The dark haired angel of death reared up over him arms outstretched, screaming to a deafening soundtrack of Wagner and baying horses:

“WAJIWFEEJ££%JIW PZOLA%$ FEEFEUTIJI*”$JSDZFJ!?!?!?!!” -

Tom shielded his face with his hands,

“Aaaaaargh!! Begone foul beast!!! I am not afraaaaid!” he shouted, crossing his fingers before his face in a somewhat overdramatic gesture of self preservation.

“WJHJUU&*^”$HJ KAAARII!!!” -

But claws scratched at his body and face as he heared the roar of steel swords and arrows and spears, and a red light brightened around the ceiling.

This was too much, soon the demon would surely take them both down to Hell and end the madne-

“STOOOOOOPP!!”

The light turned on suddenly and the television cut off.

There was an instant of pure stillness, like in comedy films when the villains get caught in the act of robbery.

Someone coughed.

The tableau of movement caught in freeze frame unfolded itself. Tom looked up from the couch where he had been shielding himself, a rictus of pain and terror on his face. His attacker, hands held up in a stance of aggression over the astronaut, turned towards the newcomer to the room.

“Oh hi Ben,” it said, in a cool, friendly voice.

Ben, the bearded newcomer, was standing by the door with one hand on the light switch, and the other holding the remote. Carefully he inspected the scene before him. He was wearing a baffled expression on his face, but when it passed over the Major he opened his eyes in mild shock and exclaimed in a thick Australian accent:

“Jeeeezuz Chroist mayte - whaaair dyou gaouw laaarst noight?”

Tom and cleared his throat, dusting down his clothes in an attempt to regain his composure.

“Well I was hoping you might tell me the same thing…?”

A grumble came from the chair opposite.

The figure had changed dramatically from what had only moments before been an ancient nightmare of pain to what seemed to be a majestic (if slightly gothic looking) fashion designer. His eyes were buried in folds of kingly responsibilty and glorious Slavic wisdom, and his long jet-black hair flowed over his temples in a way that could only be described as ‘Fabulously Tribal’.

He lit a cigarette in a smooth, relaxed fashion and tossed back his locks.

“We were minutesh away from calling the poleesh, you know. We were sho worried Major Tom.” The voice was deep and hypnotic, full of native Dutch passion yet filled with ancient buried eastern promises. Was this who I came to visit? thought Tom. Then a moment of realisation: He’s Alexander Vidakovic - the World Travelling Artist!

“And sorry about that slight misunderstanding a minute ago. It’s just how you say…we would show our affection over here.”

What, by disembowelling each other, though Tom.

“Er…that’s OK, my bad. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Well you’d better not. The truth ish many bad thingsh can happen to people outside in thish country. I wouldn’t want my friendsh to get the wrong impresshion. You were washted last night.”

“Yeah you were gone-drunk maayte!” agreed Ben, “You even troied to drink moi beeer!”

Yep, a true-blue Ozzy, thought Tom.

“You dishappeared about midnight shaying shomething about an old british rock shtar…and a misshion…? We honestly looked everywhere for you, but we failed. Thank god you made it home OK…” said the WTA slowly.

Tom’s head felt like a bucket filled with water. If these guys tip me over, he thought, last night is gonna come out my ears.

“I don’t remember anything,” he admitted, “I just woke up around 4 AM in the middle of a conversation with the receptionist at the hospital. He couldn’t tell me anything.”

His friends paused, then gasped in amused surprise. Ben smiled and looked at Alex, who was laughing haughtily.

“WAHAHAAA! That’s incredible, man. You really crack me up! Hee hee heeee! That makesh up for everything you put ush through! Let’sh make shome breakfasht. Prowst uh?!”

Tom relaxed and smiled back slightly. At least he was home. With any luck, the hangover would soften, his head would clear and the trip would be worth it later when they got into Amsterdam.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Back at the hospital, the receptionist looked around him and picked up the telephone. He was alone.

A few seconds later, a voice replied.

“Well?”

The receptionist’s eyes darted off to the entrance.

“Yes, he was here, but he left a few hours back.”

“A few hours. And where is he now?”

The cool voice spoke with a south London accent. The man leaned lower over his desk.

“He is somewhere in town. We can oversee the surveillance from this end.”

“Good. That was close. Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble in the city tonight, eh? We wouldn’t want the young man to…how do we say…lose his marbles again? Hmmhmmheheh…”

“No sir, of course not sir.”

“Carry on then Number 5.”

“Yes Mr Bowie, sir.”