Head at the Little Big Farm. 3.

1984. Trueman Prepares his Escape.

Five ways to exhibit paranoid patterning.

1. Consider yourself to be a genius, completely alone in understanding the truth.

2. Regard any colleagues as totally ignorant, thus creating opponents from them. Insult these opponents, accusing them of stupidity, dishonesty, blinkered vision and narrow-mindedness.

3. Believe yourself to be unjustly persecuted, plotted against by your many opponents, subject to vicious slander and unprovoked attack. Consider criticism to be blind prejudice on the part of established hierarchies.

4. Focus your attacks on only the best-established theories and accepted beliefs; assert the diametrical opposite of them.

5. Write and otherwise communicate in complex jargon using self-generated terms and phrases.

Konsk. Inappropriate Patterns. PseudoScience 3.6.12

Trueman drew back from the window hurriedly in case the motor-biker saw him watching. He had observed dispassionately the damage to the bonnet of his vehicle as the thug leapt across it and his treatment of the mentally challenged male from the ground floor flat. Trueman had no intention of reprimanding the vandal who seized every opportunity to vent his barely controlled rage upon anyone and anything; however, though thinking of himself as a stalwart upholder of order, Trueman was averse to the idea of receiving a beating.

Probably the product of a broken home, Trueman mused, tapping a pencil against his lower lip, his forehead lined with creases. The random and wanton violence suggested severe trauma, obviously suffered when young, probably before the age of reason, hence the futility of any rational dialogue. The need to cling to toys such as the motorised bicycle reinforced this hypothesis. Trueman nodded, unconsciously fondling the marvellous tiny computer in the admittedly rather large pocket of his cardigan trousers.

Still, when considering the actions of the biker individual towards the occupant of the ground floor flat, Trueman had to admit that there had been times when the latter’s howls and shrieks emanating from below had grated on even his nerves; probably not taking his medication; the failure to do so would inevitably lead to an upsurge in schizophrenic tendencies and behaviour.

Take that dog, for instance, the stray that had been hanging around the area; showing some affection to the creature was understandable, given the obvious isolation, but the babbling, meaningless chatter that the paranoiac directed at it was straight out of the case book. His release into the community was a gross mistake driven by financial priorities; a course of containment in a socially approved institution combined with medication and therapy would be much more appropriate in this case. Restraints would be required initially.

Trueman shrugged his shoulders and sniffed, momentarily widening his eyes. The world was full of socially inept individuals and he had more important work to attend to.

Turning away from the window he struggled for a moment extracting the tiny computer from his pocket then connected it by a coaxial cable to a spare television screen perched somewhat precariously amongst other hardware. The screen came to life, eventually, and displayed a long list of text ordered into columns, sub-columns and sub-sub columns under various headings such as semi-permanent storage, non-essentials and immediate requirements.

Under the latter were entries such as fax machine, codebooks, tea and sugar. He studied this category then with his pencil, dabbed at the handheld computer's diminutive keyboard and after several initial failures to hit the correct keys which resulted in first florhung and then dlithing, he successfully adding clothing .

He looked down at what he was wearing. Something was missing.

A brief observation of the room followed. In amongst the beige monitors and keyboards that had not been packed yet, there were a large number of packing cases, cardboard boxes and substantial, aluminium edged flight cases. Each container was neatly labelled according to the categories on the To Do list, sub-column packing and included a description of the items within.

Something was still missing.

“Let's be rational about this,” he intoned, cradling his right elbow in his left palm and laying his right forefinger along the side of his nose. A moment of silent consideration was enough to track down in his memory both the type and location of the offending item.

"I am going to retrieve my greatcoat," he announced.

A diminutive figure appeared from behind a crate. She looked up at him quizzically, fluttering extremely long lashes.

"I lent it to the young lady downstairs," Trueman explained carefully, "Some months ago. When the weather was inclimate. She had inadvertently misplaced her own."

The sentences were separated by pauses that increased in length as he continued, as though each additional remark was considered with greater thought and assessed as to whether it was really required.

"It was not a good fit," he concluded after some moments.

"So?" chirped Catrin Trueman, "What's the big deal?" and rolled her eyes.

Trueman repressed the desire to reprimand her. It was unwise to instil ones own prejudices in the young; a four year old should have some freedom, or was she now five?

“As always,” he ordered, “Do not touch Optimus!”.

With that he pocketed his micro-computer and left the room. Catrin immediately sidled over to the sacrosanct Optimus, her father's new workstation computer, the one that was entirely prohibited to her and apparently had a “hard dick”.

The green monitor displayed an empty box, awaiting entry of a password. She perched herself awkwardly on the padded office chair and with tongue peeping between her lips, carefully typed in her father's password, which was PI to 8 decimal places, though she did not yet know that.

Meanwhile, Trueman descended the stairs. Although the imitation regency wallpaper was peeling and the thickly painted banister chipped and flaking, he considered this to be of secondary importance to the buildings functional elegance and symbolic significance.

He, of course, occupied the top flat and attic space, which clearly denoted his own higher mental faculties. Descending the staircase was akin to a journey back in time or a descent into the primitive and madness, the lower reaches marked in particular by the paranoiac on the ground floor.

In some ways he felt that the clarity of the symbolism had been marred by the motor-bicyclist’s occupation of the cellar. This had not been Trueman's intention but he had acceded to the persuasions of the young lady who resided on the floor directly below his own. The mentally challenged individual should really have had the dark cellar. Though perhaps the relative locations were after all correct, in a strictly symbolic sense, in that the leather clad barbarian was in fact betraying more primitive, aggressive origins and anyway, Social Services had paid the Care In The Community character's rent unfailingly

And outside, beyond the sheltering door? The analogy extended even here, for beyond the confines of the building he entered a world that was even more unstructured and damaged, whose every aspect brought a judgement to his lips.

“They have simply no idea where they are heading,” Trueman voiced aloud, “And the successive disasters awaiting.”

Still, Trueman consoled himself, again, despite the world being full of socially inept individuals, he had more important work to attend to, much more important work. He shrugged his shoulders and sniffed, momentarily widening his eyes, reminded himself of his immediate purpose and continued his descent to arrive at the door to the flat below his own.

There was no response to his first knock. Perhaps she was out, he speculated. Her presence here in the flat directly below his own seemed particularly relevant and suitable, he considered as he knocked again. After all, he continued, vaguely aware of stirring sounds from within, it was clear that the greater development of reasoning functions within male human beings together with the, on average, larger brain capacity elevated them to certain more important tasks within society, in particular decision making and organisational procedures. Obviously, Trueman ignored his daughter in all this, after all she was only a child and a girl at that.

His own position in the house and especially of his study in the top-most reaches of the attic clearly demonstrated his superiority. His command of language when compared to the guttural expletives of the motor-bicyclist and the babble of the paranoiac only served to further emphasise this. At least the young woman was capable of reasonably coherent speech, even if the content was often trivial.

The door opened abruptly, startling him from his inner habit. Framed within the opening stood a darkly mantled figure, almost silhouetted by the growing light from the window beyond.

"Um..." he managed.

"Hi Troom," the figure remarked and yawned, running a hand through tousled, thin blonde hair. Behind her, a small forest of flourishing plants filled the window ledge, most surfaces and containers hanging from the ceiling.

"Um..." he repeated, deciding not to remark on the inelegant abbreviation of his surname, “Yes," he remembered, "My greatcoat. Which I lent to you in your need. Perhaps I may have it back? As I am leaving shortly. And will not be returning."

Dawn, for so she was named, laughed.

"Sure, Troom. You want it right now?"

As she spoke she opened the heavy mantle and began to slip it from about her shoulders. Even partially silhouetted as she was, Trueman became aware that she wore nothing beneath.

His incessant inner monologue momentarily quelled, he was filled with both a great sense of loss and one of longing which resulted in an involuntary intake of breath. A sudden and also involuntary clenching action at the base of his neck suppressed the feeling before it was fully conscious. He shook himself.

"No, no!" he said hurriedly, "It is not necessary! Not at this precise moment."

Dawn laughed softly and drew the greatcoat once more about herself.

"You off, then?” She asked.

He nodded.

“This very morning. I would like to get an early start. To allow more of the day for unpacking. When we arrive. At our destination."

"Nice one," she said, "Let me know the address and I'll bring your coat for you sometime. How's little Catti? She looking forward to the move?"

Trueman decided not to remark on the crude concatenation of his daughter’s name.

Later, as he once more ascended the physical and intellectual heights of the building, he worried about having informed the young woman of his new address. It had been his determined intention to conceal his future location as far as possible from all and sundry in order to assure utter privacy and seclusion for the Great Work, not all of which was entirely legal, something that did not concern Trueman in the slightest, being as his intellectual capacity and scientific knowledge placed him above such trivialities.

Yet now he had freely revealed it to this Dawn woman and he was not even sure why. Perhaps it was something to do with the way clothes seemed to slip of her shoulder, revealing variously coloured brassiere straps, he mused, then rapidly dismissed the thoughts. He had much more pressing matters to deal with.

Once more within his rooms he found his daughter drawing a picture of the big, black dog, the stray that the “care in the community” character had been interacting with. In Catrin's picture a speech bubble arose from its slavering jaws containing the crudely formed and poorly spelt words “Wot's up lad? Lost tha bluddy gob?”

He refrained from criticising the language and instead once more plugged the cable into his mini computer, waited, then made the necessary alterations to his To Do list, providing a new sub-sub column for items to be returned subsequently. It was a shame he had not been able to obtain a precise date and time to insert here.

Then he sat in silence before his machine, face illuminated by the green glare and became lost in his own thoughts, tormented by the idea that despite his copious notes, journals, lists and other recordings, he had forgotten something essential. He had and it would be a long, long time before he would discover what it was.

Later, as he fed single sheets into his new, beige, dot matrix printer, watching his updated to-do list appear slowly, line by line, accompanied by the machines incessant chatter, he heard the distant howl of a motorcycle grow nearer. This was followed, after a short interval, by booted thuds on the stairs, gloved knock on a door below and, within only moments, the regular and sustained creaking of furniture. All three, thud, knock and creaking, having precise rhythms and inspiring their own meanings; the latter one of which, he immediately repressed.

Thanks for reading. Suggestions always welcome. Several more episodes to follow fairly rapidly to keep keen readers busy. Then back to forests and how some folk insist on cutting them down for money.