The Eleventh Dimension or, a Series of Events that were NOT MY FAULT

1

Well, I've got nothing else to do. I may as well tell you the whole story.

Are you sitting comfortably, boys and girls?

I first met Malecho on a cruise ship, of all places. The missus of the time had decided that she wanted to go on one; I dunno, I think she thought it would be like some murder mystery or something. Whatever, it was dull as shite, most of the passengers were coffin dodgers, and we got talking to Mal and his missus simply because they were the only other paying customers this side of senility. It was at one of the stupid dinners with the captain, and they plonked us all on a table together, mostly I think because Mal's table manners made everyone's eyes water, and I tended to get a bit cheerful after a drink or two. I guess they thought we deserved each other. So there we are, my other half in a grand stinking sulk because she wasn't sat with any of the officers, Mal doing his mad yellow grin, and that weird wife of his sat down, her eyes mostly closed, eating whatever mess she had made for herself to eat that day. Charcoal, lettuce and soy sauce it was, I shit you not.

The ladies not being in the mood for polite banter, I reach over, shake his hand and ask him who he is and what he does. Name, rank and number. He looks at me with his wild red eyes, and pushes back his long greasy hair, and says that he is Malecho Smith, and he is a scientist. He certainly looks the type, so I nod like I care, and I says 'very nice, and what kind of science is that?'; and, being in a good mood as I can see a night of drinking in peace and quiet thanks to her maj being not amused, I pour us both a glass of vino and settle back to listen to whatever he has to say. Never judge a man: that's my motto. Or at least, take your time delivering the jury's verdict.

Well, he gives me this look, like 'wow, do you really care?', flashes a glance to his other half who is humming whale music or something and doesn't give a toss what hubby is up to, and says to me, 'I am a bio-physicist. I study the occupants of higher dimensions.'

At this point there is some hoo-haa because we've dropped out of light speed and have arrived at the next hick planet on this crappy tour, and the captain is pointing out bits of the world that we are supposed to be interested in, and I lean over and I say, 'Is that so? What dimension is he from then?'

And we both have a chuckle, drink a toast, and we're mates.

Rest of the meal is spent drinking, telling stories and taking the piss out of everyone in range. He can put it away, can that man. Even the glorious leader comes out of her exile and has a laugh, and I think Mrs Mal – you know, I never found out her name – joins in at one stage, although no one has the foggiest what she's on about. I think we may have been a little noisy for some of our neighbours – well, all of them, actually, judging by the wrinkly looks – but we had a great time, best night of the cruise.

At the end, we are having that kind of very serious discussion that only seems to happen after brandies have been drunk. As the stuff was flowing like angel's piss, this is perhaps not a surprise.

'Your higher dimensional whatsits? They don't really exist, do they? I mean, there's no eight dimensional zebras galloping away from a twelve dee lion on the hyper cubes of the Serengeti, right? Otherwise I'd've seen them on the Discovery channel.'

He leans over looking startled, really scared, eyes even wilder than usual, his stinky yellow teeth hidden away in a big stubbly mouth going oooh-oooh-oooh.

'Who told you about the lions?', he says, looking around, like he's worried we might be heard. By, I dunno, the chinless gap-year fuckwits on table waiting duty, who are doing their best to pretend we're not there.

I lean towards him, equally serious, till we're almost snogging.

'I heard they have great bloody claws. That they are quiet as anything, they sneak up and grab your leg. The one...' pause for effect, '...with the bells on. You transcen-fuckin-dental nut case.'

I mean, it's not that funny, but we're both pretty rinsed, and he's got a weird sense of humour anyway. So he does his weird snorting whinnying laugh, like you're throttling a randy horse. Must be why I thought of zebras. It's not very nice being close to him while he's doing that, so I lean back smartish, avoiding most of the slobber.

'Oh Tristy, my friend. Let me have your mail, and I will send you some bedtime viewing that will make you believe in demons and the Devil himself.'

And he has another little chuckle, so I write my bits down on a napkin, and he shoves it in his vile trousers – actually in 'em, you understand, he doesn't seem to have any pockets. I shudder slightly for the napkin. Nothing deserves that.

And that's pretty much it for the night. We couple up and go our separate ways, to our cozy and bijou metal-themed compartments – or cells, as they would be called anywhere else – and we all sleep off our colossal hang-overs. Some of us snoring.

I don't see much of him then. I think his missus gets ill or something, and I have enough trouble with my good lady to keep me busy (ending up with her jumping in to bed with a particularly gormless barman, and a nasty little rumble in the cinema, but that's a whole other story); so for the rest of the trip, three days or so I think, we are ships passing in the night. Last day, we meet up in the aft bar, pretty much by accident. I'm playing poker with some geezers I've met in the engine crew: he's sitting there on his own, drinking some ridiculous cocktail, all plastic flowers and multi-layered multi-coloured gluck. We shout him over, but he's in no mood to dick about. He kind of looks more determined, like someone's stuck a dirty great big key in his back and wound it up but not let go yet, and he's all kind of steely mad stares and sudden thrusting movements which he must have thought made him look dashing, but, frankly, made him look even more mental than normal.

I get up to go the bar, and he follows me.

'You can look after yourself, can't you, Tris?'

I look at him.

'If you mean that whole business with the piss-weasel who Jocasta shacked up with, in the cinema? He started it, and the captain says that I was provoked, and they're not pressing charges, so shut it.'

'Easy, easy, big guy. Just an observation. You interested in some work? All above board.'

I look at him.

'Really? Kosher?'

'Yes.'

'Totally?'

I say this unable to believe that anything Mal could be involved in would be something decent humans would embrace.

'Look, I don't know what units they measure kosherness in, but I can tell you the whole of the London Beth Din will be tap dancing outside your house singing "We're so glad that Tristram has got this job" if you work for me, all right?'

I kind of half smile, still not sure.

'I'll be in contact', says he, like it's done, and walks off.

So. I get home, back to my life. After slinging my lady friend out of the flat it's back to normality.