Burn Patterns by Ron Elliott Page A

andenormous amounts of empty time.
    Halfway down, they came to an Anglo-Indian. He was dressed in prison greens, his left arm bandaged.
    He sat on his bunk with his feet on the floor of the cell. Iris detected the barest hint of rocking. He turned to her, when he sensed she wasn’t moving on. He stood and bent slightly in a bow.
    Iris stepped to the small round communication holes in the plexiglas.’
    Hello,’ said Iris, ‘My name is Iris Foster. What’s yours?’
    â€˜James. You can call me James.’ His accent sounded Australian.
    â€˜Glad to meet you, James.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Do you know what day it is, James?’
    â€˜Let me see. A lot has happened in a short space of time. We travelled for a day. Some locking up and locking down. Is it Tuesday?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Afternoon, nearly evening because I can smell food coming. I don’t watch the news, I’m sorry, so current affairs won’t be a useful topic. Can I choose astronomy for double points?’
    â€˜Have you been psychiatrically assessed before, James?’
    â€˜You remind me of an actress.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜Jodie Foster.’
    â€˜Why do I remind you of her?’
    â€˜You look like her. The hair, your face. Your figure. Jodie Foster.’
    â€˜My surname too?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Foster. Iris Foster.’
    â€˜Oh, sorry.’ He seemed momentarily uncomfortable, but recovered his grin. ‘Hmm, that was probably the big clue.’
    â€˜She was in
Silence of the Lambs
, wasn’t she?’
    â€˜Yes, she was.’
    â€˜Would you have a part in the film?’
    â€˜I’m not an actor.’
    Well, he wasn’t barking. Perhaps with elevated happinessgiven his circumstances. Even charming. His thinking seemed ordered if slightly vague. It felt like he was playing games though. An ironic vibe.
    â€˜Do you hear voices, James?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜I hear yours. I can hear murmuring. One of my neighbours is having a bad time. He’s hearing voices, I suspect. Those two guards are talking world soccer.’
    â€˜Why do you light fires?’
    He didn’t answer. His shrug might have been apologetic.
    â€˜Tell me about fire, James.’
    â€˜It’s not good. Terrible. Destructive things, fires. Heat.’
    Iris felt James was reflexive about the fire, rote, expected replies, which were also disjointed. She watched his face, subtly contorting with an inner demon perhaps. He beat it down, and gave her his attention once more.
    â€˜What’s your surname?’ she asked.
    â€˜I don’t have one. Are you angry with me, Iris?’
    â€˜Where are you from?’
    â€˜You won’t answer my question.’
    â€˜I was asking.’
    â€˜Vee vill ask zee questions.’
    â€˜Where are you from?’
    â€˜Mars.’
    Iris didn’t say anything.
    He smiled, embarrassed, ‘I should answer differently. It always causes such problems.’
    â€˜You appear so human.’
    â€˜Yes. Everyone says that.’ He stood quite still. His hands were clasped before him.
    The Norwegian girls had described him as quite beautiful, Iris recalled. ‘You know a lot about Earth.
The Silence of the Lambs
, for instance.’
    â€˜Yes. I’ve been here for a while. Jodie Foster was also in a film called
Contact
.’
    â€˜I haven’t seen it.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜What’s it about?’
    â€˜She discovers aliens.’
    â€˜Ha ha. Really?’
    He grimaced.
    â€˜Do you really think you are a Martian, or is it a kind of joke?’
    â€˜No joke.’
    â€˜A little bit?’
    â€˜I understand you think it’s weird.’
    â€˜Have you always been a Martian?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Are there times, were there any times, when you wonder if the whole thing seems a bit “unreal”, like a dream?
    â€˜Yes. Lots of the time. Do you