Foston Slacks - Good's Intentions

15

As soon as she set foot in the room, a warning klaxon began to sound. All the lights in the office area turned to red. The klaxon sounded like a moose calling to a mate. Clara could do nothing about that now. She slammed the door to the office closed and turned the convenient lock. Only realising then that the room she had stepped in was in complete darkness.

For several minutes, the klaxon muffled by the closed door, Clara searched along the walls for a light switch. She found it, eventually, located near the floor, for some obscure reason, and the lights flickered, winked out and then blazed into life, revealing an incredibly huge space.

An empty space. Like a warehouse where some enterprising thieves had managed to steal everything, including the stacks, waste bins and even the dust. Except, it wasn't completely empty. There, in the middle of the white space sat a table and, upon that table, she could see something.

Taking cautious steps, trying not to make a noise even though there was no-one else in the room and the blaring klaxon would drown out any noise for people outside the room, Clara approached the table. She felt nervous and she didn't know why. The closer she came to the table, the more nervous she became, to the point where she found it difficult to walk upon trembling legs.

Until she reached the table and stood upright. She scratched her head and scowled before circumnavigating the table to make sure she wasn't seeing some kind of illusion. She looked around, to see if she had missed anything in the stark, bleak white room, but she could see nothing else. Only this table and the thing upon it.

A record player. She remembered those. Her dad once had one and a loft full of boxes that held hundreds of old vinyl records. LP's and singles. Never used by her farther, despite him swearing blind that vinyl sounded far better than any of those upstart CD's, MP3's and streaming services. Vinyl was 'Earthy'. Vinyl was 'real' and could never truly be replaced. Clara signed him up for a subscription service and he never mentioned vinyl again.

The record player had a record upon it, waiting to be played, and Clara crouched beside it. Her hand rubbed her chin. It seemed like the appropriate gesture, under the circumstances. She examined the record player and the small, black, grooved disc upon it. A single. Madonna's 'Like a virgin', according to the label.

Back in the day, Clara had found that single in her father's collection, stolen his record player, and put that song on repeat for quite a while. After two weeks of constant playing, the single had become warped and scratched and Clara's parents had threatened to throw it away. She had clutched that single to her chest, scratching it even more upon the zip of her bomber jacket.

She saw that scratch upon this record. That self same scratch. One of the many Claras upon Claras' World had brought this record with them. For some, unknown reason. A memento of home. Their real home. The property of the first Clara to arrive on this world, possibly. She reached up to set the record player turntable revolving and stopped.

"Oh!" The thought hit her like tree branch whipped in her face by a selfish person walking through a forest. She understood now. "Record Room. Not a place for records. A place for a record. I am such an idiot!"

She slapped her forehead and regretted it immediately. A sound from the door made her jump. The other Claras, including Muscle Clara, probably, were trying to get into the room. She had little time left, so, of course, set the record player going and stood back, not certain what to expect or how much time she had left before the other Claras broke down that flimsy looking door.

The record hissed and crackled as it led into the song, the speakers attached to the turntable filling the room with the sound. As soon as the music started, Clara began tapping her foot. She remembered it well. Until it reached one point, where the needle jumped and repeated, caused by that identifying scratch.