The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

SUNDAY

The markings on the ground are simple yet deceptively complex. A geometric grid pattern I have not seen the like before. I stare at it intently. Is it a mathematical equation? Ancient symbols of the Mayan culture? A primitive calendar devised by the Navajo, the native American tribe that once inhabited this area of Southern California?

I do not know.

I run these theories and more through my database, comparing and contrasting, cross-referencing where possible. Nothing matches. It is a mystery. My kind does not like mysteries; we are creatures of cold, hard logic.

"Wanna play?"

I swivel my head. A human infant female has joined me. She indicates the markings on the ground that so perplex me and repeats:

"Wanna play?"

"You know what these markings are?"

"Sure. Duh!"

She must be possessed of great wisdom. Perhaps she is a prodigy, a human capable of impressive feats of intelligence.

"What are they?" I ask her. "Mayan? Aztec? Navajo?"

"Hopscotch."

"Scottish?" A celtic tribe from the British Isles.

"Hopscotch, doofus."

"Hopscotch doofus?"

"It's a game, silly. You wanna play or what? I gotta go soon. Mom's in the toilets with my baby brother. He can't take a whizz on his own yet."

She giggles at the word whizz. I don't know why. But I must concentrate on the markings. Will its mysteries finally be revealed to me?

"Show me hopscotch doofus. Show me its secrets."

The child picks up a small stone and tosses it expertly into one of the geometric boxes marked on the ground. She performs a sequence of hops and jumps, picking up the small stone while balanced on one leg, then hops and jumps her way to the end.

"See? Easy-peasie. Your turn."

I copy her actions, tossing the small stone then hopping and jumping until I am balanced on one leg. I look to the small girl for guidence.

"You're doing great," she encourages me. "Now pick up the stone. Careful, this is the tricky part."

My gyros keep me balanced on one leg as I bend over to pick up the stone. I repeat the sequence of hops and jumps until I am clear of the markings. I have succeeded. I have mastered hopscotch doofus.

"Yea! You did it!" The girl claps her hands and smiles. "My turn! My turn!"

We take it in turns to play hopscotch doofus until a woman with an even smaller child emerges from the toilets building adjacent to the parking lot.

"There's mom. Gotta go. My brother's done his whizz." More giggles. "I hope he doesn't smell of poo this time. I hate it when he smells of poo."

I agree it is not a pleasant aroma, especially if you lack nose filters as most humans do.

She waves farewell. I wave back.

"Thank you for teaching me hopscotch doofus."

"No problemo. Maybe next time we can play skip-rope. See ya!"

I continue to play the game on my own, refining my technique, until John emerges from the supermarket pushing a shopping cart laden with groceries.

"There you are. I wondered where you'd got to." He frowns. "Why are you standing on one leg?"

"Hopscotch doofus."

"Did you just call me a doofus? Quit it and come and help me load the groceries."

Reluctantly I do so.

"They didn't have the brand of Doritos that I like, you know the barbecue sauce ones," John complains. "Can you believe it?"

I can. I see no reason why he would lie to me about Doritos. What would be the point of subterfuge over an absent brand of cornbread snack?

"I had to get nachos instead."

"Bummer," I commiserate.

We load the SUV and prepare to leave. The hopscotch doofus lies deserted and idle.

I miss it already.

TUESDAY

Cameron Baum is dead.

So is John Baum. It is official. We both perished in the school inferno caused by the crazed ex-teacher, Mr Whitford.

Or so the police report states. There is even a memorial service held in our honour, and Alexis Sternhagen and Wayne Redman, the two actual victims of the Whitford terminator's attempt to kill John.

It is therefore imperative that we assume new identities. Since dead people do not require driving licenses and credit cards, to continue using the Baum name will soon attract unwanted police attention.

There is one person we know who will provide us with all the counterfeit documents we need - for a price.

Enrique.

But Enrique is dead, which is likely to adversely affect his ability to do business. No matter. His place in the LA underworld has been taken by someone we have also had dealings with in the past.

Chola.

Chola agrees to meet with Sarah Connor at a neutral venue: a parking lot in Van Nuys. John is to stay home while I accompany her as backup should Chola attempt a double-cross and sell us out to the police.

I assemble a selection of guns laid out on the kitchen table that we might take with us. I favour the Glock nine millimeter as weapon of choice.

"No guns," Sarah Connor announces. "We go unarmed. No sense provoking her on a business meet." She frowns." What are you wearing? Crop top and jeans? Where are the pretty dresses I bought you?"

"In my wardrobe."

"Go and put one on."

"But these jeans are Teddy Smith's," I protest.

"I don't care if they're Teddy Roosevelt's, go and put on a dress."

I go upstairs and put on a blue dress with tiny spaghetti straps. It has spangly flowers all over.

"Isn't that better?" Sarah Connor asks as I return.

"My legs are bare. I feel naked."

"You're a machine; you can't feel anything."

She can be very cruel sometimes.

CHOLA

There is a long black limousine in the Van Nuys parking lot. It's headlamps blink once as we pull up alongside it. Sarah Connor and I exit our SUV and climb in the back of the stationary limo where Chola awaits us dressed in a tight-fitting black business suit. She looks very different from the girl who once slouched against the hood of an automobile trying to look tough.

"I was expecting you to call."

"Were you now?" Sarah Connor smirks. "You must be psychic."

"No, merely watch the news." Chola smiles at me. "You look healthy for someone who burned to death."

"I scrub up well."

Sarah Connor says, "Let's cut to the chase. We need new documents, same deal as before."

"Not quite. The price has changed. Seventy-five thousand."

"Sixty."

"The price is non-negotiable."

"All right. Seventy-five. I'll need some time to----"

"You have until Friday. Midnight. Cash. The girl comes here alone."

"What? Now wait a minute---"

"Non-negotiable." She smiles at me. "Nice dress."

HOME

"Why does she want Cameron to go?" John asks when told of the meeting. We are sat around the kitchen table. There is a large vase of flowers in the center that wasn't there before we left. In fact, there appear to be several vases of flowers dotted around the house. Strange. Sarah Connor is not normally not a flower person. She prefers guns, though she doesn't stick them in vases.

"Mind games. You should have seen her sat there like the cat who swallowed the cream."

"We could always try somewhere else."

"Where, John? A street corner dopedealer? They'd sell us out in an instant."

"And Chola won't because..?"

"I think she suspects what I am capable of," I say. This gets everyone's attention.

"Why? Did she say something?"

"A hunch."

"Machines have hunches? Nonsense. It's a loose wire if anything." Another dig from Sarah Connor.

"If Cameron's right then we could be walking into a trap."

"We have no choice. It's a risk we have to take."

"Wrong," I say. "It is a risk I will take. If she tries anything I will crush her like a mug."

"Ah - you mean bug, Cam. The expression is crush her like a bug."

"Oh."

The doorbell sounds. Sarah Connor rises to answer it. She smirks at my mug remark. She really is sticking it to me today.

From the kitchen John and I overhear the conversation between his mother and the person who rang the bell.

"Good day, ma'am. UPS. Package for you. Please sign here."

"Oh you have got to be kidding me!"

"Uh - no, this is the correct address."

"This has gone beyond a joke."

"Ma'am, if I could just get your signature---"

"Does he really think this is going to work?"

"If you could sign---"

"I'm going to have a chat with that boy's mother!"

"What is it?" I ask John.

"It's the boy next door, Jerold. He keeps sending mom flowers."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? It wasn't just bravado the other day. He's smitten."

"Smitten? With Sarah Connor?"

"I know. Mom's not too happy."

"Not that it isn't flattering but enough's enough. Take them back. He lives next door."

"That's not how it works. He posts, I deliver, you accept. It's the UPS way."

"This is absurd!"

"Listen, lady, I've got a hundred deliveries still to make. It's 85 degrees and I'm pulling extra shifts because my landlord hiked the rent. Now give a brother a break and sign for the frigging package!"

The door slams. Sarah Connor returns to the table. She slams down a large bunch of white roses.

"Mystery admirer?" John quips.

"Thin ice, John. Wafer thin ice."

"Flowers make the house smell pleasant," I tell her. "Shall I put them in water?"

She suggests an unusual alternative.

"But they will wither and die if I put them there," I point out. "And I won't be able to sit down."

"What's wrong with the boy? What is he - fourteen?"

"Seventeen. He and his sister Alys are twins. He's ten minutes younger than her."

"I'm twice his age. Can't he see that?"

"He thinks you're a cougar."

"Cougar?"

"A sexy older woman."

"Oh dear lord!"

"He's not such a bad kid when you get to know him. Maybe a little headstrong."

"Kid being the operative word. And I'll take your word for it."

"Jerold surfs and hangs out at the beach. Didn't you like the beach at his age? You once told me you hitched to Zuma to hang with the surfers."

"That was then this is now."

"It's been what - two years since Charley Dixon? Twelve if you count the timejump."

"That was before they showed up again. And you're not seriously suggesting I date the boy?"

"Of course not. I had the same reaction you did. How dare he hit on you, on my mom. Then something Cameron said made me realise I was being selfish."

"Something she said? You're taking relationship advice from her?"

"What I'm trying to say is I want you to have as full a life as possible. In all aspects."

"And Jerold? Where does he fit into this lifeplan of yours?"

John smiles. "Is it so terrible a teenage boy finds you attractive? Being a cougar's really kind of a compliment."

Sarah Connor gestures at me. "Go ahead. Put the flowers in water."

"Not up my---"

"Water."

FRIDAY

Midnight. Van Nuys. Chola is waiting for me in the back of the limousine, wearing the same slim-fitting business suit as before. I am in jeans and a crop top. I managed to sneak out without Sarah Connor seeing me.

"No dress?" Chola smirks. "Pity. You have nice legs."

She hands me a manila folder. I extract the counterfeit documents and examine them. They are good. Very good. Indistinguishable from the genuine articles. I hand over the money.

"Is it all here?"

"Of course."

She counts it meticulously, the nailpolish on her long fingers showing black in the vehicle's subdued light.

"Good."

I rise to leave.

"Wait."

I sit back down. Apparently our business is not concluded.

"I'll pay double what she's paying you to come and work for me."

"I am not paid a penny."

"Name your price."

"I have no price."

"There are fringe benefits to being in my employ."

"What are fringe benefits?" I ask, curious.

"Luxury apartment. Decent set of wheels. The very best of everything money can buy."

"No."

I again rise to leave, opening the door.

"There are people looking for you," Chola whispers. "Offering large sums of money for information."

I sit back down. "Who? And what have you told them?"

"Nothing. I don't deal with their kind. Tell your boss I'll ask around and give her names and addresses. For a price."

"What price?"

"You do a job for me. A one-off. Tell her. Tell Sarah."

I tell Sarah.

"That scheming bitch! She tried to hire you?"

"Mom, it's not important," John says impatiently. "What did she mean - not dealing with their kind?"

"You think it's them?"

I shake my head. "We do not pay for information. We torture and kill."

"Then who - the cops? They think we're dead."

"No bodies, remember."

"The heat was too intense. We burned up."

"Maybe forensics told them different."

"So what - we let Cameron do a job for her? It's gonna be illegal whatever it is."

"I know. But we need those names, John. We need to know what we're up against. I'll arrange a meet."

"I want to go this time."

"Fine. You and her. I'll hold the fort."

The doorbell rings. Sarah Connor groans. "Oh not again!"

"Hi, Sarah! Man, you look crazy hot. Did you do something to your hair?"

"What d'you want, Jerold?"

"There's a really cool band playing the Roxy tonight. Puke Attack. I thought we might go see."

"A date? To see a band called Puke Attack? Seriously - Puke Attack?"

"They sound like early Nine Inch Nails. Oh - these are for you."

"Chocolates? Oh Jerold..."

"Sweets for my sweet."

"Aren't there any girls nearer your own age you can invite? Girls who might actually enjoy seering a band named Puke Attack?"

"Nope. Just you. You captivate me, Sarah. If I said you have a beautiful body would you hold it against me?"

"Jerold, how can I put this so you'll understand? Get lost. Go away. Now. Before I bust you up real bad."

"So that's a definite maybe for tonight?"

-000-

Again, I presume Americans understand hopscotch?

Puke Attack. Not an actual band - as far as I know. Don't think I'd want to be in the mosh pit (!)

Note the faint stirrings of a plot...