The Man With a Spare Room in His Head

By D S Hodges

Fifty-year-old council worker Brian Price didn't know he had a spare room in his head, so it came as a complete surprise when Gordlyn, a fifth-dimensional entity from Al Nur, took up residence.

The Al Nurians were once similar to humans, but ascended to the fifth dimension and became energy beings. You might think this means they are enlig

• Language: English
• Publisher: D S Hodges
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645037333

D S Hodges

D. S. Hodges lives in Cairns, Australia with his wife Angela and two children. He is owned by a cat who sits on a chair next to him as he writes. Dave is hoping the cat will one day provide inspiration, but all the cat ever does is sleep.Over the course of his life, Dave has had numerous jobs: he worked as a baker in the family business, as a computer programmer, as a business analyst and finally a project manager. He now writes full time, and has published three books. To learn more about these books, go to www.dshodges.info

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Prologue

Some interdimensional civilisations are old, some are ancient and others are simply past their use-by date. The Al Nur fall into the latter category. They are fifth dimensional entities, racked by infighting and petty squabbling, who have used Earth to help resolve their differences – of which there are many. They were once bipeds, similar to us, who walked and ran like we do. They eventually ascended into the fifth dimension and became energy beings. Their bodies have no form as we would know it, despite once being humanoid. But they still remember their body parts, some with fondness, and some less so. We should not be surprised by their use of these body parts in their language. Phrases like ‘down your throat’, ‘put them up’, or ‘poke in the eye’ are particularly human, but still used by this race of beings.

As you are aware, all civilisations have wars, even those in the fifth dimension. It is part of evolution. Some wars are bloody, some less so. On many occasions, they have led to the participants’ mutually assured destruction. This is not one of the brightest ideas. It is all so utterly pointless.

As the Al Nurian civilisation advanced, they became more adept at replacing warfare with something else. Within the Al Nur there is no physical violence now. They had long ago deemed it ‘inappropriate’. So, ‘Put them up!’ is nothing more than words. Puffs of wind. Their fighting is all done by proxy now. They play chess-like games using other beings, like humans, as pawns. For this, one team of two Al Nurians (they always work in pairs) challenges another team to complete a task while the other side do its level best to thwart them. Naturally they do not do those tasks themselves; that is far too vulgar. No, they use proxies. And earthlings are the ideal candidates. Challenges have become wide and varied. The Al Nurians sit on high watching their human representatives perform their allotted tasks, from growing the biggest marrow to winning a council election.

The Al Nurian participants can try to influence the outcome using ‘Daints’ or ‘Whisperers’. Some would a saboteur, a Daint, who has the ability to live (cohabit) within a human brain; others encourage their human representative to mysteriously develop a ‘secret’ fertiliser recipe that ‘pops’ into their head while they sleep. This is the realm of Whisperers, a group of beings within the Al Nur, whose particular ability is to implant ideas into the human brain while the chosen representatives sleep. (Have you ever woken in the morning with an idea? Fully formed and ready to go?)

We can call our particular Al Nurian warring parties ‘antagonists’ as there is no love lost between them. They scheme, they plan, they devise and plot. They are bitter in their enmity.

Such was the case here.

The great hall of the Al Nurian High Council challenged the senses in its size and splendour. It wasn’t gothic, classical or modern, yet somehow reflected all three styles with wondrous flying buttresses that soared into the stars. Bold structures dominated its form as well as intricate carvings of mystical creatures that once, aeons ago, the Al Nurians worshipped.

The Supreme Drumbit, master of the Al Nur, floated on a raised platform and waited. It was his role to provide mediation or, as was usually the case, to ensure all was fair in this particular trial. He was supported by four other Al Nurians who stood two to each side and slightly behind The Supreme Drumbit. Thus, a quorum was gathered. Their energy-based bodies flashed like a thousand shimmering stars while their heads burst into light so bright it could burn your eyes. As they stood, they gazed out into the empty hall, watching for the rival antagonists to appear.

Deat and his lesser relative Priff waited outside the hall, ready to be called. Deat had chosen Priff to join him in this challenge, partly to give experience, but mainly because Priff was young (in Al Nurian terms) and bright. His innards burned like a flaring sun, a firm indication of his abilities. Their family’s name had been insulted, and in Al Nur society, the family name was everything.

Deat and Priff were escorted into the great hall. They made their way forward before stopping in front of their leader, The Supreme Drumbit.

The Supreme Drumbit, in his ponderous voice, asked what they had been called together for.

‘We have been challenged!’ Deat told The Supreme Drumbit, glaring his hatred at the already presentTrutt, who had so blatantly wronged his family’s good name.

‘By whom?’ The Supreme Drumbit asked. His deep rumbling voice echoed in the vastness of the hall.

‘By us!’ Trutt answered in a clear and ringing voice. Grumbutt, Trutt’s lesser relative, inclined his head in agreement, but his eyes returned Deat’s burning challenge.

‘You have agreed on the challenge and its terms?’ rumbled The Supreme Drumbit. You will only have one Daint and one Whisperer each. These Al Nurian’s cannot be moved from one head to another.’

Deat and Trutt answered together, ‘We have, Supreme Drumbit.’

The Supreme Drumbit nodded solemnly and asked, ‘And there is no possibility of a peaceful conclusion?’

Deat’s innards flashed and swirled in a rain of light. He inwardly fumed at the very suggestion. ‘None, Supreme Drumbit. Their slight was too hurtful. It cannot be forgiven!’

‘Then let the contest begin!’ The Supreme Drumbit proclaimed.

The rivals did not shake hands or acknowledge each other. They just turned their backs and walked away.

Two ‘days’ later, Priff sighed deeply, his innards sparkling as he spoke. ‘I am lost, Deat. I cannot see a way forward. All is darkness to me.’ His lights dimmed to a faint blush.

‘You do get yourself worked up, Priff. We must persevere. We cannot let Trutt and Grumbutt prevail! We must poke them in the eye! All we have to do is to stop our earthling representatives from implementing a piece of very inferior council software. They would be mad to implement it anyway. Our task should be easy.’

’Well, yes, I agree. But I cannot see a way forward with our human representative.  And I fear Trutt is hiding in the murk, waiting for us to falter. I am anxious! I can see no way forward.’ Priff’s inner glow dimmed further at the thought of failure. Upholding the family’s good name was all important to the Al Nurians. A slight against a family’s name was a slight forever.

Deat wondered if he had chosen the wrong family member to help him. The contest hadn’t even started yet Priff was already whining. ‘I believe I see a way forward, Priff. I have found us a human representative, an important player. He is the person responsible for the evaluation and implementation of this software. And I believe he has a spare room vacant.’

‘A spare room? Does he?’ Priff’s midriff burst into internal joyous sparkles.

‘Yes, and we shall put someone in it.’

There were special Al Nurian entities, Daints, who had the power to communicate and cohabit within the confines of a human brain. Although rare, they did exist. The Supreme Drumbit was one himself.

‘That is a bold move, Deat!’ Priff exclaimed. ‘A bold move indeed! Should we not use a Whisperer first?’

‘No, Priff, we cannot leave it to happenstance and vague nudges. Whisperers are all well and good at planting simple ideas in heads for them to take root and prosper, but we need something stronger. The spare room must be occupied!’

‘By whom? Who shall we choose, Deat?’

‘I think. . .Gordlyn!’ Deat affirmed.

‘Yes, yes! I agree. Gordlyn would be perfect.’ Priff’s innards burst into flares of light.

‘Now,’ said Deat, flicking his arm-like appendages together so his internal lights did somersaults like the pinwheel galaxy on heat, ‘let us celebrate with a long, cool buzzleglob beer. I hear the buzzleglob is spectacular at Snogget’s Bar and that is just around the corner…’

They set off to Snogget’s, a bar similar to earthly hotels where you can drink, relax and generally let your sparkling innards glow wild.

Chapter One

Back on planet earth, in the small seaside city of Sunnyvale, Australia, Brian ‘Pricey’ Price felt his annoyance rising. Dust. He was not a man who enjoyed even the smallest amount of dust. It was the bane of his life. He vacuumed—yes, he did mundane household tasks—yet it still returned to irk him. Where did all the damned dust come from? He felt as if buckets of the stuff had been distributed about his house. Even the spare room became dusty and it was never used! Where did it all come from? He must have tribes of people trundling through his house when he was at work. They must pack themselves into his spare room and scratch themselves with gay abandon, then move on to his bedroom to snore peacefully in his bed. But had he ever seen anyone? No.

Dust was definitely not a subject to raise with Brian Price.

Anyhow, he had left his dust woes behind and here he was on a Sunday morning, the 12th January 2019 to be exact, sitting at his favourite café, Beachside, with a lukewarm cup of flat white. He was basking in the sun and trying to look cool—or as cool as a fifty-year-old stout fart could. He was in his ultra-hip grey collarless shirt, with spiffy sunglasses and a straw trilby tipped back on his head to give (what he hoped) was that ‘devil-may-care’ Queensland gigolo look.

The day was young and beautiful. A breeze blew lightly from the sea, bringing with it that salty, refreshing tang. Thin white streaks of cloud floated heavenly over the bright cyan-blue water. Life was good—except for the cold coffee and the dust invading his flat. That bit was not so good. Why doesn’t anyone make hot coffee anymore? Or dust-free housing? he thought absently.

Sunday mornings were sacred. Get up late, enjoy (what he hoped would be) a hot flat-white coffee at the Beachside Cafe overlooking the sea before fighting his way through the Sunday morning rush at the local supermarket. Every Sunday was the same, a sort of groundhog-day repetitiveness that stank of boredom but sang of comfortable routine. If Pricey stopped to think about his life, he’d realise he didn’t like it. Yes, he had a good job, and yes, he was materially comfortable, but the rest of life had slid off his plate and onto the floor, ending up as an inedible and ghastly mess. He was lonely and depressed but he never realised he was either. He thought of himself as a bachelor just waiting for Ms Perfect to knock on his door.

As we know, Ms Perfects do not knock on doors, and they had usually been swept up long ago, if not in the first wave of matrimony, then definitely the second. His views on Ms Perfect had changed over time. She used to be stunningly gorgeous, bright as a button and a nymphomaniac. That changed to someone a little less gorgeous, smartish and definitely a nymphomaniac. Now he was at a divorced woman, kids okay and someone who was good in the sack. Having hit fifty, he realised that the world was poorly populated with female sexual deviants, and that thirty-year-old exquisite examples of the female form would not be interested in the fat and fifty Brian Price, and would probably not come a knock-knock-knocking on his door.

He finished his coffee, took a deep, reviving breath of the fresh sea air and made his way to his ute. His sturdy, ultra-reliable ute. It too was old and faded. It was marked with memories of a hundred robust encounters with supermarket shopping trollies; its paint had lost its lustre and in some places its lacquer. The driver’s seat had drooped, and its tray was rusting out. Besides all that, it was perfect.   

With his passenger seat full of shopping bags, he clambered into the ute and let out a deep sigh. ‘That was fun,’ Brian said to no-one in particular.

Do you really think so? You must be as mad as a March hair if you thought that was fun!

What! Who said that? Brian looked around. No-one. He checked his shopping. He even got out of the ute and checked under the bonnet, and then under the ute itself. Nothing.

He clambered back in, quite sure he must be going mad.

‘I must be going mad!’ said Brian to himself.

No, no you’re not. I’m the man who’s just moved into that spare room inside your head. You’re perfectly normal. Well, almost.

Chapter Two

Brian was home. It was now late afternoon. He had packed away his shopping, maybe not correctly, as he might never find his toothpaste again. He was tired, fed up and felt like a dumpster had just gate-crashed his head. He was still reeling from his experience in the ute but hadn’t heard any more ‘voices’ since he’d got home.

‘I don’t believe you!’ he shouted in a thin, shaky voice. No answer. Good. A cup of tea or a glass of wine to settle his nerves? Wine? Yes, why not? No contest really. It was a little early, but …

He poured himself a large glass of red and sat in his lounge, his nice clean, dust-free-for-now lounge. His feet were up, and he was sipping on his ruby solace.

A spare room in his head? Did he have one? No, of course not. It must have been the wind, the engine cooling or some sort of practical joke. But honestly, he didn’t think any of his friends had the nous to pull off a joke like that. Mind, Brian didn’t really have any friends; well, none he could think of. And anyway, a spare room in his head? How would he paint it? He chuckled. Such wit!

‘Very funny, lads!’ he shouted, running his hand through his hair. But actually, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t actually funny at all.

Don’t worry about that, Brian. I would rather decorate it myself. That way I can have it just the way I like it.

Brian jumped up in shock, spilling the remnants of his wine onto the floor. The bastard had got into his house. Maybe someone had hidden speakers throughout! The voice didn’t sound like anyone he knew, though, being so rich and cultured. It sounded as if it came straight from the BBC. He checked the couch, throwing the cushions onto the floor. Nothing. Then he checked the stereo, disconnecting it from the wall and unplugging the speakers. ‘No. No it’s not true!’ he said, shaking his head. Brian even laid the speakers face down. Then, if he heard a muffled voice, he would know it was coming from there. On and on he went, taking pictures down, upturning chairs and tables, emptying cupboards, searching behind furniture. Everywhere. The only thing he found was more dust.

‘Maybe it’s in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘God! Talking to myself! What next? Answering?’

There’s nothing to find, Brian. Nothing. Just settle on a comfortable chair and let’s talk.

‘Talk! Are you mad?’ Brian spluttered.

No. And neither are you. You’re just…Special, that’s all. Special.

Brian liked that. Not the voice, but being special. He had never been special before. Yes, he was successful. Well, in a fifty-year-old, single-man-living-on-his-lonely-ownsome sort of way, but no, not special. Now he felt foolish. Very foolish, liking the idea of a discombobulated voice calling him special. Maybe he was ill, having some sort of psychotic episode from the strain of all the dust and the idea of work. Yes, that was it. Sick. He dropped back into the lounge chair.

Maybe you should get yourself another drink. Oh, and wash out the wine stain on the carpet before it becomes permanent.

Without thinking, he fetched a bucket of cold water and started cleaning.

Good idea, Brian. Cold water will help lift off the wine stain.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Oh my God, I’m talking to it again! What am I doing?’ He walked back to the kitchen and dumped the bucket’s contents down the drain.

Don’t forget the wine, Brian. This is a lot for you to take in. And I don’t mind feeling a little sloshed myself, sometimes.’

‘Oh God,’ he whispered, filling his wine glass and walking back to the lounge. ‘Not enough,’ he said out loud, and then turned around and picked up the bottle.

Now that’s a good idea. I think you’re going to need it.

‘I don’t believe it.’ Brian shook his head. ‘This can’t be happening. No.’

You know, life would be so much easier if you just accepted me. I suspect we could become friends.

The voice didn’t come from anywhere, not from any single point. It was as if it was internal. In his head. Maybe, while he slept, someone had inserted something into him. Aliens? They could have. Who would know? It could be the government. No. Why would they want to spy on him? A nobody, a simple project manager working on a half-fucked IT system, implementing something for people who didn’t want it, who would not use it, and who would pull his eyes out and roast them on sticks if ever it went in. One man’s dream and all our nightmares. Dammit to hell! No wonder he was having episodes! He ignored the ‘becoming friends’ bit his voice had said. He didn’t want to give it credence. Not an internal voice!

‘I’m taking Monday off,’ Brian said aloud. He felt as if he definitely needed it.

Good idea. We can get to know each other then. My name is Gordlyn by the way.

A whole two days talking to his head? Jeesus! That sounded like a batty-bonkers horror holiday in the making. ‘Where’s the wine?’ he muttered to himself.

You finished it, Brian. All of it. You’ve another bottle in the rack, but I must caution against overdoing it. One or even two glasses are all right, but you’ve drunk a whole bottle. Another full bottle could be dangerous.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ groaned Brian. ‘And why are you trying to run my life? Just before, you were telling me to get sloshed. What’s wrong with you?’

He charged over to the rack and pulled out another bottle of red. ‘See!’ he said, holding the bottle up to the ceiling. ‘See! A bottle! Another bottle. And you know what? I’m going to drink it all! Every last drop of it. And then, if I’m still compos mentis, I’m going to get another one! Then another, and another until you disappear up your own arsehole. Clear?’

Brian was yelling. Full on, no handbrake. What in hell’s name was going on? He had never shouted at no-one before. Or at anyone, now he thought about it. Brian wasn’t a shouting sort of guy. He felt himself go sweaty.

If you’re going to be like this, Brian, I’m going. I’ll see you tomorrow!

Did he hear a door slam?

* * *

Brian did have that other bottle. He slept like a comatose zombie and awoke on Monday morning to his alarm with a mouthful of moisture-sucking furballs. He slipped his feet out of bed and instantly fell backwards. He groaned, clasping his head in the hope it would drive his headache away. It didn’t.

Have some Panadol and drink plenty of water, Brian.

Brian groaned. ‘Are you still here?’ Oh, God! Not that voice again. Not…Gordlyn, yabbering away in the back of his head. The self-righteous prick!

He edged his way to the bathroom, anything faster and it would have been dangerous. ‘Yeah, I will.’ He sighed, reaching for the Panadol. ‘Bloody hell, I feel rough.’

Well, yes, you would. Two and a half bottles of wine, forsooth! Gordlyn liked the word forsooth. It rolled in his mouth like a lollypop. Not that Gordlyn still had a mouth or had tasted lollies. He’d picked the word up from Chaucer when he was helping him with The Canterbury Tales.

You should feel ill. I thought of asking you to get a bucket, but I remembered I wasn’t talking to you last night and that it might have encouraged you to vomit, and I really do not like that. Yuck!

‘I think I need a doctor.’ Brian clutched his head with both hands.

It won’t do you any good. It’s a hangover, Brian, that’s all.

‘Not for that!’ he spat. ‘For you!’

Me? I’m perfectly well, thank you. I don’t need a doctor.

‘What’s the use?’ Brian said with a humph. He stripped off and climbed into the shower. Technically, he walked into the shower, though it felt like a climb. Oh! The hot water was good. It washed away the sins of his world: dust, bottles of wine, headaches and voices in his head. All fell off him and disappeared down the greedy drain. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Maybe Cinderella can go to the ball after all,’ he said to himself.

He was out, dripping water on to the bathroom mat before he patted and rubbed himself dry. He brushed his teeth, shaved and combed his hair before dressing. He had bacon in the fridge, rashers of delicious, fatty, cholesterol-bearing bacon. That with a few eggs slapped between a bun and a generous blob of brown sauce! He’d be cured. He wondered if he had orange juice buried somewhere in the fridge. It would be a week old, but still. Now there’s a thing. Orange juice. Yes, he was feeling better already.

The