Inside, the curtains are drawn. Sunshine filters through the gaps. Jones’ clothes are scattered around the flat, empty noodle pots, a mattress in the center of the room. Jones lies naked in half sleep, shivering all over, his teeth rattle, sweat clings to his skin.

Thump, thump, thump: the front door.

His eyes open, wide and large in his thin head. Was that the door? Maybe the landlord, owed a quarter Crypt.

Thump, thump, thump. Urgent, a police officer’s knock.

He crawls out of bed, rubbing his arms free of goose bumps. He creeps toward the door, dodging clutter in the gloom. He puts an eye to the spyhole, the pupil contracts.       

Behind the door, floating seven feet, a white metal cube.  An LED flashes green, he hears the whine of an electrical heart.

He mouths the words, almost whispering,

‘The Sorry Machine.’

A knot of panic forms in his throat, now his stomach. His back slumps against the door as he slides to the carpet. It knows I am here. I will need to open the door.

He begins to sob softly.

Thump, thump, thump.

#

Otis is the last remaining elevator operator in the city. He works in a downtown apartment block, in an old elevator with scissor doors and a lever controlling the speed.

Otis’ elevator is the last of its kind and is thought dangerous. The apartment block, however, is a listed building and the ancient elevator remains as a relic of the past, protected by government legislation.

Otis is proud that in twenty-five years’ service, he has never been involved in an accident. Jones has heard all his old horror stories: overcrowded lifts sent freefalling to the pit; doors opening to an empty shaft; the beheadings.

Jones is wary of the elevator, but it’s the only safe place to get high. ‘Less surveillance in these old buildings,’ Otis would say, knocking on an old wall.

He reaches the apartment block in his dressing gown. Inside, thick carpet between his toes gives way to cold marble. He buzzes the elevator call button, it glows mint.

Nothing.

Then he hears the elevator descending, mechanical music to his ears. When it reaches the bottom, the doors feather open and Otis smiles his smile.

‘Hello, Otis. How is your day?’ he asks.

‘O you know, up and down,’ Otis says, completing their private ritual.

Jones enters the lift. Otis slides the bronze doors shut and pushes the lever. The lift begins its ascent.

Jones wraps the ragged emerald dressing gown tighter around his naked body. Shivering, he says, ‘Otis, about the Crypts,’

‘Shh. Don’t worry my child,’ Otis says, placing an arm around Jones’ shoulders. Otis opens a lapel of his blazer and cradles his head inside.

Light from the Plasma drug appears from an inside pocket. Otis is careful to stop it spilling out into the lift, ensuring Jones receives the maximum dose.

When the light dies violet, Otis releases him.

Jones stands up, wild eyes green. He is in the land.

Floor numbers rush past: 9-15-19-20; a breeze inflates his hair; he smells engine grease, feels the clanking gears and chains lifting him higher and higher.

The lift halts at the top floor.

Otis is talking, something about braking when the floor of the elevator is dead level with the destination floor. He hears the word ‘professional’.

Jones smiles as his eyes close.

#

He walks among the gardens surrounding the hill; tree lined avenues, tunnels of foliage. Everything is a different shade of green: the tall oak trees, swaying cypresses, stagnant water choked with algae.

Stone fountains emerge from ponds, sculptures lurk in bushes. He ascends the gravel path to the summit; the blue sky enhances the green. There are no flowers.

He pauses to regard a peculiar statue: a fat dwarf astride a turtle, a hand raised to motion, ‘stop.’

The land levels out at the summit. Balconies from the terracotta house overlook the gardens, the city and the jade peaks beyond. Up here there are flowers; purple hydrangeas, yellow roses, crimson azaleas. The air is sweet with their scent.

The city bell rings for noon, the sun’s warmth delights his face.

Dying chimes enchant the hill.

#

Fingers shaking, Jones unlocks the door, yanking it open.

The white cube floats straight into the room, hovering above the mattress. A voice distorted says,

‘I have come to collect your apology.’

March 2018