action

Why are you still here? The action is now here.

A beard of stars

With trepidation I headed towards the corner of Elizabeth Street and La Trobe Street. I had been told the public telephone was on the south-west corner. I lingered on the opposite corner until the appointed time, and then made my way towards the phone, dialed the number, and waited. A calm male voice answered: "Hello Xul Solar, please walk 40 paces west, and turn left into the laneway, then another 40 paces and you will find an establishment on your left. Goodbye".



I glanced around, mindful of being watched. Behind me was a mysterious building with blacked-out windows. Could someone be watching from behind this glass? I followed the directions and found myself on the outskirts of a labyrinth of alleyways. I located the doorway to the ROABGAB City Temple, an unusual choice of venue, I thought to myself. I looked like the doorway hadn't been used for decades, the sign was dated and dilapidated, the entrance strewn with litter and debris.



I entered and saw before me a dim stairwell leading down, faint throbbing music emitting from the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs I find thick, faded red curtains, which I push aside. An man sits at a small table, perhaps in his 60s, slightly overweight, greasy black hair, stubble, an ill-fitting grey suit. His face was certainly not inviting, his eyes weighted by lack of sleep, his thin lips pursed, his brow furrowed.

"You must be Xul" he says to me in a thick Balkan accent. I nod in reply. He unclips the rope barrier and motions me through. Inside, the room is dank and dark, lit by small lamps and the dizzying particles of a mirrorball. There are a sprinkling of patrons at the various booths and tables. I head to the bar. The barman is excessively tall, the shape of his head resembling Herman Munster. He wears a crisp white shirt and crimson tie. I ask him for a gin and tonic. As he fixes my drink he says "The people you are looking for are to the left, behind the palm trees".

I take my drink and head towards the booth behind a bunch of plastic palm trees. As I push aside the fronds, I see a man sitting alone at the table. He is in his late 60s perhaps, white hair specked with black, a neat wispy beard, round rimless spectacles and a waft of cigarette smoke exploring his wrinkled face.

"Xul, please take a seat, my name is Furriskey, John Furriskey" he says in an almost cheerful Irish accent. I slide onto the seat opposite him. He extends his arm towards me and reveals an open packet of cigarettes. It's a brand I'm not familiar with; Amber Leaf. He catches my quizzical look and proclaims "The finest cigarettes in Ireland". I accept his offer. He leans forward to light me.

"Mr. Solar, do you know why we've asked you here?" he inquires. I reply that I don't, and to be honest I thought it would possibly be a stitch up by some nutcase like Beltaine. "Xul, do you know what or who Neurocam is?". Again, I reply that I don't.

"Some take Neurocam to be a game, or an art project, and in a way they are almost right. The truth about Neurocam runs deeper than that. The assignments might seem like fun, like make-believe cloak and dagger, but there is a more ominous purpose to them. I cannot reveal any more at this point, suffice to say that you have chosen well to remain on the sidelines and not get involved".

I ask him who he works for, and what his interest in Neurocam is. He replies that he works for O'Rourke Investigations, who have been contracted to uncover certain facts about Neurocam. I ask him why he needed to meet me. "We would like you to undertake some work for us. You seem to be in contact with a number of operatives, and have somewhat gained their trust. At present, we simply require your acceptance. Think about this over the next few days. We will be in touch next week".

I swig down the last of my gin and extinguish my cigarette. We shake hands and I'm ushered out the door by the Balkan man. Back out onto the glistening streets, I begin my journey home, my head swimming in confusion.