Langdon in IKEA
There was an unearthly aroma bustling through Langdon’s olfactory bulb as he blurred back into consciousness and to say he couldn’t put his finger on the source of the smell was putting it mildly indeed for at this very moment in time Robert Langdon couldn’t even put a finger on his own person because he was so absolutely confused. But the odour gave him something to focus on and focus he did.
His nostrils flared.
Yes, nostrils. He thought to himself. I remember them, and of course they are connected to the, to the…the nose!
Slowly but surely Langdon connected every piece of his person back together in his mind’s eye and then in his actual eye(s) because he was looking into a mirror.
Now he was fully formed again, he looked around and wondered why he was in IKEA, sitting at a Malm desk staring at himself in a Trensum mirror. The fantasticalscents that had roused his slumbering being were of course the tantalizing smell of freshly cooked Swedish meatballs. He stood and followed the aromas, salivating with ferocious intensity.
Fifteen minutes later Langdon was satisfied after eating close to twenty meatballs. The meat had healed him and had brought his decaying memory back into focus. He remembered everything.
Langdon clutched at his mouth. The horror of the truth, the pain of his memories.
Penelope had died in those catacombs. She had screamed out to him but he had been powerless to help. He never had the chance to tell her how much he cared for her, he hoped she knew but when someone dies you can’t help but soliloquise to their spectre.
The Deuce was responsible. He could see that diabolical grotesquerie of a human. He was at once both meta and sub human. Langdon saw the whole sorry story and reeled with rage.
Lying on the floor in the restaurant of the Ballymun IKEA, surrounded by horrified families, Robert Langdon unleashed a great howl of grief.
The Deuce had dumped him in Ireland. Stripped him of his titles (Master of Symbols, Symboligist, Sir Symbol) and his finances, he’d left him in this cathedral of mediocrity, this chamber of the caul, and no doubt was now laughing maniacally having accomplished his plan.
Langdon stood and looked out the window.
The sky had fallen.
And nobody seemed to notice.
And nobody cared.
Langdon left the living dead to their Scandinavian woodery and hopped on the 140 bus heading straight to the city centre.
He’d have to build himself back up from this nothing if he was to destroy The Deuce. He’d bide his time.
But first…he had to sign on.
Robert Langdon is a neo-transcendentalist, a Sadhu of Samhain, an historic detective and a conspiracy factualist. He lives in Drogheda with his husband, wife and a dule of red eared slider turtles.