The Astral Projection Conspiracy - Second Edition

Chapter One

It’s 1998. We’re a small transported Canadian family living in the London borough of Harrow in the dullish neighbourhood of Stanmore – the end of the grey Jubilee Line. Mother Maria’s on the phone with Gill, another student living near the city centre. She’s started hanging out with the tall wiry, wealthy student from Bristol so much, dad’s started calling them Gilbert and George in reference to a famous artistic duo – not necessarily Martin’s favourite artists, although he appreciates their ‘garish’ sense of ha ha. Maria’s physical appearance has changed since the move to England. She stopped wearing make-up months ago, her long brown Gulf Island hippie hair is cropped in a short mannish style. Her chewed fingernails are unpainted. She’s on the way to becoming George Brown.

Martin stands at the end of the couch – watches Maria blabbing on the phone. My old dad seems confused, jittery, a bit drunk. His sour breath, tainted with ale and warm milky tea – wicked overwhelming bitters. After returning to his homeland, Martin’s gained a lot of weight; his face has lost the normal, friendly reddish hue. He’s started losing bits of hair on the top and sides of his head. Moreover, he dislikes Gill. Martin hates her very much, but I don’t mind her, I really don’t, although perhaps I should. Maria, who’ll soon legally take on the name George Brow in reference to Martin’s lame joke, puts the phone down. Maria turns to Martin. She has something important to tell her much younger husband. I stop playing with the toy plastic pistol dad bought for me a week ago. I listen to mum’s unusual confession.

Shock of our lives – Martin’s and mine.

After a two-year exile in Fort St. John, Clive Brown flew back to Vancouver on a chartered plane on May 14 2008. He awoke as the small plane landed at its destination, removed the airline seatbelt and listened to the seagulls shrieking around and over the grounded plane. Clive sniffed the warm damp air circulating throughout – the outer atmosphere changed from the cold, arid ambience representing northern British Columbia into a familiar soggy cedar perfume paired with hints of toasty automobile exhaust. British Columbia’s West Coast. The scent of home. Clive entered through the airport’s glass lobby doors, pulled his flabby stomach inwards, placed his heavy duffle bags on an airport cart. He hoped to see Martin and George in the arrivals area, but refused to expect miracles. Anyways, Clive as an agnostic-sceptic never believed in sensational happenings, except for the UFO he’d seen in Wiltshire once as a child, a mystical Wiltshire experience, perhaps stereotypical. His LSD experience with Bradley Ng also had a stereotypical element of mysticism, when the skater as a teenager first discovered the unknown, invisible God in 2005. God damn it, George, where the frigging hell are you? At the very least, Clive expected to see George at the airport, somewhere amongst the bustling passengers jumping on and off the planes, but the professor was nowhere to be seen as Clive strolled through the terminal. Piles of luggage, crumpled tickets, belching cell phones, bored passengers eating doughnuts, drinking coffee, some waited for the next flight out of Vancouver, others lingered inside the terminal for arriving passengers from places like Terrace, Prince George, Victoria and Fort St. John. The professor couldn’t be found anywhere, although they’d agreed to meet in the local flights terminal when Clive phoned George two weeks ago on May 01 – George’s favourite day. Maybe he’s counting cards at a blackjack table in CanadaWest. Clive pushed the cart over to a bulletin board, searched through the pinned notices attached to the corkboard near the men’s room for cheap hotels and rooms to rent. He thumped into a small dark haired man wearing a red leather vest matched with an aggressive red leather trilby hat.

“Hey dude, need a place to stay? Try this hotel on Dunlevy.” Anthony Barbara tapped the leaflet with his thumb. The smaller man gave the glossy brochure to Clive. “Give this little paper to the front desk girl. One complementary day, the next two will set you back for $29.” The man’s tiny brown eyes were hypnotic, mean, capable of betrayal, but oddly reassuring – a true salesman.

“Three free days?” Clive twirled a finger in his ear. “Is this place a dump – must be if it’s on Dunlevy.” He thought the smaller man’s red leather trilby hat seemed rather cheesy – a bit too Commercial Drive.

“One free day.” Barbara squeezed the top of his leather hat. He patted Clive’s arm. “One of the best hotels in East Vancouver – you’ll get free coffee everyday – all you can drink.”

“Free coffee? Do the rooms have televisions?” Clive grabbed the pamphlet from Barbara. He re-examined the leaflet. “Isn’t Dunlevy Avenue in a dangerous part of town?”

“Can’t go wrong with the Britannica – big flat screen T.Vs in every room, sexy Asian chicks hanging around. These language students are hot for Canadian men.”

Clive frowned. He flipped the brochure over.

“A crew filmed an episode of CSI Miami in the hotel once.” Barbara counted bus change – a toonie and two quarters. He examined a text message on his phone from Cynthia, an Evangelist jobbing the Britannica’s desk.

“CSI filmed in Vancouver?” Clive looked into the small man’s brown flickering raison eyes. Clive knew the small bastard was lying. “Horseshit – what episode did they shoot? I know them all.”

“I don’t know the specific episode, but I’m talking about the top cop red haired dude – he fell in love with the Britannica’s rough mystique.” The small man tilted his hat to one side. “Yeah, a rough mystique’s a good description.”

“Rough mystique – isn’t this a bad 80’s pop four-piece with crazy blow-dried hair?” Clive laughed at his joke. “Where’d you say this hotel was?”

“You’re a funny man. The hotel’s on Dunlevy. The Britannica’s got free coffee and you’ll get one free day and pay only $29 for the next two nights.” Over Clive’s shoulder, the salesman noticed a tall skinhead bumping through the restless airport crowd. LeBlanc, a double-dealing Astral. Barbara knew he had to make tracks, this double-dealing Evangelist. “Later dude, choose the Britannica.” Barbara ran outside the terminal to catch the next bus going into Vancouver’s city centre.

Clive needed to live a cheap place for a few days before moving back into the house in Point Grey. The hotel seemed ideal because of its proximity to the downtown core where skate-wear stores, bars, coffee shops and other essentials waited including Asian girls and the promise of free coffee. Clive knew the Caruso story was rubbish. He restudied the cover of the Britannica leaflet featuring a glamorous model in a blue Gilligan-styled floppy hat on the cover. She reminded Clive of an old neighbour – Carolyn Ng. The woman held a green ESL textbook in both hands. Underneath the heading: How to live on the cheap in beautiful semi-tropical Vancouver. During their last phone conversation two weeks ago, George wanted Clive to stay at a hotel for at least a week before coming home – the professor never specified why. Maybe it would be better to keep away from Point Grey for a while anyways. Clive restudied the pamphlet. Clive doubted he’d see nice Japanese, Korean or Chinese or Burmese or any other ‘ese’ women at this hotel on Dunlevy. The area seemed too low-market. Semi-tropical? Bullshit. He memorized the Britannica’s address anyways – the promise of a private room for two days, plus one free day for $29 would save the skater lots of coin. Clive’s last cheque from the plant amounted to a grungy $1883. You could do fuck all with this – maybe buy a few sweatshirts, some runners, a new board, but not much else. Clive threw the advert into a green plastic bin. He hunted the small local flight terminal for a good coffee, bought a large medium-roasted Ethiopian Grande at the Unibran Coffee Counter next to the Hawk Air desk, paused for a few sips of the dark-roasted brew with hints of toast and blackberries and wanted to thank the man for the brochure, but the small trilby-topped figure vanished into the airport gaggle. The skater jammed through the busy terminal and wondered why Vancouverites were ashamed to celebrate the city’s year-around rainstorms. For Clive, the rains of Vancouver were poetic, even mystical. He made various speculations on George’s whereabouts. Is he at home or on Departure Island? Gambling somewhere? Hiding from debtors at the UBC campus? Clive knew Rebecca might be coming home from Europe very soon. Should I say something about Janice?

A few paces behind Clive, the tall skinhead in a green flight coat pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. The thug dug the pamphlet out of the rubbish bin and followed the skater through the crowd as Clive hiked around the terminal in loops. Cannibal LeBlanc called a clandestine Evangelist associate on his mobile. “He might be going to the Britannica on Dunlevy – Gravely’s going to be there too.” Cannibal watched for more Astral...