Mould

Mould

Rasiak jumped at the sound of someone hammering on his front door, knocking his half eaten pizza onto the floor.

He hated to be disturbed when watching TV, especially when he was looking forward to a particular broadcast. This evening it was a quiz programme where the contestant spent forty-five minutes guessing random numbers until, with only thirty seconds before the programme ended, the quiz-person would, with the aid of atmospheric music and dimmed lighting, tell the contestant just how much money they would have won if it wasn’t for their innumeracy.

Rasiak adored this climactic moment. He supposed it to be the highlight of his week. He didn’t want to be disturbed, especially prior to the apocalyptic beginning. He considered ignoring whoever was at the door and hoping they would go away, but the bobbing head, wide smile and enthusiastic waving of the handsome stranger at his window rather nullified this option.

Rasiak pushed himself into an awkward stance and stepped gingerly over the scattered pizza, several beer cans and a pair of soiled underpants to his front door. He wondered briefly why he hadn’t taken the third floor flat a couple of months previously.

Oh yes, he thought, opening the front door. The stairs.

“Can I help you?” Asked Rasiak.

Stood on the doorstep was the man who had been looking and waving through the window. He had long, wavy hair and wore a purple shirt speckled with small flowers and a pair of fashionably ripped jeans.

“Possibly, possibly,” said the man. “I believe you can. Yes.”

The man grinned. Rasiak sniffed and pulled at his stained t-shirt so it covered the cleft of his sacrum exposed by his ill-fitting jogging bottoms.

“And you are?” Rasiak asked, finally.

“Coming in, thank you.” The man glided through the doorway and stood in the middle of the small, dark room. “I love your Laissez-faire approach to cleanliness. Bold and refreshing. I applaud you.”

“What can I do for you Mr?”

“My name is Mould,” said the man.

“Just Mould? Like Madonna? Or the Pope?”

“Mr Mould if you’d prefer,” said Mould. “But I know who I am. Which is kind of why I’m here. Can I sit down?”

“No,” said Rasiak, returning to his seat and facing the TV.

“Splendid,” said Mould. “You see, I have an offer for you. A financial offer, pure and honest. I wish to offer you cold, hard cash – a lump sum of staggering proportions – for something of yours which you may find … uncomfortable. If parted with it.”

“What do you mean?” said Rasiak, leaning his head towards Mould.

“Well,” said Mould, kicking aside an empty take-away box and leaning on the yellow wall next to the TV. “I represent a certain group of clientele who are desperate to obtain an item in your possession.”

Rasiak laughed, spitting out a fleck of cheese which landed on the TV screen. “Look around, Mr Mould. The TV belonged to my Mum. It hasn’t even got teletext. The satellite receiver and hard-drive recorder are rented. The chair I found in a skip. Other than a few books, DVDs and a telescope – which is yours for a tenner – I have nothing.”

Mould flashed a charming grin and turned to face away from Rasiak.

“You’re thinking along the wrong lines, Mr Rasiak,” said Mould, picking up a DVD cover for ‘Scarface’ and eyeing it suspiciously. “I’m not in the business of buying goods and sundries…”

“How did you know my name?” Asked Rasiak, knocking the remote control off the arm of the chair on onto the floor.

“I’m at liberty to purchase the spiritual embodiment of your very being,” said Mould, throwing the DVD cover to the floor and turning with a flourish, “and pass it on to one of the quintillions of floating entities who, sadly, missed out on what it is you have in spades, Mr Rasiak.”

“What?” said Rasiak, standing up.

“You,” shouted Mould, marching across the room, “have soul. And I am willing to give you any amount of money in order to secure it. Otherwise I’ll take the remote control.”

“Get out,” said Rasiak, pointing to the front door.

Mould stood in front Rasiak and grinned. He didn’t move. Rasiak looked deep into Mould’s eyes and, for an infintesible fraction of a moment, thought he saw a tiny dark, swirling cloud around Mould’s pupils. Rasiak rather fancied that the cloud was comprised of billions of even tinier shapes.

He shook his head and pulled himself together.

“Out,” he said. “You’re a mental. I don’t want you in my flat. Now go.”

Mould smiled and took one step towards the door.

“I get you,” he said. “But one final thing.”

“What?” said Rasiak.

“The remote control.”

With cat-like speed Mould swooped onto the floor and plucked the remote control from beside Rasiak’s foot like a Kingfisher taking a baby trout. Before Rasiak could blink Mould crossed the floor and slipped out of the front door.

Rasiak made a frustrated yelling sound from the back of his throat and lumbered out of the front door. He turned left and saw Mould about a hundred yards away standing still with his hands on his hips. Rasiak plodded up the road and reached Mould.

“Mr Mould,” he said, panting. “Give me back my remote or…”

“I’ll give you one hundred thousand pounds for it,” said Mould.

“What?”

The sky appeared to darken. The sound of traffic and passers by dimmed and was replaced by, as Rasiak would describe later, a drum roll followed by dramatic, incidental music.

“You Rasiak have a choice. Either return to you home and your present life with a mere remote control or…”

Mould paused. He looked around the street, and in perfect time with the climaxing music said, “I’ll give you this cheque for one hundred thousand pounds.”

Mould reached into his back pocket and produced a cheque. Written on it was Rasiak’s name and, to his astonishment, the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.

“What was all that you saying earlier about souls and floating entities?” Said Rasiak, finally.

“I’ve told you once..”

Rasiak scratched his unshaven chin.

“Go on then,” he said, snatching the cheque from Mould’s grasp. The music and darkened atmosphere immediately dispelled.

“Grand. Enjoy you winnings. I’m sure you’re life will take some rather unexpected twists from now on.”

Mould turned gracefully on the spot and wandered briskly into the distance.

Rasiak stared at the cheque as he walked back down the hill to his front door. He felt extraordinary, like a massive weight had been lifted from him. He felt his belly just to make sure it’s bulk and girth remained. He was as rotund as he had ever been.

The money makes me feel this good, he thought, as he wondered back into his flat.

His flat. His clean, well decorated flat. His immaculate, well furnished flat. Complete with wall-mounted plasma HD television, Bose hi-fi system, shelves packed with hardback books, a dog basket, some children’s toys and the smell of home cooking wafting from the kitchen.

Rasiak backed slowly out through the doorway and checked the front door. There was no doubt – this was his flat. He edged back inside. Sat in the chair that used to his was a man, sipping from a mug, watching a programme fronted by a wildlife expert.

“Ahem,” said Rasiak. The man turned to face Rasiak. He smiled and slowly stood from the chair.

“Hello,” he said. Rasiak gaped.

“I’d like to thank you,” said the man. “I’ve been … lost, for a while now. But now I have a chance. Thanks to you.”

The man stepped forward and embraced Rasiak in a tight hug. They remained entwined whilst the closing credits of the nature programme played out. Finally, they fell apart.

Rasiak stared at the man.

“You’re…” he said.

“I’m a doctor. A surgeon, in fact. I have a child. He’s out with his Mum at the moment.”

The two men stood opposite one another, each looking the other up and down.

“I had to work hard,” said the man, walking around the back of Rasiak. “I wasn’t very good at school, but I tried and I tried. I knew what I wanted to be. And it would’ve been alright if I hadn’t been able to pursue the doctor thing. I was happy to do something else if need be. Luckily I had people around me who were happy to help. I couldn’t have done it without them.”

The man appeared back in front of Rasiak and fixed him with a friendly smile.

“You’re Mould,” said Rasiak.

The man shrugged. “Kind of. I share an image with him.”

Rasiak stared down at the cheque. His gaze dropped to his stained t-shirt, his faded jogging bottoms and threadbare slippers. He touched his overweight face and rubbed the three-day stubble.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now,” said the man.

Rasiak nodded. He walked out of his flat and onto the street. He glanced up and down the road, back down at the cheque, and lifted himself across the road. He walked, and carried on walking.

He cashed the cheque the following day.