Proxy. Ch 6. Not recommended for readers under 16.

 “I’m here for my nine am appointment with Organza.” I tell Leonie, who’s sucking on a lolly behind her desk.

“Right. Yes you are. Follow me.” She says, and I follow her in the opposite direction of Mr Spoon’s office and sit down in front of Organza’s desk and wait for her to come in.

Organza comes in a short time later. She is a black woman, with very frizzy shoulder length black hair. She wears a lime green, cotton, Ishka-esque, long sleeve, flowing blouse, and black, three quarter length pants. I hear her heels smacking against her summer sandals as she walks in.

“You must be Baxter. Welcome to my room.” Organza is evidently British.

“Yep. I’m him.” I say.

“Has Mr Spoon told you what we are going to do today?” She asks.

“Yeah. You’re gonna steal some of my memories.”

“Not exactly. You are going to relive your memories. All I’m going to do is tell you to focus on finding the right one.”

“What’s the right one?”

“The memory of the Proxy formula.”

“Oh yeah. Right.”

“Come and sit down in this chair. Do you need a glass of water before we start?”

“Nope. I’m fine. Just had a coffee.” I get up and sit down in the chair she motions to.


Organza sits in the chair facing me with her iphone in her hand.

“I’m going to record what you say.”

“Fine by me.”

“It’ll be easier for Mr Spoon’s team to transcribe it then. The audio into visual text that is.” She smiles. She has dimples. She’s pretty if you like black, fifty year old English women. She has nice skin and very nice teeth. I watch her hit the little red round record button on her screen.

Just like yesterday when I was glimpsing my future: walking around my house and talking to Dafina; I am visualising the same thing again. I’m in my living room, then going to my kitchen, looking at my licence, asking Dafina questions, and my call to Rosie is ended all over again. The word, her last word, fuck – it resounds in my head. I didn’t pay it much attention at the time, but I pay more attention to it now. Why does Rosie swear? I mean, I know she swears all the time, but why does she say it like that? Is it like fuck, I am annoyed at you, or fuck, you annoy me, or fuck, why the fuck are you calling me, or fuck, I love you, and now you just reminded me of who you are? What kind of a fuck is it?

I guess I’ll have to ask her when I see her next.

Organza’s phone records all of the Proxy formula ingredients I can see on Dafina’s screen, as I speak them out aloud. And then I’m speaking the method out aloud as well. I didn’t know this at the time, but I was saying them out aloud in my Gyliptin Sleep. I come out of the trance all find myself on the floor of her office.

“Get up. You fell off your chair.” Organza has an arm looped under my arm; she’s helping me off the ground.

“Do most people fall off their chairs when they come out of it?” I ask.

“Sometimes some do. But not all. It really depends what’s happening in the memory. In your memory you were sitting on your sofa beside Mr Spoon and you were on the edge of it reading the Proxy formula from your digi-screen at home. You must have poor eyesight when you’re older. Or maybe you are just short sighted. I’m not sure. You had to lean in closer though. I know that much.” Organza says putting face down on her desk and slumping into her swivel chair behind her desk.

“That’s it? That’s all I have to do and now I’m free?” I say relieved.

“Yes. It’s a very straight forward process. You were only under five minutes.” She smiles. She tells me payment has been covered by Mr Spoon.

I get up, push my chair in, and scoop my bag off the floor. I give her my goodbyes as she does, and I close her office door behind me. My work for Mr Spoon is done. For now. Until I become a proper scientist myself, that is.


Uni isn’t far from Organza’s office, so when I look at my watch I’m relieved to see I’m going to be on time for Studio. Susannah will love me for that. I’m meant to be finishing the portrait of Rosie today. I rock up to Studio, dump my bag on the ground and go and get my painting. I peel back the calico fabric, prop the frame on the easel, and admire my handiwork. I’m a damn good painter. It’s a shame I’m gonna give it all up though.

“What colour are Rosie’s eyes?” Susannah sneakily asks me while she roams around the room inspecting all of her student’s work. Today she’s wearing a long bright purple velvet dress with long sleeves over plain black leggings and a bright lime turban with black clogs. She does have her own style, I’ll give her that!


“I thought so.” I look at Rosie’s eyes in the portrait. They’re green but not as green as they should be. Fuck. So annoying. I thought I was done with this. It’s due at five!

“Umm how did…”

“Studio B.” Susannah smiles. Of course. She teaches Rosie in her second class on a Tuesday afternoon. How did I forget? Here I am slaving away over Rosie’s naked form, as beautiful as it is, when for sixty per cent of her overall grade this year, Rosie has chosen to paint her friend Olivia. Olivia.

“I have seen Rosie’s piece already and graded it. Exquisite. Just exquisite.” Susannah winks, walking behind me again, watching me as I brighten the green of Rosie’s eyes.

“I see she didn’t paint me.” I say over my shoulder.

“No, Baxter she did not.” Susannah says and laughs.

“Maybe it has something to do with the female form or something. Painting me wouldn’t have the same effect. A naked man wouldn’t be as hot as a naked chick, I don’t think.” I suggest.

“Depends who you speak to.” Susannah winks at me.



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