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NOTE: These stories are
intended for a mature audience.

Sir Joseph Bazalgette's Spirit Bowl
A Guest Quarters story
by
T. D. Edge

 
"The Gentlemen will see you now," said the butler, indicating that I should knock on the heavy oak door. I'd followed him through several oak panelled rooms upstairs, populated with old men whose parchment skin hands seemed glued to the edges of their newspapers. Even here in the cellar of this very exclusive club, the walls were wood and the floor hush-thick with dark red carpet.

The butler withdrew and I took a deep breath.

A one night stand, my granddad's suggestion and a hefty bank loan had brought me here. I had no idea what precisely lay on the other side of that door but hoped to hell Gramps had it right when he said it was the only thing that could save me.

I knocked and almost immediately the door swung silently inwards. A man looking to be in his seventies, dressed in an immaculate black suit with a white carnation buttonhole, looked at me evenly.

"Yes?" he said, voice deep and well enunciated.

"I'm Richard Martin," I said, my spirits sinking as his eyes failed to recognise the name.

"Have you paid?"

"Ten grand, yes," I said, struggling not to panic that the 'Gentlemen' had ripped me off.

He turned and whispered to someone behind him, keeping the door ajar so I couldn't see behind him. Despite my heightened state of sheer need to survive, I thought I caught a stray whiff of bleach.

"My apologies, Mr. Martin," he said, smiling now but not too warmly. "It's been rather a long time since we had a client and Cresper couldn't find the duty book, could you?"

"Pollingstock, you couldn't find your backside if you didn't use it to speak through," said another man's voice, presumably Cresper.

"Why don't you come in?" said Pollingstock, opening the door fully.

I walked in and gaped.  "This is a toilet."

"Make a note, Pollingstock, the young man has acute observational skills."

I was in a large men's convenience. Shiny white tiles covered the floor, walls and ceiling.  Chrome pipes snaked around the lower walls, into the white urinals and under the row of sinks opposite. Besides the bleach, there was a slightly metallic but not unpleasant taste to the air. Water gurgled musically all around.

"But I've paid you a lot of money for this," I continued. "Couldn't we at least have met in one of those cushy club rooms upstairs?"

"This isn't a club," said Cresper, a short, rotund man also dressed in a black suit with white carnation. "This is a second womb."

Cresper and Pollingstock stood side by side, watching me like a couple of self-satisfied professors who know their student doesn't have a clue what they're on about. I might normally have been inclined to defer to their calm authoritarian manner, except for the small fact that any time now I was going to be minus several body parts if not plain dead to boot.

"Okay," I said, "so this isn't just a very clean toilet, it's a bloody womb, but look ? can you help me or not?"

Pollingstock gestured to one side, "Why don't you sit down and explain your problem to us."

I followed them to a small marble-topped table in the corner, covered by a crisp white tablecloth on which sat a bucket of ice with a bottle in it, along with three crystal wine glasses. We sat and I tapped my toes impatiently while Pollingstock poured the wine.

I looked around and tried to understand the significance of the surroundings. But it just didn't make sense they'd want to meet me in the lavatory, even one that instead of a paper towel dispenser had piles of fluffy white towels next to each hand basin, and glass dispensers full of expensive-looking amber soaps.

What the hell, I thought. Either they could or couldn't help me; at least in this setting they wouldn't be sedating me with gently ticking grandfather clocks and stuffed stags' heads over a roaring log fire.

"Well," I said, "I work with this girl?"

"Oh, how original," said Cresper. "Don't tell us: she took your breath away, and an electric shock ran up your spine."

"Not exactly," I said. "I'd been working with Sam for a couple of years before last night, and I mean I always thought she was pretty fit, but?"

"You liked her because she was physically active?" said Pollingstock.

"No, fit means she has great looks and a real tidy body, especially up top."

Cresper drained his wine glass and filled it again. "I fear we shall need a few more bottles of this excellent Chardonnay, Pollingstock, if we're to get through Mr Martin's heroic tale of female breasts and his hands' uncontrollable desire to knead them. Perhaps, in fact, we can find him a job in the kitchen, baking our morning bread."

"Don't mind Cresper," said Pollingstock. "He is actually listening to what you have to say."

"That's reassuring," I said. "For ten grand I'd expect at least an ear pointed in my direction."

They fell silent and to my relief looked to be fully concentrating.

"Last night," I said, "Dick from Accounts had his leaving do. We all went to this nice little pub in Soho and had a lot to drink. Sam and I got talking, which was strange because she works for me and I'd always got the impression she thought I was a right pillock as a boss, mainly because I didn't always agree with her viewing work as a major inconvenience to her social obligations."

I paused, waiting for them to say something sarcastic and was surprised to see Pollingstock's eyes water. "Oh, it's just like one of those wonderful romantic films with Doris Day and Rock Hudson, where the young woman and young man apparently hate each other but of course their antipathy masks an underlying powerful attraction."

"Control yourself, Pollingstock," said Cresper. "I'm sure Mr. Martin does not appreciate his predicament being likened to the superficial amorous posturing of celluloid actors."

"Too right," I said. "It was mostly the drink, and besides we're not really in love with each other. Just for a few hours, we felt kind of close. The pub was pretty loud so Sam would lean in near to my mouth to hear me and her hair brushed my lips, soft and warm. Then we found ourselves hugging a bit, then snogging and I don't know, maybe it's because I haven't been out with a woman since my divorce but I did actually feel something for her then, even though we both knew it was temporary."

"Such brief diversions of the soul are very powerful, however," said Cresper.

"And apparently not without repercussions," said Pollingstock.

"I offered to walk her to the train," I said. "And she held my arm all the way. Outside the station, she pulled me into a cab and told me to get the driver to take us to my place."

"Ah," said Pollingstock.

"Indecently fast for Doris and Rock," said Cresper.

"Oh, come on," I said, "haven't you two ever been lost in the night and the girl? Anyway, at my house we drank some more wine and she told me about how her boyfriend takes her for granted, and that just made me all the more determined to . . . Well, let's just say we had a good time."

"And then you found out there was a contract on your head," said Cresper.

I didn't question how he knew this, figuring Gramps must have filled him in. "That's right. What Sam neglected to tell me about her boyfriend is that he's an East End gangster. I thought they'd all been replaced by Eastern European heavies but apparently there are still a few descendents of the Krays knocking around. Nice to know some London traditions remain, eh?"

"You'd be surprised," said Pollingstock. "And no need to look so glum, young man; you've come to the right place."

"The crapper? Yes, well, I suppose that's where my life's been heading since last night."

"Apart from your worrying trend to the melodramatic," said Cresper, "I believe we can help you."

"Tell him about the price," said Pollingstock.

"But I've already paid!" I said.

"Not that kind of price," said Cresper. He stood up, nimbly for an old man, and walked to the middle of the floor.

"Sir Joseph Bazalgette was the saviour of London," he said, gesturing around with his wine glass. "Before he was appointed Chief Engineer of the Metropolitan Board of Works in 1856, London was an open sewer; the Thames neither contained nor supported any wildlife or fish. Human excrement flowed through the streets and Parliamentary sittings often had to be abandoned because the stench was overpowering. Bazalgette built over a thousand miles of underground sewers, along with pumping stations, and in doing so saved millions of lives."

"Um, this is a fascinating history lesson," I said, "but how's it going to save my life."

Pollingstock stood and took over the story, Cresper sitting again to pour himself more wine.

"Since you are obviously in fear of the violent repercussions that so often follow a night of unwise sex," he said, "I shall simply tell you that Bazalgette was not only a brilliant engineer, his enquiring mind led him into the necessarily clandestine study of the human spirit and the diminishment of its effect in an increasingly materialistic world. What his studies discovered was that excrement is not just the body's waste, it also carries a tiny but vital trace of the spirit itself."

"Which is replaced to a degree by the food we eat," said Cresper. "But in more primitive cultures people still understand the importance of using their excrement as fertiliser, so the full complement of human spirit is recycled into new life."

They both looked at me expectantly.

"Sorry, I don't get it," I said, "but that might be because I'm expecting a bullet up the jacksie any minute now; so excuse me for not being too excited by a dead Victorian shit channeler."

Pollingstock sighed, somewhat melodramatically too, I thought. "Bazalgette built into his sewage system a hidden grid of silver meshes which, we believe, he had a brilliant but necessarily clandestine court wizard occulty activate. In short, these meshes have the capability of gathering together the millions of tiny grains of human spirit casually flushed away each and every single day."

"And he built this temple to focus them," said Cresper.

They watched me expectantly.

"Oh, no," I said, "you don't mean . . ."

"All you have to do," said Pollingstock, "is enter the central cubicle, take down your trousers and sit. We will do the rest."

"And," said Cresper, "when we tell you to, flush, but don't stand up from the seat."

At this point I should of course have left, retrieved my cheque from the front desk and run for the nearest airport, taking my chances on a new life in a far-off land, obviously not Spain of course, which is full of retired East End gangsters.

But there was something about these two old geezers that kept me there; maybe the fact they weren't trying to sell me anything, just telling it like it was, at least as they saw it to be.

As if reading my thoughts, Pollingstock said, "Very few men have been courageous or desperate enough to sit on Bazalgette's spirit bowl. Perhaps it's because of the price required for having one's greatest need fulfilled."

"Maybe you should tell me about this price," I said.

"Very well," said Cresper. "These spirit motes are no longer part of an integrated system of natural recycling, and because they are forced to swill around with all manner of subterranean refuse, their effect carries with it some corruption. In short, you will have what you desire but your life will also be changed in some way because of it."
 
"It may interest you to know that Prince Charles once visited our club," said Cresper.
 
"Don't tell me: while he was still married to Diana."
 
They didn't reply and for some reason then I remembered something about Gramps.
 
"And my grandfather came here too, didn't he?" I said. "That's why he never talks about what he did in the war, isn't it? He came here and made a deal to stay alive through to the end of it."
 
"Actually, he asked that your grandmother be saved," said Cresper.
 
"But she died ? oh, God, she died one day after the Second World War finished."
 
"Yes, but she had cancer of the throat that would normally have killed her several years before that."
 
"So what was the price Gramps paid for those few extra years?"
 
"To live a long life without her," said Cresper.
 
If I'd been less concerned with saving myself just then, I might have stopped to think about that. But instead, the sheer crushing realisation that I'd run out of options took me towards the middle of the three stalls.
 
Just before entering it, I turned to see Cresper tap a tile on the wall opposite. A whole section of tiles swung inwards and a silver trolley rolled out of the gap behind, wreathed in silver pipes, above which a bank of cylinders and dials flashed and sparkled.
 
Pollingstock raised his hands to the dials while nodding to me to go inside the cubicle.
 
I shut the door behind me, dropped my trousers and sat. Clanks and whistles from the spirit-summoning machine rang around the ceramic walls of toilet. I closed my eyes, feeling like an idiot who'd discover very soon that he'd handed a huge wad to a pair of crazy old coots; either that or I'd be . . . changed.

But after a few minutes, nothing had happened and the machine noises stopped.
 
There was a polite cough from outside the door. Cresper said, "You must defecate, Mr. Martin. It is the trigger, after all."
 
"Oh, bugger it," I said, "I had a dump just before I came out."
 
"In which case," said Cresper, "I suggest you imagine you are surrounded by Samantha's boyfriend and his cronies, intent on doing you severe harm."
 
Which did the trick. And despite my reticence to evacuate before a listening audience, I soon felt that reassuring inner shudder pushing along my own spirit-imbued waste, leading to a full-bodied splash below me.
 
"Excellent!" said Pollingstock, as if I'd just delivered a baby.
 
The machine clanked into action again and I confess it was impossible to unclench my buttocks, fearing that if I did, the recent process would be reversed.
 
After a few minutes, I was close to concluding that the system really didn't work when two strange factors combined to convince me otherwise. First, the bowl I sat on glowed silver, spilling sharpened light on to the tiles around my feet.
 
Next, I found my mind swamped with images, sounds, sensations and odours that were distinct but definitely alien to me. This was much sharper even than a particularly vivid dream. What's more, some of the effects in my consciousness were of earlier times that I knew little of. I felt the lumpy cobbles digging into my thinly-soled feet, and swooned under the incredibly pungent body odour of the Londoners around me. Huge public joy surged through me too, as D Day was announced, and again as England won the World Cup in August 1966.
 
But all these human circumstance entered me charged also with regret, from lives never lived fully, of compromises made, both to God and to one's family. All those millions of unused and unexplored spirit bits flushed away to mingle with the ennui of other bits, flowing back into me, providing me with the power, I knew, to now change the world around me.
 
When it was done, I pulled up my trousers and left the cubicle, eyes brimming with tears.
 
Pollingstock placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder. "At least you're safe now," he said. "You carry the power to change the world sufficiently to survive within it."
 
I tried to smile. "Now I know why bloody Charles always looks so melancholy. What do I do now?"
 
"Go live your life," said Pollingstock.
 
I nodded, shook their hands.
 
"Just one thing," I said, "why is it only gentlemen?"
 
"It isn't," said Pollingstock. "Somewhere, we believe, a pair of sturdy and slightly pedantic old women guide the buttocks of perplexed, and of course solvent, young women into a bowl Bazalgette built for them."
 
I said no more. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep. Whatever small death I had in store, I figured it could wait for me to rest up for a few hours at least. And if it turned out I'd been the victim of some kind of elaborate scam by the gentlemen, at least I'd be murdered in my bed by geezers and out of it once and for all.

***

I didn't need the butler to show me the way this time. I knocked, even though it still felt odd to do so on a toilet door. As before, it opened slightly to show an old gent in a black suit with a carnation in the buttonhole.
 
"Pollingstock?" I said.
 
"Close enough," said Cresper. "Age unfortunately washes us all with the same grey brush. Why don't you come in, Mr. Martin?"
 
He stepped back and once again I entered Sir Bazalgette's spirit womb. Strange, but I didn't think a toilet could ever feel like home, yet seeing Pollingstock and Cresper seated either side of their table with the white cloth and wine bucket, I felt strangely at ease.
 
I sat and took a crystal glass full of Merlot from Pollingstock.
 
"Thank you," he said, "for attending this first and final report session, one year to the day since you sat on Sir Joseph Bazalgette's spirit bowl."
 
"You look well," said Cresper. "A little haunted, but well."
 
"As you can see," I said, "I survived. But just like you warned me, there's been a price to pay."
 
"Before you go on," said Pollingstock. "Cresper and I always bet on what we think will have happened to our clients. Usually, however, we're both wrong."
 
"If I'd bet on myself, I'd have been wrong, too."
 
"But the contract on your life," said Cresper, "that has at least been lifted?"
 
I smiled. "Yes and no."
 
The two old gents shrugged at each other as if to say, 'We lost again.'
 
"The next day after leaving here," I said, "I decided to have faith in Sir Joe's spirit bog and went to work as usual. Sam came in late and real upset. I have to confess my bowels were ready to roll and without Bazalgette's help; figured her bloke must be close behind with a sawn-off shotgun.
 
"To my surprise she said she was in love with me and had informed her boyfriend of the good news. I was just about to leg it when she went on to say that it turned out her bloke had an unexpected sentimental side to him, softer than a cabby's bum.
 
"Seems like his righteous fury over her betraying him was totally blown away by his delight she'd found real love. So much so, he'd even offered to lay on a right royal knees-up of a wedding for us two love birds. I didn't say it, but I suspected her boyfriend may just have been thinking of giving her the old heave-ho anyway. Whatever, I could tell Sam's tears right then were because she was scared I didn't feel the same way about her."
 
"Ah," said Pollingstock.
 
"Ah, indeed," said Cresper.
 
I finished the glass and poured myself another. "But you know what?" I said. "The reason I told her I loved her too wasn't so much out of fear the contract would be re-opened if I didn't. It was because of what I learned through having all that silver spirit residue shot up my arse."
 
"Sir Joseph would be proud," said Cresper, "that his invention has educated you in life at least, if not in linguist niceties."
 
"I learned that people do their best when they keep a promise, even if it ain't what they really want for themselves. And that's why I've married Sam and will stay with her for as long as I live."
 
The two old gents in this very special gents smiled at me. Pollingstock said, "Thank you, Mr. Martin. We understand your decision and for what it's worth we agree with you."
 
Cresper nodded. "Sir Joseph understood that you can't live a meaningful life until you first clean up the crap under your feet. If you ever go below the streets of London, Mr. Martin, you might be surprised at the grandeur of the arches, tunnels and vaults he built there."
 
I stood. "I think I should leave before this analogy ends up costing me a whole new bleedin' bathroom suite from B&Q."
 
At the door, I turned. "Just one question: why don't you make this spirit bowl available for everyone?"
 
The two old blokes swapped looks then Pollingstock said, "A man needs to be so desperate to change, Mr. Martin, that he will accept the truth that shit is always a two-way process, pardon my French. For to pretend that one is above this concept is to invite looking ridiculous in our maker's eyes."
 
"So you're telling me," I said, "that the Pope would do a much better job if he let people see him taking a dump once in a while?"
 
"Pollingstock and I would never presume to advise anyone on religious matters," said Cresper. "However, of one thing we are certain: God created man as a machine for turning intake into excrement; therefore dealing with one's own crap is a far more holy thing to do than snorting incense fumes in a high church."

I bowed. "At your convenience, gentlemen."

"Indeed," said Pollingstock.

"Stay regular," said Cresper.
 
 
T. D. Edge lives in London. He won a Cadbury's fiction competition at age 10 but only did it for the chocolate. When that ran out, he got writing again and published several children's/YA books (writing as Terry Edge) with Random House, Scholastic, Andre Deutsch and others. A few years back, he attended the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop where he learned a lot, including how to hug. He's also still happily knackered from attending the excellent 2008 master class workshop in Oregon, run by Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch. He's sold around 14 short stories to various magazines, including Beneath Ceaseless Skies and Realms of Fantasy.

Story by T. D. Edge, Copyright 2010
Image by Amber Clark, Stopped Motion Photography, Copyright 2010