We are extremely grateful to Mick Pilsworth, Chairman of Motive Television, for writing this seasonal story.  AIM directors beware - you may find this story too frightening!

It was a dark, wet and windy December night in the heart of the City of London; a gibbous moon loomed over St Paul’s Cathedral.  The office Christmas party-goers had long gone home. The empty streets glistened in the driving rain,  with not a soul to be seen save for one crouched, portly figure, sheltering in the doorway of an old building.  Leaning back into the doorway to avoid the relentless beating of the wind and rain, the figure stumbled as the ancient door on which he was leaning swung slowly open.  Grateful to escape the scything rain, the man entered the old hallway of the building to catch his breath.  But as he tried to see into the darkness, the door behind him was caught by the howling gale and slammed itself shut.  The man turned to the door and tried to open it, but it was shut fast. 

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“Damn”, he muttered.

As he examined the lock on the door, he was startled by a sepulchral voice behind him.

“Who is there?” it croaked, sounding as though it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.  Along with the voice wafted a sickening pungent smell of death and decay.

“I...I was just sheltering from the rain”, said the man, nervously, as he stared into the impenetrable darkness in the hallway.  Suddenly, he noticed a small glow at the end of the hall, and glimpsed a cloaked figure walking towards him holding a candle.  He could not see a face as the cloak had a hood that covered the figure’s head.

“Who are you?” croaked the hooded apparition.

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“M..m..m..my name is M...Mervyn King” stammered the man, peering at the hooded figure.

“What are you?” it croaked.

“I am the Governor of the Bank of England”, said King.  “And who are you?”

“I am The Nomad”

“What?”

“I am The Nomad.  I look after The Listed”, said the Nomad.

“Who are they?” asked King.

“Come”, said the figure, “follow me”, and he turned and led the way down the winding corridor.  King followed, almost blind in the dark, but catching glimpses of the Nomad’s candle-lit progress as he stalked along what now seemed like an endless black corridor.  Finally they reached some stairs, and the Nomad descended, seeming to glide down them, King hurriedly following his flowing cape and the candle’s glow.  After descending for several  minutes, they reached a huge dark chamber. 

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“Here are The Listed”, said the Nomad.

At first King could see nothing, but soon became aware of  low moaning sounds, and, as his eyes adjusted, he began to make out human figures trapped inside the walls of the cavern, like flies in a spider’s web.  It was as if they were frozen into the walls.  There were hundreds of them.  Their mouths were all locked wide open in horror.  Their eyes were staring at him as they stretched their hands out to him, wordlessly begging for release.

“Oh my God”, gasped King, reeling back in horror.  “Why are they trapped here like this?”

The Nomad turned to him and said “They are The Listed; they cannot leave.  They must stay here to feed the Professionals.”

King looked back at the scene of horror before him, and began to make out the shapes of hundreds of tubes.  The tubes had been inserted into the trapped bodies of The Listed.  The tubes appeared to carry the blood of The Listed.  At the other end of the tubes were large teats, and greedily sucking on these were hundreds of bloated figures, their bellies distended and their eyes closed as they gorged on the life-blood of The Listed.

“Who are they?” asked King, pointing at the somnolent shapes sucking on the teats.

“They are the Learned Friends”, said The Nomad.  “And beneath them are the The Comptrollers”. 

King then saw that underneath each of The Learned Friends was a Comptroller, greedily licking up the dregs that escaped from the teats above.

“But why cannot The Listed escape?” he asked The Nomad.

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“Because they have joined what you know as “The AIM”.  Once they have joined it is impossible for them to leave...unless they pay us with their remaining life-blood.  Some of The Listed exist elsewhere.  The Listed who thrive on the AIM,  the Miners and the Drillers, live on a higher level, where their lives are much better.  Down here in the cellar we keep the unloved Listed, the micro-caps and the under-capitalized.  They are doomed to live half-lives, their life-blood sucked away by the Learned Friends and The Comptrollers.  And I too must dip my beak”, said the Nomad, cackling, as he suddenly leaned forward and stuck his long, pointed beak, hidden from view inside the hood of his cape, into the outstretched wrist of one of the Listed.  Blood spurted and The Nomad sucked on it.

King suddenly felt faint and his head began to spin, the horror of what he had seen overwhelming his senses.  His knees buckled and the image of The Nomad faded as he lost consciousness.

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As he came around he was aware of being cold and wet.  He was lying on the street, by the doorway in which he had taken shelter.  As his blurred vision became clearer, he made out the features of a City of London policeman looking down at him.  A police van was at the kerb. The policeman slapped his face.

“Come on mate, come on, that’s it, wake up, wake up”, said the policeman.

King slowly regained his senses, the rain spattering his glasses.

He tried to speak, but the words came out wrong.  He was mumbling incoherently.

“Come on mate”, said the policeman, “you’ve had enough Christmas partying for tonight”.

Finally King managed to regain control of his speech: “I am not drunk, I have been to a very strange place and saw some very strange things”, he said.

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“Yeah, right”, said the policeman.  “I suppose next you’ll be telling me that you’re the Governor of the Bank of England.  Come on now, easy does it.”

And with that the policeman dragged the protesting King into the back of a police van and drove him off into the dark night.

As the van disappeared down the street, a hooded figure could be seen in the doorway in which King had been slumped.  He pulled the door tight shut and slammed the bolts in place to lock it.  As his footsteps receded, the moon shone more brightly.  Over the old doorway three letters could be seen, etched into the stonework:  “AIM: Exit Not For Everyone”

  This article is copyright of Aimzine Ltd. No part should be copied, reproduced or distributed in any way without prior consent.

Mick Pilsworth is Chairman of Motive Television PLC.  

If you enjoyed reading this article, see also Mick Pilsworth’s Essential Guide to AIM 2009 published in Aimzine at the beginning of the year.

RETURN TO AIMZINE FRONT PAGE | December 2009

Mick Pilsworth, Chairman of Motive Television