Lammas. August had arrived at last. I wanted to get into the holiday spirit, but almost from the very first moment I woke up the bloody phone rang, and it was Mr Beresford on the other end of the line, practically having hysterics. When I could finally get him calmed down sufficiently to explain to me what was the matter, it turned out that my old bug-bear Tara Mitchell had dumped a collection of paintings - literally on his doorstep - and subsequently disappeared.
“She has a habit of doing that”, I said “She moves into a place, makes a bloody nuisance of herself, and then vanishes again. Doubtless we’ll about her again at some point, getting served with another ASBO I expect!”
“That’s all very well”, said Mr Beresford “But I can’t put these pictures up in my shop, people would complain!”
“What’s wrong with them then?” I said.
“What’s …?” (I could almost see Mr Beresford flapping with impatience that I could be so dense as to not be able to see these paintings from the other end of a telephone wire) “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them”, he said “They’re disgusting! Pictures of women mutilated, disembowelled. Horrible stuff. I mean, I’m all for supporting and encouraging new talent, and I have nothing wrong with anything a bit avant-garde, but this stuff … it’s like something out of a video nasty! And how a WOMAN can paint this sort of thing about other women is beyond me completely!”
(It’s perfectly understandable for a man to want to show women mutilated and disembowelled then?!).
“Tara Mitchell has always been a strange one”, I said “I always used to think she was just pretending to be an artist”.
“No, she has talent”, said Mr Beresford “But it’s completely misdirected. I can’t put them up in my establishment, Gray. They look like they’ve been painted by Jack The Ripper! I’m not running The Little Shop Of Horrors!”
I was glad Mr Beresford couldn’t see my face, as I was having trouble not laughing. You see, I had always thought that Mr Beresford looked EXACTLY like the proprietor of a horror shop! I managed to compose myself.
“I’d just dump them if you feel like that, Mr B”, I said “She clearly doesn’t want them, and it doesn’t sound like you’ve got much hope of selling them. Either shove them away in a back room, or ask if anybody wants to scrub them down and use them for the canvasses”.
“I was wondering if perhaps you would like them”, he said.
“Why would I want pictures of mutilated women all over my house?!” I said “And I don’t want anything that’s been created by Tara Mitchell anyway, I’ve had just about a basinful of that woman this year!”
“One of my neighbours has got a skip outside his house at the moment”, said Mr Beresford, more calmly “He’s having a bit of a clear-out. I’ll put them in there. I just hope the local kids don‘t decide to fish them out again. They‘re always messing around in skips”.
“Bury them under a pile of junk”, I said.
“She’s sent me an e-mail you know”, said Mr B “No clue as to where she’s gone, or if she’s coming back, oh no, nothing useful like that. Just this foul-mouthed diatribe. I’d read it to you, but it’s chock-full of swear words”.
“I’m not easily shocked”, I said “I swear too much myself”.
“Alright here goes then”, he said “’Why can’t all the fucking shit in the world go away, in fact why can’t the fucking shit go fuck itself!’ That’s what she wrote”.
“Well I guess we all feel a bit like that at the moment”, I said “Poor old Tara though. That’s what you get when you build your life around hate, destruction and negativity!”
“Have you got any more work for me yet?” said Mr Beresford.
“August is supposed to be a holiday month you know!” I protested.
“You’re self-employed, it doesn’t count”, he said, rendering me temporarily speechless. He then added with what I can only call breathtaking irrelevance “And what’s the Prime Minister doing in Los Angeles at the moment, that’s what I’d like to know”.
“Emigrating?” I said, hopefully.
I had once seen a documentary about a really posh hotel, and had been so impressed by the contemptuous , lofty way the manager had put the telephone receiver down on an awkward guest, that I’ve been trying to perfect it ever since. Unfortunately, whenever I try it, I’m more like Father Dougal Maguire and miss the cradle entirely! It needs more work obviously.
I decided I needed some fresh air and exercise. I was being plagued by diarrhoea at the moment, and I couldn’t think out whether this was because I had been eating too much egg mayonnaise, or the stressful dreams I had been having about my Father. Last night’s had been particularly bad. It was a grim re-enactment of too many dinner-table scenes I had endured with him when I was young. I woke up from it feeling physically sick.
Misty had gone round to Mrs Jackson’s once again to see Tufty’s replacement. I could see that, the way things were going on, I was going to end up being emotionally blackmailed into getting a dog too. My Father’s recent legacy had made my time-honoured excuses about extortionate vet’s bills entirely spurious (for the time being anyway. Thirty grand doesn’t last forever you know, even if Misty thinks it does!).
Al joined me on the sea-wall. The air was fresh with a strong squally wind. After the heavy, oppressive soup-like atmosphere of the past few weeks this felt wonderfully invigorating. It was more like September weather than August.
“Can I say something un-politically-correct?” Al suddenly said to me.
“Well I won’t shop you to the Thought Police, if that’s what you’re worried about!” I said.
“I’ve never really liked gays before I met you”, he said “But you’re not all that camp”.
“I have my moments, now and again”, I said “I dress up in a pink feather boa at Christmas-time!”
He laughed (he thinks I’m joking!!!).
“I was in a pub once and a whole gang of queers came in”, he went on “Talk about loud and obnoxious! Shrieking at the tops of their voices, coming out with things like ’my friend here’ and slapping each other’s legs. I couldn’t have felt more intimidated if a bunch of pissed skinheads had come in!”
“Safety in numbers”, I said “They were making a statement, because nobody was likely to pick on them if there’s a large gang of them. You’d have probably had the same with a gang of women. Sometimes we all just get tired of the world having always been set up for straight men”.
“It doesn’t feel like it is at the moment!” said Al.
“Oh you lot still have control of most things”, I said, bluntly “Sometimes I think that’s half the trouble! No offence intended to you, I wouldn’t put you in the same bracket as Bush and Blair!”
“I’m glad to hear it!” he said “No, as I was saying, you’re not really camp”.
“You’ve been watching too much television”, I said “In television land all queers dress from head to foot in leather and chains, work as hairdressers and waiters, and talk with silly lisps. Some of us are non-Scene you know. I’ve never really been interested in all that”.
“I guess I’ve just never understood homosexuality”, Al sighed “I could never understand how anybody could actually fancy a man”.
“How do you think women cope!” I said.
“I mean, I could understand two men being really close friends”, he continued, now well-launched “I sometimes wished I’d had one these past couple of years. A best mate, someone you could really talk to, and he’d understand everything, and who you could go out with. I think that must be great. After all, women don’t really understand us do they? But not … THAT, I mean … how …? Sodomy’s bad enough, the thought makes my eyes water! And as for mutual masturbation … well it’s a bit behind-the-bike-sheds isn’t it! Sorry”.
He didn’t have to be. I was too busy laughing. He joined in.
“Good job you didn’t get onto blow-jobs and rimming!” I said.
“Do me a favour, I haven’t eaten yet!” said Al.
We walked on a bit further. It was the sort of day when sound is borne along on the wind, and I could hear clearly the trains going in and out of Fobbington Station. Somebody was revving a motorbike, and in the far distance, was the sound of children playing. It was a beautiful day. We paused and looked over the patch of scrub-land to Beach Lane.
“I’ve never lived by the sea before”, said Al “I can see I’m going to have to start looking for somewhere round here to put down roots”.
“Magda might sell you her apartment when she’s finished it”, I said.
“I’d have to win the Lottery first!” said Al “Those places will be worth a King’s Ransom when they’re done up! I’m really worried about our Robbie you know. He always used to be such a sensible lad”.
“Perhaps he’s got tired of being sensible”, I said “I know I have as well at times this past year. And it’s never got him very far with the opposite sex has it? As far as I can gather, he’s only ever had one girlfriend, and she sounds like she was a bit of a cold fish”.
“I know”, said Al “But he’s changed since we went to Scotland. Sometimes I even wonder if something sort of altered him up at Ghyll House. I know I’m not making much sense. I mean I’m not implying he’s become demonically possessed or anything. But it seemed to bring out something in him which he can’t handle”.
“Well he’s going to have to start trying to handle it”, I said “He’s a grown man, he’s not 14-years-old!”
We walked down a steep flight of concrete steps, which connects the sea-wall with one end of Beach Lane. An old lady was walking towards us, accompanied by an absolutely massive dog. The dog was clearly one of those exuberant sort who thinks that all strangers are a new friend.
“Byron!” she shouted at him, trying to rein in his tongue-lolling enthusiasm “You think everybody loves you don’t you!”
“I’m not surprised, with a name like that!” I muttered to Al.
We both of us fell into an uneasy silence as we walked past ‘The Hedges’. It was as if the Wicked Witch Of The West lived there.
Back at ‘Barnacles’ Xanthe was standing in the front garden, taking photographs of the sky. Her eyes were so caked in mascara though that I was amazed she could see anything!
“A parcel has arrived for Robbie”, she said, trailing us into the house “It came Recorded Delivery, I had to sign for it. And Misty’s come home. He’s shut himself in the bedroom, he seems very upset”.
I went into our room, and found Misty sitting up in the bed, with the duvet wrapped over his head.
“Misty, what’s all this about?” I said, shutting the door behind me “What’s happened?”
There was some tearful-sounding mumbling coming from beneath the duvet, but I’d be buggered if I could make out what he was saying. I tried to pull the duvet from him, but he just wrapped his arms around it even more. I could see there was only one way out of this, I would have to tickle him until he came up for air. I got on the bed and sat astride him, and then tickled his ribs. Eventually I managed to prise the duvet off him, and a little tear-stained face greeted me, complete with oodles of snot coming out of his nostrils.
“Me and Mrs Jackson were walking along the main street”, he said “And we were talking about Tufty. And Mrs Jackson said she hoped that if Tufty was dead, he hadn’t felt any pain, and that he was now in Heaven. And Henry overheard us, he was coming out of the Mini-Mart. And he said that dogs have no souls so how can they go to Heaven, and that no animals have souls!”
“Typical bloody Henry!” I said “You wait til he comes home, I won’t half give him what-for! I swear I’m going to buy him that sandwich-board I keep promising him!”
“It can’t be true though, can it?” Misty sniffed violently.
“If there’s a Heaven it must be a very dreary place”, I said “Not only no animals, but it’ll be full of people like Henry, not to mention virgins and suicide bombers! I think we should give it a wide berth, don’t you?”
Misty climbed onto my lap and wrapped his arms round my neck. I cuddled him, and was relieved that he had stopped sobbing. Poor old Misty.
The bulky parcel for Robbie turned out to be the first-draft manuscript of his friend Duncan’s apocalyptic end-of-civilisation-as-we-know-it novel. It was for Robbie to read as soon as possible, and to give helpful comments on apparently. I remarked that when an author says they want your brutally honest opinion, they usually want anything but that! Even so though, I hoped it would keep Robbie absorbed and out of mischief for a few days. In other words, that it would stop him going round to ’The Hedges’.
No such luck. He went round there late afternoon and was gone for a few hours. He came back whilst I was chopping onions for dinner in the kitchen. He made me jump out of my skin by suddenly sidling through the back door. I couldn’t help but observe that Robbie was starting to develop some very furtive movements, and I hoped that this wasn’t a consequence of hanging about with Jeannette.
“I wish you’d give Jeannette a chance, Gray”, he said, fiddling with one of my tea-towels awkwardly.
“After what she did to Paul, why should I?” I said, still chopping onions.
“Well he hasn’t suffered unduly for it has he?” said Robbie “I mean, he’s not exactly in trauma is he!”
“Ask yourself how you’d feel about it all if Jeannette was a man”, I said “And Paul was a girl, how would you feel about it then?”
“I know”, said Robbie, miserably “But they’re not, and that’s all there is to it. She’s not evil you know. It’s just that she’s had a strange life, she’s always been on the outside of things”.
“Because she’s never made much effort to get on the inside of them!” I said.
“Sometimes she seems like an alien”, said Robbie (which was a tad uncomfortable for me, because sometimes I have seriously wondered if she was!) “You remember that old David Bowie film, ’The Man Who Fell To Earth’, well she’s like that, except she’s a woman obviously. She doesn’t seem to understand the basic things about people”.
“What, like treating them decently?” I snarled, annoyed that once again I was having to play The Voice Of Dissent where Jeannette bloody Temple and her ridiculous fan-club were concerned.
“I felt so sorry for her this evening”, he went on “Just as I turned to leave, she stood there, in the doorway, looking so little and skinny and frail, I thought oh God I’m gonna give her a hug. I thought she might pull back you know, because she’s not at ease with all that sort of thing. But she didn’t, she responded. And I thought, probably nobody’s ever done that to her before you know, given her a hug just out of spontaneity like that”.
I was annoyed to find myself crying, and I couldn’t blame it all on the onions! It seemed to have been a very emotional day, what with one thing and another, and I must admit that Robbie might have had a point. There was a strong aura about Jeannette of someone who’s lived their entire life completely devoid of affection, a form of autism even. She had no natural empathy with people, because it was probably something that had been stifled in her.
“Even so”, I said, blowing my nose on a scrap of paper towel and then screwing it up and throwing it in the bin “Why couldn’t she treat Henry in a decent way? The wretched man adored her, and she treated him like a cockroach!”
“Yeah well”, Robbie sighed “You’ve said it enough yourself, Henry is fucking annoying isn’t he!”
“Yes but …” I said.
“Was it Aldous Huxley who said some people are born to be persecuted, you can see it written all over them”, said Robbie.
“That sounds a very callous, Nietchzean-style concept”, I said (fuck! We’re being all literary this evening aren’t we!).
“I’ve heard you say enough times, Gray”, said Robbie “You like people who help themselves, you get fed up with Henry because he’s such a whinger and a wimp …”
“Yes”, I said “But I don’t like your rather right wing-sounding philosophy either. I mean, a lot of people might look at Misty and think he’s there just to be trampled underfoot, and I can’t go along with that”.
“I would never say that about Misty”, said Robbie “He scares the crap out of me when he starts cracking his knuckles! I never think of him as weak”.
“He’s not”, I said “But he is vulnerable, and that’s why I can’t ascribe to the law of the jungle”.
“I don’t understand how you can forgive Tara Mitchell and all her antics”, said Robbie “And not Jeannette”.
“Now hang on just a minute”, I said “I’ve never said anything about forgiving Tara Mitchell. I can’t stand the woman, or some of the things she’s done. I feel sorry for her that’s all, you can feel sorry for somebody but not like them you know. There have been times I’ve even felt sorry for Tony Blair!”
(Although admittedly not in recent months!).
Robbie’s constant angst-in-his-pants attitude was really starting to bore me. I couldn’t help feeling that perhaps a change of attitude, a more positive outlook on life in general, might gain him more success with the opposite sex. Who the blazes in their right mind is going to want somebody with the mindset of a perpetual moody teenager hanging around?!
If I had hoped that Duncan’s manuscript might keep Robbie occupied I was to be sorely disappointed. It was stuffed back into its jiffy-bag and ignored. There was probably poor old Duncan, wherever he was, sitting there biting his nails, anxiously awaiting Robbie’s verdict on his ‘magnum opus’, and Robbie was too busy skulking about round ’The Hedges’ to give it any serious consideration!
To add to life’s little irritations Mr Charmless Pillock The Builder now appeared in Beach Lane. He had been hired to do some emergency repair work on one of the nearby holiday cottages, and would doubtless make a right meal out of that as well. One morning I watched a bare-legged Kristy skipping down the lane like an over-excited schoolgirl, to accost Charmless Pillock getting out of his van. I had already heard rumours in the neighbourhood that he was getting impatient with Kristy’s attentions, most particularly her constant text-messaging to him.
“Tell me”, said Magda, who was watching all this with me, Al and Xanthe in the front garden of ’Barnacles’ “Do men like women who constantly hang around them? I’ve often doubted it myself”.
“Only if he was madly in love with her”, I said “And somehow I doubt that’s the case in this instance!”
“Oh the silly woman”, Magda sighed “She should know better at her age! Although, having said that, I suppose there are plenty of women who say that about me!”
“No contest between you and her”, said Al, staunchly “That woman’s as daft as a brush!”
Xanthe didn’t say anything. Just stood there with her mouth open and her brow furrowed, as usual.
“God, we are turning into such voyeurs!” I said, and led the way back into the house.
“Well people get their kicks in some strange ways”, said Al.
For some reason this activated a spark of memory in Xanthe, who immediately began to tell us about an afternoon she had spent once filming a scene for a soft porn film.
“All I had to do was to roll around on this bit of carpet with a banana”, she said “And then, after a while, another girl came in, and we both ate it together, after we had peeled it of course. I was paid about a 100 quid to do that”.
“Big bucks!” I said, whilst Magda was covering her face with her hand and trying not to laugh.
“Who watches that rubbish?” said Al, in mild exasperation.
“Robbie soon, if we’re not careful!” I said.
As if to add the final note of surrealism to the whole scene, an ice-cream van went past the house, blaring out the theme tune from ’Z-Cars’ at full volume.
That afternoon something extraordinary happened - I actually found myself alone in ’Barnacles’, for what felt like the first time in an age. I thought I’d better put it to some good use by doing some work, even though I felt like sticking two paintbrushes up at Mr Beresford. I set to work preparing a canvas, and cleaning brushes and palette-knives, when I noticed Kristy hovering by the front gate, looking bewildered and disorientated, like a little old lady who had arrived at Heathrow Airport and found she had lost her passport. She was sweating under the heat, her hair sticking up from her forehead, and I noticed that she was developing a bit of a bald patch on the top of her head. I put this down to her age. I’ve heard that women can suffer some hair loss when they go through the menopause. I felt sorry for the poor old stick, and invited her in for a cup of tea.
Once in the kitchen, the flood-gates opened. She had clearly worked herself up into quite a state.
“Nothing’s gone right for the past month”, she wailed “Nothing! I don’t know what’s happening, I really don’t!”
“A lot of it’s due to the heat”, I said “The temperatures we’ve been having make it very hard to get anything done, and nobody’s been sleeping properly, which doesn’t help”.
“Yes”, she said, sombrely “I wanted to do some pottering, but I don’t seem to have been able to”.
She wailed about how she was sick of everybody keep popping out of the woodwork to go on about her daughter’s wedding, and how she must be absolutely Devastated that she hadn’t been told anything about it.
“I thought I was coping with it really well”, she said “And then they go on at me about how they’d be really devastated if they were in my position, and I’m just sick of it. People are so damn nosey around here. They weren’t like that where I used to live”.
I said it was just people showing an interest, and unfortunately not being terribly tactful about it. Poor old Kristy, although she had brought a lot of it on herself. Ever since I had known her she had gone around telling people every gory detail about her life, treating it as though it was some unmissable soap opera, a sort of ‘Peyton Place’ for the Noughties, and now it had turned round and bit her. She was a bit like those daft celebrities, who go to fanatical lengths to court publicity, and then throw spectacular tantrums because the paparazzi had photographed them sporting a beer gut or cellulite on holiday! Those who live by the sword …
“Your emotions are clearly very raw at the moment”, I said, which is the sort of thing that is guaranteed to soothe a woman. (Really, I think Robbie could do with learning a few of these phrases).
She agreed that yes she was feeling very raw at the moment, and then went on to tell me how Owen Maddock had left a single red rose Sello taped to her car window. My first thought on hearing this was the bloody old skinflint! ONE red rose? When I found out how I felt about Misty, he got a dozen!
“That’s such a romantic gesture don’t you think?” she said.
(Not really, I still think he’s a bloody old skinflint).
“What are you going to do about Owen, Kristy?” I sighed “In the long-term I mean”.
“Oh he’ll be told properly one day”, she said “He knows he hasn’t got a hope with me anyway”.
I couldn’t help feeling that a bloke who goes around cello taping a red rose to the car window really hasn’t fully digested that harsh message yet!
“The trouble is”, she said “I’ve been talking about Owen with some of my other ‘friends‘, and they say Owen is just one of those people who are born to be kicked around. You’ll probably find everybody despised him at school too”.
This wouldn’t surprise me at all, quite frankly! But I found something unutterably depressing about the thought that anyone who was bullied at school (and a great many of us were!) should have to gloomily resign themselves to a lifetime of such treatment. I was hearing far too much of this Law Of The Jungle stuff lately.
That night I had a very enjoyable dream (for a change), where me and Misty were at a very camp party, full of people dressed in outrageous outfits, and generally having a good time. It left me determined that I was going to have to put more thought into our forthcoming wedding. Not that that was going to be terribly camp. No stretch limos, or pink suits, that kind of thing. The Sir Elton John Spectacular isn’t really our thing, but I wanted it to be fun all the same.
The next morning Misty was stretched out on the sofa, and I was doing some work. I asked him what sort of thing he’d like to wear on the big day, aware that Aleck’s snotty comment about wearing white was still rankling with him.
“A long, black leather coat”, he said, swinging his legs to the floor and looking magically animated “I’ve seen just the thing in a shop window in Fobbington. I spect it’s very expensive though”.
“That doesn’t matter”, I said.
“It will be”, he said, forlornly “Mrs Jackson bought a leather sofa recently, and it’s so expensive everybody’s scared to sit on it!”
“Sort of defeats the point of having a sofa really doesn’t it!” I said.
Nevertheless I was determined Misty was going to have his leather coat, even if it had gone from the shop in Fobbington, I would look for one on eBay. I said I would Get The Car Out after lunch, and we’d go and look in town. I wanted to do something really nice for somebody. Things were a bit depressing at the moment. The wheel of life seemed to have got stuck, rusted into place by the interminable Dog Days of Summer.
Tony Blair had announced he was going to serve another year as Prime Minister, which made me nearly want to scream and cry, gnash my teeth, tear my hair, and howl at the Moon. Robbie’s involvement with Jeannette was giving me a depressing sense of deja-vu, as the house rang with more blasted cries of “Poor Jeannette!” As if I hadn’t had enough of all this from Henry back in the Spring! Henry himself was resolutely refusing to address any of the problems in his life, or what the hell he was going to do after October, when he and Jeannette were supposed to be going back home. Even ’Big Brother’ on the television had a depressing aura of never-ending deja-vu about it. Gruesome muppets that people had paid good money to get evicted from the house over the previous few months, because we were all thoroughly sick of them and wanted them banished back into oblivion, were being put back in! It was like some awful curse that couldn’t be exorcised, no matter how hard you tried.
I went across the lane to tell Misty, who was playing golf on the scrubland, that I was ready to go into town, and noticed that a strange car was parked in Jeannette’s driveway. It was a large, posh, silver effort, but with tinted windows, and, curiously, no badges and insignia whatsoever. Nothing to indicate the make of the car. And, even more bizarrely, no number-plates. I couldn’t help being reminded of the black car that Magda said had followed us up some way through the forest to Ghyll House a few weeks ago.
I called Misty over, and asked if he had seen anyone get out of the car.
“Two blokes that’ve only just arrived”, he said “Bald heads, dark glasses and smart suits”.
I felt myself crackling with tension all over. This was exactly the same description of the men that Janey Brierson had been speaking to the afternoon she disappeared in Clag Heath. The thought of Misty being alone outside when they arrived filled me with unspeakable horror.
“Next time it happens you come and tell me straight away!” I said.
It took me some while to convince him I wasn’t actually telling him off, and he looked dejected on the drive to Fobbington. He cheered up when he saw the leather coat was still in the shop, and he was mesmerised by the whole process of the coat being unhooked from its security wiring, and the heady smell of the leather up close. Even with putting it on over his shorts, t-shirt and sandals, he looked the absolute cat’s whiskers.
“I’ve never worn anything so cool!” he said.
The shop assistant kept dropping hints that I should decide what to wear for the big day as well, but I said I hadn’t made my mind up yet (I hadn’t given it any thought at all in fact!).
“A velvet suit”, said Misty, when we stepped back out into the street, him clutching a large cardboard bag with string handles “I think you should wear a velvet suit”.
“A velvet suit?” I said, rather more dubiously “What, with a nice frilly shirt underneath, and my glasses as well, to really go for the Austin Powers look?!”
“Not like that!” Misty giggled “Do you want to call in and see Mr Beresford whilst we’re here?”
“No I don’t!” I said “He’ll either moan at me about doing more work, or try and palm Tara Mitchell’s ropey old pictures off on me!”
When we got back to ’Barnacles’ we found Xanthe crouched inside her wagon, peering nervously through the window. I managed to coax her out of it and into the house.
“Two men called”, she said, once we were all indoors. In spite of the heat I didn’t immediately open the windows, as I wanted us to be able to talk in total privacy.
“The ones who had been at Jeannette’s house?” I said.
“I didn’t like the look of them”, said Xanthe “They freaked me out. They came up to the veranda and rang the door-bell, and then turned and left again”.
“Did you hear them say anything?” I said.
“They didn’t speak at all”, said Xanthe “Everything seemed to go really quiet whilst they were here. I couldn’t even hear the seagulls. It was like having a really bad head-cold, you know what I mean? Everything seemed to go fuzzy”.
I looked down at my bare arms, which had gone completely goose-pimply.
“You did the right thing”, I said “If they turn up again, and you’re alone, don’t approach them. I’ll have a word with Henry when he gets back from wherever he is. See if there’s any remote chance he knows anything at all about this”.
I sat up late, waiting for Henry to put in a reappearance, but he was conspicuous by his absence all evening. I read the latest report from my psychic advisor, who seemed to have wasted the 60 dollars I had sent her just to have a rant at people of my age group. That we had a strange combination of coarse vulgarity and high moral values (only in the sense that we would like to see people actually being punished for wrongdoing these days, and not have the most revolting crimes being treated as one big fucking joke! And perhaps if she had been taught in the 1970s by the so-called 60s Wild Child lot, who were more interested in reading their fucking Union rule-books in class than actually doing any active teaching, and who ALWAYS tried to pathetically ingratiate themselves with the class bullies, then she might feel a tad reactionary at around the age of 40 too!). She did say some insightful things about my childhood, about how I had grown up in a house of secrets, and that this had left me secretive as a result. She concluded by saying something so outrageously flattering that I could only deduce that she was trying to get back into my good books again, in case she had offended me earlier on in the report. “You have a strong touch of the creative genius about you”, she said.
“Of course you have”, said Misty, with heart-rending sincerity “I’ve never doubted it for a moment!”
He and Paul said I seemed disappointed in the reading, and that I should ring some chap called Howard Patterson who does astrology and Tarot readings over the phone apparently, and who both Mrs Jackson and Paul’s Mum swear by. I rang up Howard Patterson mainly to shut them up, and found myself listening to a bloke with the most seductive, softly-spoken Scottish voice. I haven’t the faintest idea what he said, it was enough just to have his voice oozing over me like softly-whipped chocolate. By the end of it I felt like that girl who appears to be being very gently dragged along the lawn by her heels in some pop video I saw a few months ago. Or the bloke falling softly through the floor in that scene in ’Trainspotting’.
“Was he good?” said Misty, eagerly.
“Not bad”, I said, thinking that if Howard Patterson ever got fed up with the old horoscope and fortune-telling lark, he could always work on a sex phone line for straight women and gay men! I had a feeling that Mrs J and Paul’s Mum weren’t just ringing him up to find out what Saturn and Mercury were going to be up to in the month ahead!!!
Anyway, as sod’s law would have it, Henry decided to come home after I had gone to bed. Fully primed by Paul that I was quite keen to see him (well I wouldn’t have put it quite like that myself!), Henry appeared by my bedside, something he was doing rather too much of lately.
“Where the fuck have you been all day and all evening?” I said.
“I went for a walk”, he said.
“Where to? Land’s End?!” I said.
I was annoyed. Most of the time I couldn’t have cared less if Henry had taken a long walk off the end of Brighton Pier, but today, just because for once I needed to ask him something important, I had to carry on as though I was some neglected lover.
“Never mind”, I said, impatiently, before he had a chance to answer, and went on to ask him what he knew of the two men in the flash, unmarked car who had turned up at ’The Hedges’ earlier that day. Henry denied all knowledge of them. In fact he got himself into quite a bewildered state about it. I have no idea if this was genuine innocence on his part or whether, as I strongly suspected had been the case with Toady’s visits, that he simply blanked his mind to things he didn’t want to see. I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere with Henry, and was left with the depressing feeling that I was going to have to bite the bullet and go round and see Jeannette. A prospect that was about as appealing as cuddling a tarantula!
The following afternoon ’Clash Of The Titans’ was on television, which kept Misty and Xanthe comfortably absorbed for a couple of hours. I took advantage of this to slip out and see Jeannette, using the excuse that Al and I were going for a short walk. Al was very keen to come round to ’The Hedges’ with me, and I was glad of his company. I knew that Misty would have insisted on coming if he knew where I was really going, but I didn’t want him setting foot in ’The Hedges’ again if I could possibly help it.
Jeannette was just going out when we arrived, and let us in very reluctantly. I was struck once again by how gloomy and depressing that bungalow was. Going into the living-room I found myself glancing up at the central light-fitting, at the spot where Xanthe had photographed the strange black shape hanging from the ceiling.
“What business is it of yours what visitors I have?” Jeannette snapped at me, sitting down at one end of the sofa, but leaving me and Al standing.
“None whatsoever”, I said “Except they called at my house afterwards, and I wanted to know why”.
“I didn’t have any visitors yesterday”, she said “I should know, I was here all day. Except I had a long nap in the afternoon, they might have called then I suppose, I’ve been sleeping quite heavily lately”.
“But they were seen actually coming in here”, said Al.
“Can’t have been”, said Jeannette “The front door was locked. You must be mistaken”.
I felt very uncomfortable. Not pleased with myself. Here I was interrogating a woman who had only recently recovered from cancer. I felt like a fucking bailiff, and was glad to leave!
“Is she telling the truth do you think?” said Al, when we had got back out into Beach Lane.
“Yes, strangely I think she is”, I said “She genuinely doesn’t seem to have any memory of their visit”.
“That’s it!” said Al, stopping suddenly and grabbing my arm “She has no memory of their visit! Like I have no memory of this time last year, after I had got back from Cornwall …”
“Now hang on, let’s not jump to conclusions”, I said “That was just words, I didn’t mean anything in particular by them”.
“Not consciously perhaps”, said Al “But it seems to all fit in some outlandish way. Remember what Xanthe said about how it had all gone very quiet whilst the two guys were outside your house? She said she couldn’t even hear the gulls”.
“Yeah, now that is odd!” I said “You can hear those pesky little bastards all the time!”
We paused to lean on the fence that bordered the scrub-land.
“We’ve been trying to think too rationally that’s our trouble”, he said.
“I find it tends to be a good idea”, I said, dryly “Particularly in a world that is acting far from rational at the moment!”
“Let’s go way off-beam for a moment here”, said Al “Just suppose … just suppose all the conspiracy theories in the world are correct, not moonshine, suppose for example that David Icke has been right all along”.
“He really is the Son Of God?” I said, with understandable scepticism.
“No perhaps not that”, said Al “But all that stuff about shape-shifting lizards running the world”.
“Well if they are, they’re making a fucking lousy job of it!” I said “You can’t be serious!”
“Not really”, he sighed “No I don’t believe all that. Our fucking world leaders seem only too human, unfortunately! But suppose there really are aliens amongst us”.
“So what are they doing here then?” I said “I can’t understand the point of traipsing all across the Universe to abduct people in a small village in Cornwall, or to watch Jeannette Temple sleeping!”
“Neither can I”, said Al “But I don’t believe they’re from Outer Space, that’s just TOO daft, perhaps it’s another dimension. That creature that the students inadvertently bought over when they played the ouija board in Rufus Franklin’s old house was said to be something from another dimension, something not human … oh Christ, all this is doing my head in! I know I sound like a complete fruitcake”.
“You don’t have to worry about that”, I said “After everything that’s happened this past year I hope I’ve learnt to be open-minded at least! One thing I have accepted is that somehow, that night the kids played the ouija board, they opened a doorway into another dimension, and I don’t think that just by finally disposing of the jar in Loch Ness, that we’ve managed to shut it. Come on, let’s go and have some tea”.
Misty found out I had been to ‘The Hedges’, and was so cross with me that, whilst I was in the front garden watering the plants with my poxy little watering-can, he slammed the front door on me and put the chain up.
“What are you going to do?” said Magda, who had been sitting in the doorway of her wagon, talking to me “He’ll probably go round and lock the back door too”.
“S’alright”, I said, fishing the back door key out of my pocket “Fortunately I always carry this, and I’ve never got round to putting a bolt on the back door, so he can’t barricade that as well!”
I calmly finished watering the garden, and then let myself in the back. Misty was in the bathroom.
“I’ve just emptied the bowl under the pipe”, he said, and he seemed to have calmed down a bit.
“If you do that again”, I said “I’m going to take your new leather coat back to the shop!”
“B-but you shouldn’t have gone to that house!” he protested, tearfully, following me back into the kitchen “You lied to me!”
“A little white lie that’s all”, I said “Scarcely merits me being evicted from my own house does it!”
“I suppose not”, he said, his bottom lip trembling.
“Anyway, it wasn’t even a white lie, in the technical sense”, I said “I did got for a little walk with Al”.
“Where was her father?” said Misty “The nasty old man?”
“Good point!” I said, bringing myself up short “I’d forgotten all about him!”
“See!” said Misty “You could have done with me there with you! You have trouble remembering things!”
“Yes, it must all be due to premature ageing”, I said “The consequences of living with you!”
I hacked off the heel of a loaf, and gave him a bit to eat, as though we were two Victorian beggars suddenly coming across unexpected largesse in the street. Eating this way is almost guaranteed to give you indigestion, but what the hell, sometimes you have to live dangerously.
I was looking through some of my private collection of drawings and paintings (ones not for public consumption) the next day, and came across a firelight picture of Misty. I must have done this one a couple of years ago. He was standing in front of the electric fire in the living-room, butt-naked, draping some damp clothing over the clothes-horse. I hadn’t realised how good it was. He looked marvellous, with the light from the bars of the electric fire glowing on his bare flesh. Clearly, I hadn’t painted it in the Summer, and the whole thing gave off a strong feel of low season cosiness and homely eroticism.
It was all particularly poignant at the moment, as Summer life was grinding me down. There seemed to be no way of getting away from people, they were there at every turn. Old women discussing their hospital visits in bloodcurdling detail out in the lane, some moron in a nearby cottage who felt it his sworn duty to blast the entire neighbourhood out with banal, dreary rap music all afternoon every afternoon, (only to have a Charlotte Church fan set themselves up in full-throttle competition from another house), plus I had Henry at his very whinge-ist and self-pitying. At times like this he has a permanent whine to his voice, and it’s an extremely unpleasant sound. I felt like I would actually cry if I had to hear it yet again.
I was determined that at some point I was going to devote a few days to taking Misty out in the car, but first I felt I had to get some work done, and there can be few things more dreary than forcing yourself to work in an environment that’s completely hostile to anything like concentration. Whilst I was miserably putting myself between the shafts (mentally I mean), Misty, Al and Xanthe did some swotting up (on the Internet) on UFO reports from our county. I didn’t envy them this. Most UFO reports I’ve read over the years have been mind-bogglingly same-y and boring, but they said they were ignoring just the sightings (the lights in the sky stuff ) and concentrating on actual humanoid sightings.
They uncovered some startling things, which were infuriatingly short on detail. One of the ones that stuck out the most was some strange phenomena which centred around a remote marshland area, not far from ’The Black Cat’, where me and Misty had had lunch one day back in the Spring. It seemed that in the mid-1960s this area had been rife with UFO sightings, a proper epidemic of them in fact, (not unknown across the country at this time, the 1960s had also seen the start of the Warminster Visitation, a major UFO flap in Wiltshire which went on for several years, reaching a peak in 1977). Anyway, the UFO reports in our area had coincided with some strange happenings around a place called Rattlebone Farm (a wonderfully gothic name I know, it must come from some old smuggling yarns from centuries ago, a lot of places round here were a hive of it at one time). It turned out that for exactly one year, from June 1966 to June 1967, the farm had been plagued by poltergeist activity, usually affecting electrical equipment, and also a spate of cattle mutilations.
It was the cattle mutilations that brought me up short. I know that this sort of thing isn’t exactly unknown in the realms of UFO sightings, they’ve been going on all over the world for quite some time now. But what was especially poignant for me was that it reminded me of the horse attacks this area had been seeing for some time know. I felt like I was being bounced like a rubber-ball from Black Magic activity to UFO phenomena, and back again.
Of course once Misty had got his paws on all this, he immediately wanted to drive out and have a look at Rattlebone Farm for ourselves. I looked it up on a local map, and found that it was still very remote, tucked away down a single-track road, and overlooking the sea. I said that this would require some thought, and in the meantime I’d better finish off the work I was doing. Misty was clearly annoyed that I could put something so prosaic as Work above doing important paranormal research, but he’d just have to lump it.
The next day the nightmares of modern life intervened once more. It was one of those days when you read the news headlines and wonder if you’re dreaming the whole thing. Terrorists had been foiled in a plot to blow up 9 aircraft flying from the UK to the United States. If the bastards had succeeded we would have been looking at Lockerbie again, only 9 times over. It was a thought that quite took some absorbing. It’s nigh-on impossible to describe your feelings at a time like this. A strange sort of numbness that you just know is going to erupt at some point. The whole day had a hazy, surreal quality (if that’s the word) to it. It felt a bit like that strange warped atmosphere Xanthe had experienced when the two mysterious men had called round recently.
I was glad that Henry took himself off and stayed out of my way for most of the day, as there is no way I could have put up with either his whingeing self-pitying or his Bible-thumping at this time. Things Would Have Been Said. In the afternoon I skived off work and joined Misty and Xanthe on the sofa, and we all watched ’The Time Machine’, only that felt unbearably poignant as well! It felt like the time somebody showed ’On The Beach’ just before the Iraqi War started.
When the film finished I put Verdi’s Requiem on at full throttle (payback time on the neighbours and their abominable tastes in music), and the three of us went and lay spaced-out on the bed.
John Prescott was “incandescent with rage” apparently (not a good idea for a man of his age and size), in a hissy fit because the entire country had been making barbed comments about how he had been out of the spotlight entirely over the past couple of days, whilst the high-octane terrorist alert had been in progress. He would have us know that he has been very busy working (putting the empties out? Letting the man in to read the meter? Getting the washing in?). I couldn’t help being reminded of the notorious croquet-playing weekend, when a New Labour tapeworm had spluttered with indignation and said Mr Prescott had in fact been working very hard don‘t you know. “He chaired a meeting on drugs … and … er …” Yes well, hardly 16 hours at the coal-face is it mate!
Meanwhile, Mr Blair (currently on one of his annual freebies, no doubt we’ll be made to suffer (as we are every year) holiday snaps of him in his shorts and socks, and Cherie ‘Godzilla’ Blair being dragged along holding hands with him and Silvio Belusconi as though she’s a simple-minded little toddler out for a walk with Daddy) is keeping fully in touch with the world situation by telephone. The word ’telephone’ put in there as though we’re talking about the latest high-tech state-of-the-art equipment!
I hate our politicians.
A touring production of the Susan Hill ghost story ’The Woman In Black’ had arrived in Fobbington, and I thought it would be fun to take Misty along to see it. Unfortunately, when everybody else heard about it they wanted to come too. This was a right pain in the arse. It meant ordering a taxi to take us there became something akin to planning a world summit meeting. Robbie (acting more than ever as if his mental age had got stuck at 13 ) couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to come or not, and got increasingly stroppy the more we tried to get an answer out of him. In the end I pointedly asked him “you did say you were 27 didn’t you?” Not the most terribly original or witty barb I must admit, but it went straight home. He seemed to pull himself together a bit after that.
The show was enormous fun, helped by two rows of teenagers at the front who entered into the spirit (just ignore the bloody pun) of it by screaming madly at the appropriate moments, as though we were all on the ghost-train at a fairground. Behind us, by contrast, were a bunch of surly pensioners who periodically bellowed “I can’t ’ear anyfing!” and “they’re just screaming for effect!”
When the show was over I suggested we all go to ’The Crab’ for a drink. I chose this pub because I was hoping to prove to Misty once and for all that it was only a pub, and not one of Jason’s portals to Hell, where people wandered into it and were never seen again! Misty was difficult during this little session. He kept making barbed comments along the lines of he’d better watch it if I went to the toilets, as I couldn’t be trusted to tell the truth as to where I was going. I got so annoyed with him that I dragged him home after one drink.
Late that evening I went out to have a drink with Magda in her wagon, as she said she had something she wanted to talk to me about. Aleck had gone to ’The Ship’ with Robbie, Al and Jason, and Misty had sulkily gone to bed.
“Is Misty alright?” she said, once we were alone in her expensive tin-can.
“Oh take no notice”, I said “He gets like this sometimes. He gets an obsession in his head and you can’t blast it out of there with dynamite!”
“It must be very difficult for you”, she said “Having us lot around all the time, and planning a wedding on top of it all”.
“Don’t worry about us, Magda”, I said “We’ve had worse falling-outs than this one, some right humdingers over the years. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“You know I get these psychic flashes sometimes?” said Magda “I really don’t know why, they don’t seem to serve any useful function most of the time, but I had one this evening. This young woman who disappeared at Easter …”
“Anna Turnball?” I said, excitedly “Did you see her this evening, at the pub?”
“Did she wear a sort of blue headband?” said Magda.
“Yes, usually”, I said “She was certainly wearing it that night”.
“This evening, just for a few seconds you understand”, said Magda “I saw her walk to the side door of the pub. She turned and looked at everyone, as though she was seeing if anybody had noticed her, and then she disappeared”.
“That sounds like Anna”, I said “She did everything to try and get attention. Perhaps that’s what she did the night she disappeared, went to leave the pub, and turned to see if anybody was noticing her. Anyway, it’s not true that your psychic flashes aren’t any use. They were up at Ghyll House”.
“It’s very dark this evening isn’t it?” she said, rubbing her arms and staring out of the window.
“We’re having trouble getting used to the nights drawing in”, I said “It’s been a very strange Summer … a very strange year!”
Misty was rolled up tightly in the duvet when I got into our bedroom. I didn’t say anything, but began to get undressed. I was aware of him peering over the duvet at me, and then looking away again as though I hadn’t noticed him. I sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled off a flip-flop, and then clouted him across the backside with it. He let out a very exaggerated “Ow!” even though he couldn’t possibly have felt much with the duvet wrapped all round him (and anyway, Misty isn’t normally against the idea of having his botty smacked I can assure you!).
“What did you do that for?” he said, turning to face me.
“Felt like it”, I said “Particularly if I have to put up with any more evenings like this one!”
He mumbled something into the duvet, which I didn’t catch a single word of.
“Haven’t you got it out of your system yet?” I said “For the last time, I didn’t want to have to expose you to that bloody gloomy house and Jeannette Temple yet again! That’s why I didn’t ask you to come round with us!”
“I came and helped the night we rescued Paul from her hall cupboard!” he said “Sometimes you treat me like a little kid!”
“Well the answer to that one is obvious!” I said “I do get the distinct impression sometimes that you’re deliberating provoking me into treating you like a naughty little kid!”
He rolled onto his back, and pulled some of the suffocating duvet away from him. By the lamplight he looked good enough to eat, as always.
“I like it when you take control of me that’s why”, he said “But then I get jealous of Al, ’cos you’re all man-to-man with him”.
“Now that’s just being silly”, I said, taking off the rest of my clothes and slipping into bed “You’re a very wonderful person, it’s just you act like a right wally when you go throwing tantrums and locking me out of my own house!”
“I get fed up with myself at those times too”, he said, sombrely “Sometimes I get so frustrated with myself I want to punch myself!”
“That would be a pretty crazy thing to do!” I laughed.
“I can’t seem to help acting like a dickhead at times”, he said “That’s why I avoid getting really drunk if I can, ’cos I act like a total loon then”. “You’re my little loon”, I said, pulling him closer to me.
We were interrupted by Jason, Robbie, Aleck and Paul come crashing in from the pub, all of them pissed. And when I say pissed I mean peeing in the sink/setting the curtains on fire for a laugh level of pissed. They instantly put the television on at full blast, and crashed around the living room like a coach load of rugby players. I put on my dressing-gown and went to give them what-for.
“We couldn’t go into our wagon”, said Jason “’Cos Al’s asleep”.
“I can’t imagine anybody’s sleeping with the racket you’re making!” I thundered, switching the television off, and slamming the front door shut on the black night outside “I’m already in enough trouble in this neighbourhood as it is, with having you lot camped outside my house, and now I’ll probably get given an ASBO for disturbing the peace as well!”
“I’ll make you a nice cuppa tea”, said Jason, patting my arm on his way to the kitchen.
“I don’t want a cup of tea!” I said. (I was about to get a blow-job for fuck’s sake!!!).
“Let’s have a party”, Jason yodelled from the kitchen “You haven’t had an engagement party yet Gray. Hey, I tell yer, I’ve never been to a gay wedding before!”
“Who says you’re going to one this time!” I shouted back.
“Ah now don’t be like that”, said Jason (who I swear, like Henry, is as indestructible as a rat in a nuclear war!).
“I thought you’d invite all of us”, said Robbie, sounding hurt.
“Well that depends how many homophobic remarks I have to put up with”, I said, pointedly looking at Aleck, who blushed bright crimson.
“Here”, said Jason, walking into the room with the kettle in his hand “Let’s go and bring old Xanthe in. She’ll enjoy a party will Xanthe. And I’ll get my tape-recorder out as well”.
“Your what?” I said, in disbelief.
“My tape-recorder”, Jason put the kettle down and then rummaged around in a carrier-bag that had been standing by the front door. He pulled out the sort of tape-recorder that I used to use to record the Top 40 off the radio when I was at school (I suppose you could say a sort of Prehistoric version of illegal downloads).
“Where the fuck do you get blank cassette tapes from these days?” I said.
“My Mum had a load of old blank tapes in a shoebox she wanted to get rid of”, said Jason “I’ve been setting this up on your veranda at night, I hope you don’t mind”.
“What for?” I said.
“Ever heard of EVP?” he said “Electronic Voice Phenomena, it’s when people use old tape-recorders to try and record the voices of the dead”.
“Good grief”, I said, and was relieved to see Misty strolling in from the bedroom, looking as bewildered as I felt “And have the dead spake in Shinglesea then?”
“Not quite”, he said, fiddling with trying to insert one of the cassettes into the machine “But I’ve picked up some really weird shit I can tell you”.
He pressed the Play button, and we heard the tranquil sound of the sea crashing onto the shore.
“This was recorded the night before last”, he said “About 3 in the morning”.
“Very pleasant”, I said.
“Now wait a minute”, he said “Hang on”.
Eventually there was the distant sound of what appeared to be a school-choir singing in the distance.
“Isn’t that weird!” he said.
“Somebody had a radio on in one of the holiday cottages”, I said.
“Who’d be playing a radio at that time of night?” said Robbie.
“Well you never know”, I said, sarcastically “There are a lot of funny people about aren’t there!”
“Somebody who couldn’t sleep ‘cos they’d been kept awake by a load of drunks!” said Misty, shortly.
Misty’s presence in the room was getting me overheated again. I could see I was heading for another phase of Feeling Bloody Horny All The Time.
“Here’s something a bit more impressive”, said Jason, clumsily shoving another tape into the machine “I recorded this at the crack of dawn at Fairy Hill recently”.
Cue tweet-tweet birdsong.
“I hid the machine in a bush”, said Jason “And went for a walk for a little while. When I got it home here’s what was on it”.
More birdsong. Although somewhere, faintly in the background, could be heard what sounded like a German woman having hysterics.
“You think she’s a dead person?” said Misty.
“What’s going on, guys?” said Xanthe, opening the front door and standing there in a knee-length t-shirt with Snoopy on the front, and a pair of pink mule slippers.
“We’re trying to listen to the dead?” said Misty, in a dubious voice.
“Why?” said Xanthe, which was about the most sensible remark anybody had come out with all night!
Xanthe wasn’t sensible all night though, some things are simply too much to ask for. At around a quarter-to-four in the morning, I went to the bathroom and found Misty pinned up against the basin, whilst Xanthe coiled herself around him like a snake. She didn’t look the slightest bit abashed when she saw me standing there.
“He’s special”, she said to me, as though telling me something I didn’t already know “He’s so special, isn’t he special?”
“Yes I think we’ve established that”, I said “Get to bed, Misty”.
Misty scuttled past me.
“He’s very special”, said Xanthe, sounding like a stuck record “There aren’t many like him in the world!”
“No, he’s certainly unique”, I said, and went on to try and persuade her that it really was in her best interests to go out to her wagon.
“In all my life”, she said, pausing on her way out “I’ve never had an orgasm!”
There was no sane or original answer to this.
I was woken up several hours later by Misty gently touching me on the hand. He had brought me a cup of tea in bed. I asked him what the time was.
“Twenty past eleven”, he said “We’re alone in the house for once. Paul’s gone off on a job, and Henry’s nowhere”. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Henry since we parted company with him after the show last night. He had refused to come to ’The Crab’ with us, and had said he was going to make his own way home. Quite understandably, I had completely forgotten his existence in the meantime.
“Are you cross with me?” said Misty, perching on the edge of the bed.
“Why should I be cross with you?” I said “Xanthe’s hardly the first woman to get the hots for you!”
(It’s happened time without number. They love his innocence and his sweetness).
“After all”, I went on “Mrs Jackson’s been potty about you for years!”
“I thought she was just coming in for a chat”, he said “Whilst I emptied the bowl, and then she started wrapping herself around me. Are you sure you’re not cross?”
“No I’m not cross”, I laughed.
“Shame”, he said “I thought you’d tan my backside!”
“You’re a saucy little bugger!” I said, and I pulled him into bed with me.
We were interrupted. It scarcely goes without saying. Henry chose that moment to come home. He stood shouting for me in the living-room like a little kid squawking for his mum.
“There was a time when this used to be a peaceful little cottage”, I said “Now it’s like a fucking bus station!”
I let rip at Henry in the kitchen. He pleaded with me to show compassion.
“I don’t know where I’ve been!” he said “I think I’ve been a victim of Missing Time!”
“Henry, you’ve got to pull yourself together”, I said “All this hiking around the countryside for hours on end, going nowhere, it seems to me like you’re trying to work off sexual frustration”.
He visibly bristled at this, and I could see I was going to get a rash of “how dare you‘s!”
“No listen to me”, I said “It’s true. You need to get help for this. Go and see a therapist”.
“A therapist?” he said “Tell my own private thoughts to complete strangers? I can’t! And anyway, I’m not bothered about All That”.
“Well I think you are”, I said “More than you realise. You’ve had 25 years of celibacy, it would be enough to drive anybody spare!”
“I’ve always had celibacy”, he said, quietly.
“Not ever had it ever?” said Misty, askance “Not once?”
“Put the kettle back on, Misty”, I said. (Blimey, Xanthe with her No Orgasms, Henry with his No Nothing, and me getting thwarted at every turn!).
“You’re a typical Pagan, Gray”, said Henry “You think sex is everything”.
“No I don’t”, I said “But anyone who underestimates it’s importance is a fool. It defines us more than we know half the time. It’s not good to hide from a fundamental part of yourself”.
He began to cry. This was awful. I don’t know why it’s particularly upsetting when a man cries (God knows it’s upsetting enough when a woman does it!) but it is. He pleaded with me to listen about the Missing Time, and I could only deduce that he had fallen asleep on Fairy Hill, and not realised how long he had slept for. In the end he said he was going out to speak to Al about it, as He Would Understand.
I took Misty out for a long walk along the sea-wall.
The weather was brisk and squally. We seemed to have gone straight from tropical heat to Autumnal chills without any stopping place in-between. Misty chucked pebbles at the sea, whilst I stood on one of the groynes. I was thinking back over the past few months and realising how much everything had changed. A part of me hankered for the days before Rufus Franklin had come in and changed everything forever, when Misty and me had lived quietly together, but my more practical, less romantic, side argued that those days would come again, and that it was good that I was being more honest to poor Misty. He had been devoted to me for years, and had put up with me being paranoid about touching him in public, and referring to him as my “housemate”.
Now let’s get one thing straight. I have never denied to myself how I felt about Misty, I knew how important he was going to be to me the first moment I saw him, but stupidly I tried to pretend to the world that we were just buddies for a long time (even though the rest of the world wasn’t remotely fooled!). I loved Misty more than ever. He was the best thing to ever happen to me, and enhanced my life and myself in ways that it is impossible to say. Misty gave me vigour to be myself. I often felt that if I was plonked down anywhere in the world, I would be fine with Misty beside me. He would give me the verve to ski to the South Pole if necessary.
The very fact that we were planning on getting wed was a tribute to how much everything had changed. I jumped off the groyne and hugged him. We were stared at by a spectacularly ugly family who were lolloping about gormlessly nearby. The kids were so fat that one of the little girls looked like she was going through puberty at the age of 9!
We held hands and walked down the steps to the bottom of Beach Lane, where we had an encounter with Mrs Jackson.
“Just left your eggs on the veranda for you”, she said “I’m in trouble with eBay would you believe! Had an official reprimand!”
“What have you done?” said Misty.
“I just listed some bags of pebbles from the beach for sale”, said Mrs Jackson “But apparently that’s not allowed”.
“Private property you see”, I smiled “All the beaches belong to the Crown”.
“I can’t imagine Her Majesty is bothered about me nicking a few pebbles!” said Mrs Jackson “It’s not like those people who kill the swans in some of the parks, or so I’ve heard. The swans belong to her as well you see”.
“Who wants to buy bags of pebbles?” said Misty.
“An authentic feel of Old Shinglesea!” I said.
“Well I don’t know really”, said Mrs Jackson “But people want them, I can assure you. I think some people put them in aquariums, that sort of thing”.
“But they’re salty”, I said “They’d be bad for the fish”.
Misty looked at me in awe, as though I’d just split the atom.
“Good point”, said Mrs Jackson “I’ll have to find out about that. Oh, and by the way, you want to watch that weird one who’s living in your front garden”.
“Which one?!” I said.
“That skinny little thing who wears funny clothes”, said Mrs Jackson.
“You mean Xanthe”, I said.
“That’s her, I knew she had a bloody stupid name”, said Mrs Jackson “She’s after little Misty, she was going on and on about him. You’d better watch her”.
“But I’m Gray’s sex toy”, said Misty, brazenly.
“Misty, you outrageous little bastard!” I said.
“Just you be warned”, said Mrs Jackson to me “You’re harbouring a potential viper in your bosom there”.
“Ugh!” I said.
“I know Her Sort”, said Mrs Jackson “Makes out they’re all harmless and friendly, and before you know it they’ve nicked the marrow out of your bones! She’s been round the block a good few too many times if you ask me”.
“I know”, I said “And not a single orgasm to show for it!”
It’s an unsettling feeling when the scales fall from your eyes and you see a side to somebody you hadn’t seen before. I had always thought of Xanthe as just this funny little goofball. A good-time girl in her youth perhaps, an ex-Bunny Girl (or so she tells us). Nowadays reduced to shovelling her wizened little body into cheap dominatrix-style clothes, getting increasingly eccentric the older she got. But all in all, mostly harmless, as the classic saying goes.
I had completely lost touch with the fact that her early years would have made her steely, used to going after what she wanted when the opportunity arose. She was nuts about Misty, so she wouldn’t have seen any reason why she couldn’t have him. It seemed that at this moment in time nobody was what they seemed. I was getting a little tired of it to tell you the truth.
I didn’t let on to Xanthe what Mrs Jackson had said, and to all appearances I pretended that the incident in the bathroom hadn’t mean anything, that it was just the sort of silly nonsense people do at that hour of the night when they’ve been drinking too much. But I was more watchful of her. I wanted to see if anything she said or did served to confirm or deny my fears. After all, a part of me reasoned that Mrs Jackson, as a woman, would have a natural feminine distrust of a free-spirit such as Xanthe.
But Xanthe’s remarks over the next couple of days did little to ease my fears. She began dropping heavy hints about money, about how with the 30 grand legacy from my Father, I could do such-and-such. That I should hire an expensive country-house hotel for the wedding reception for instance. I said the thought filled me with dismay. Sitting around on gilt chairs, eating uninspiring vol-au-vents and canapés, being charged through the nose for champagne, being looked at as if I was dog-dirt by the hotel staff, and paying good money for the privilege too!
I did spend some money. I paid £32 to get a plumber out to fix the pipe in the bathroom (it was a rotted washer apparently), but I don’t think that’s what she had in mind!
One afternoon I sat in our bedroom on an old wicker chair that was liberally stained with paint. It was a depressing, irritating afternoon, overcast one minute, a tinny bright sunshine the next. Neither one thing nor the other. I was sunk in a bit of a reverie when Misty barged in and looked at me as though he was about to exclaim “And so I have found you at last, you fiend!”
“You’re mad”, was in fact what he did say “You’re completely bonkers”.
“You can talk!” I said “And what’s brought all this on? Is this today’s special offer? Free Character Assassination!”
He shut the door and came over and sat on the bed. His little cartoon face was looking somewhat serious.
“I can’t believe you’re getting worked up about all this”, he said “I’ll tell you something. You’re the only person I have ever fancied, there! If I hadn’t met you I’d have probably ended up like Henry”.
“I can’t imagine that for one minute!” I said.
“It’s true”, he said “Everybody else just patronises me. Mrs Jackson, Xanthe, they all do. They don’t want me for sex, they just want a lap-dog. Somebody they can stroke and say ’ooh isn’t he sweet’ ’isn’t he special’. It gets on my nerves! I’m not a puppy-dog!”
“I’ll tie a few pink ribbons in your hair and put you in for Crufts!” I said.
He jumped on me and we knocked each other about playfully. Misty got so excited after all this, that I actually had to hold him back physically to calm him down, otherwise the entire bedroom would have probably got wrecked!
He had said to me that I was losing sight of what we ourselves wanted to do, and he was right. Everybody else was getting on my tits with all their wants, needs and worries. To make it up to him I said I’d drive him out to look at Rattlebone Farm (or as close to it as we could get without drawing undue attention to ourselves anyway).
The next morning we went to Get The Van Out, and Fate served up one of those rare chances whereby you can be yourself, in Glorious Technicolor, and hang the consequences! Xanthe was sitting at the back of her wagon, wrapped in a purple mohair cardigan that was far too big for her, and moaning about how cold it was getting. How soon it would be very uncomfortable sleeping in her wagon at nights. Of course this was my cue to say “time you got somewhere else more permanent then”, but I fluffed it, and decided not to speak at all. Mrs Jackson was walking past our house, carrying two bags of clean sheets and towels. Clearly change-over day at one of the holiday cottages. She paused at the gate and cooed “Isn’t he sweet!” at Misty.
“No he’s not”, I said “He’s an obnoxious little bastard! He needs plenty of cock up his arse to keep him under control!”
Misty laughed like torrential rainwater pouring down a drain. He laughed so much that I had to strap him into his seat. He was still laughing when we drove past the Pick Your Own Strawberry Farm several miles away.
The area around Rattlebone Farm was new to me, even after all the years had spent in this area. It was one of those wild, tucked-away places that you come across in the marshes sometimes, hitherto unaware of its existence. I had had to stop the car in a lay-by to check the map, and Misty had huffed with impatience so much that I told him he could get out and walk home if he didn’t stop it.
When we finally located the turning onto the single-track road I was filled with dismay. These are the kind of roads I absolutely loathe driving along. Narrow, bordered by high hedges on both sides, and with grass growing out of the middle. The only road I detest more than this is a grid locked motorway! It didn’t help that, because it was harvest time, I was fully expecting to meet a monstrous great combine-harvester bearing down on us at every turn!
As it turned out we didn’t meet a soul. The top half of the farmhouse could only be glimpsed through one of the hedges. It was one of those old white clapboard Dutch-style houses that you sometimes come across in our part of the world. There wasn’t a soul about, not even a tractor in one of the fields. I felt horribly conspicuous sitting there in the van, and decided to turn it round and get back out onto a more normal road.
I felt much more relaxed when we got back onto the so-called normal road. We stopped for a drink at a strange pub called ‘The Watcher’, which was a bit of a mistake. I should have had some idea of what kind of a pub it was from the pot-holed approach into the car-park. Inside, the bar-counter was surrounded by ignorant-looking bastards all clanging off the fags and showing plenty of hairy bum-cleavage. It was the sort of place where they won’t make room for you at the bar to order your drinks. Very much a case of This Is A Local Pub For Local People, don’t you know. The only food that was on offer was a stack of ropey-looking old baguettes wrapped in cling film behind the bar, which the aged, emaciated landlord offered us with a mixture of defiance and apologies.
We had a quick drink outside and then went home.
Evening at ’Barnacles’ wasn’t much of an improvement. Xanthe greeted us wearing some weird woollen head-gear, a sort of snood thing, which made her look like she was peering out from inside a funnel on a cross-channel ferry. She informed me once again that it was getting rather cold you know, particularly at night. I didn’t say anything, apart from to mention that it was still only August, but quietly thought to myself that I would probably kill her if she kept this up for much longer.
It got much worse. Henry was at his most irritating, and he wound Misty up big time, harping on yet again about what a sin homosexuality was. This was awful enough, God knows, but then he started implying that I was some kind of filthy paedophile, because Misty had moved in with me when he was only 15. I had already had all this several months earlier with Rufus Franklin (who WAS a paedophile!). Just for the record, Misty may have moved in with me when he was 15, but for a long time he was like my little brother (and I had always wanted a brother, if you had met my bossy, self-righteous sister Stella, you would fully understand why!). I took care of him and protected him. How the situation finally changed is another story entirely, and absolutely no business of anybody’s.
In the meantime Misty let rip. He picked up the coffee-table, scattering all the coffee-mugs that had been on it, and looked fully prepared to wrap it round Henry’s head. Paul, who had been sitting watching television before all this kicked off, jumped up onto the sofa in alarm. It’s not easy to restrain Misty. I’m taller than him, but he is stockier in build. I’ve perfected a technique of wrapping my arm round his chest from behind and trying to ease him that way. Doing this I dragged him backwards into our bedroom, and it felt as though our living-room had suddenly grown to 3 times its size!
I got him into the corner of our bedroom and harangued him (helped by threats of the coat being taken back to the shop first thing in the morning) until he finally calmed down. By which time he had a face the colour of an Edam cheese, and had been sobbing quite prolifically.
“Now get undressed and get into bed and lie down for a few minutes”, I said “I’m going to make some tea”.
“Can I have my magazine to read?” he asked.
“No you can’t”, I said “You can like there and reflect on your atrocious behaviour until I get back!”
“You’d make a good teacher”, said Paul, alone in the living-room “In fact we could have done with a few like you at our old school!”
“Do me a favour”, I said, going into the kitchen “I’d rather work in a war-zone!”
“HE’S out on the veranda”, said Paul, following me.
“Best place for him”, I said “Thanks for tidying up”. (I noticed that he had put the coffee-table back on its legs, and taken the mugs into the kitchen).
“Don’t be too hard on Misty”, said Paul “It wasn’t his fault”.
“I know”, I said “But I have to calm him down. I don’t care what he does to Henry, I’m more concerned about what he’ll do himself!”
“Our Henry’s got some funny ideas”, said Paul “Sometimes I wonder if he’s not completely mad!”
“He probably is!” I said.
I heard the front door open and close.
“Gray”, said Henry, sheepishly “Can I have a word? I promise it won’t take long”.
“I think you’ve said enough for one evening!” I said, but I left Paul to see to the tea, and went back into the living-room.
“I appreciate that you’re quite cross with me”, said Henry.
“Quite cross?!” I exclaimed “I take you into my home Henry, and in return I get accused of one of the filthiest crimes there is! Yes I am a bit cross as you put it!”
“I-I didn’t think”, said Henry.
“You make a habit of that!” I said.
“You must understand”, said Henry, pathetically “I’ve had to rethink so much just lately. The world is moving too fast for me, I’m having trouble keeping up”.
“As far as I can see, you’re not making much effort to try!” I said “And anyway, do you think you’re the only one? We’ve all had to rethink so much lately. I find myself thinking things that would have shocked me only a couple of years ago!”
“You see”, Henry went on “I am a Christian”.
(Oh … FUCK OFF!!!!).
“And to someone like me”, Henry went on “Well sex is about the reproduction of the human race”.
“Really?” I said, unimpressed “There speaks a man who was married to a woman for 25 years who he never had sex with once, and who wilfully turned a blind eye to her affairs with other men! Ever heard of the famous expression ’let he who is without sin cast the first stone’? Somehow I think it’s quite applicable at the moment don’t you!”
Suddenly I grabbed Henry and shoved him up against the mantelpiece (I’m amazed, on reflection, that it didn’t fall off the wall!).
“So in your philosophy”, I said “Misty and I should separate, bury our feelings for one another? I consign myself to a lifetime of pain, not having him around, and I turn him loose in this vile world to fend for himself? And eventually we both die, lonely and embittered. Eh? Your God of Love and Compassion would prefer that, would He? Why should two people spend their lives loving each other, when they could be miserable and repressed apart?!”
“B-but the Church could help you to overcome your problem”, Henry spluttered.
“What?” I said “I DON’T HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM, MY PROBLEM IS PEOPLE LIKE YOU, YOU’RE RUNNIING THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD!”
How I didn’t have a heart-attack is beyond me. Completely beyond me. I keep remembering the old joke about Inspector Clouseau: “Give me 10 men like Clouseau and I could destroy the world!” I went around in a daze for several hours afterwards. Misty acted sheepish and diffident, even sitting on a chair next to me whilst I shaved. In the morning Al invited me into his caravan for a cup of tea. Xanthe glared at me from her wagon, looking like the last puppy-dog in the shop window.
“How is Eskimo Nell today?” I said to Al, once we were inside.
“She wouldn’t feel the cold so damn much if she ate properly”, said Al “She lives off weak tea and cornflakes. Never mind her anyway, how are you? I heard you practically put Henry through the wall!”
“Gross exaggeration”, I said “You’ve either been talking to Misty or Paul”.
“Paul told me”, he said “He said it was like a pub brawl”.
“Very genteel sort of pub brawl”, I said “It was like trying to argue with someone who’s been brainwashed in some Stalinist regime. Fucking Christians, fucking Muslims, fucking Jews, fucking Satanists, I’m sick to death of the lot of them!”
“Never argue with an idiot”, said Al “You never win, and it’s a complete waste of time. If I was in your place though I’d throw him out on his ear, and chuck all his bags after him”.
“Waste of time”, I said “He’d just sit out on the veranda until we let him back in again! I keep clinging onto the vague hope that come October he’ll go home and sort out his affairs. He’ll certainly need to do something”.
“I wouldn’t place too much on that one”, said Al “He seems in no hurry to sort things out with Jeannette. He seems to have given up on his old life completely. I thought he might show an interest when Robbie told us she was ill yesterday”.
“What’s this?” I said (first I’ve heard about it) “Has the cancer come back?”
“I don’t think it‘s that”, said Al “But she seems to be wasting away”.
“Well she never exactly looked robust!” I said.
“Yeah but this is something else”, said Al “Her teeth are rotting”.
“Good God”, I said “That sounds like a calcium deficiency. Perhaps she needs to take in a few more dairy products”.
“She won’t do that”, said Al “She’s terrified it’ll cause the cancer to return”.
“How’s Robbie feel about her at the moment?” I said “Is he still nuts?“
“He still goes to see her”, said Al “But things are going to change. He starts his new job after the Bank Holiday, at Woolworths in Fobbington”.
“Woolworths?” I said “What does he want to work there for?”
“Said he didn’t want to go back to office work”, said Al “Says he wants a job which will keep him occupied all day, not sitting at some workstation trying to look busy for hours on end”.
“Can’t say I blame him there”, I said “I’d rather sweep the streets in all weathers than go back to office work again!”
“So anyway”, said Al “Once he starts that he won’t be able to keep popping in and out of her place all day long, like he is at the moment. I don’t think she’s going to like that, she likes her men folk to keep paying homage to her all the time. I think this job will break the spell she’s got over him”.
“End of Summer, end of the fantasy affair”, I said (although I still find it hard to imagine Jeannette as the object of anyone’s fantasies!).
Al sprawled out on the bunk opposite me and patted his stomach. I remarked that he seemed to have been growing a bit of a paunch since we returned to Shinglesea.
“It’s all the fish and chips”, he said, ruefully “I seem to smell ’em wherever I go, and I can’t resist them! I’m going to have to do a bit more swimming, I’ve neglected my training lately. I can’t believe this Summer’s coming to an end. It’s been weird”.
“Oh don’t speak too soon”, I said “I’ve known it get very hot round here in September, and we’ll be able to enjoy it better, it won’t be so crowded everywhere”.
“I heard somebody doing some tree-cutting earlier”, said Al “And I thought, God that’s such an Autumn-y sound. I feel dizzy with everything, do you?”
“All the time at the moment!” I said “Perhaps one day we’ll be able to make sense of it, give it a few decades anyway!”
There is only one time of the year when I actively hate living in the Shinglesea area, and that is the August Bank Holiday weekend. It doesn’t matter what the weather’s like, it’s abominable. It’s impossible to get any space, even going to the pub is hopeless, as they’re all suffering from what I think of as Mother’s Day Syndrome, I.e families forced to endure a few hours in each other’s company. If I sound misanthropic … well I guess I’ve never pretended to be anything else! I take a gritted teeth attitude to the August Bank Holiday weekend, going round paraphrasing Scarlett O’Hara, “soon it will be over, the day must pass, and tomorrow will come”. I suppose that personally I don’t think it’s natural to force people into collective idleness. It should be a state they can choose for themselves.
At home there wasn’t much in the way of sanctuary. I had some bad dreams about my Father, in which he depicted his arrogance and his stubborn-ness at its very worst. I was trying to get through to him and couldn’t. In fact I was projecting my current frustration with Henry onto my old frustrations with him. Henry himself was even more stroppy after our recent violent set-to, and seemed to be taking the dangerous attitude that he would convince me he was right if it was the very last thing he did. All I can say is that if he keeps that attitude up, it very likely will be the last thing he does!
Xanthe took to wearing a fur-trimmed hooded coat, which was complete overkill, as the temperatures were a highly respectable 22 or 23 degrees! I said it would send a hot-water bottle out to her.
“You don’t understand”, she whined “It’s frightening out here at night”.
“You’ve been sleeping out here for weeks”, I said “Why the heap big scary out act now?”
“It gets very dark at night”, she said.
“Yes, I’ve often found that happens when the sun goes down!” I said, sarcastically.
“And I hear voices out in the lane”, she said (voices in her head more like!).
“Xanthe”, I said “It’s probably just people going home from the pub, or fishermen going to and from the beach. It’s nothing to be afraid of”.
“You don’t know that”, she said, sounding as stubborn as Henry “You’ve often mentioned yourself that you’ve seen a lot of strange people around here this year”.
(Me and my bloody big mouth!!!).
“Have you been listening to Jason’s tape-recordings again?” I said.
“He’s convinced he’s onto something”, she said.
Hm. Jason also ardently believes that an old door with peeling brown paint on it, to the side of the amusement arcade, is one of his portals to Hell. You can forgive me (for once) if Jason’s assertion that he’s “onto something” is news I greet with great scepticism!
Still, having said that, I do admit that there are plenty of strange things happening around here. After everything I’ve related over the previous few months I would be mad to deny it. BUT, it’s also why I feel any sensationalising needs to be reined in. Real Life is weird enough to cope with, without giving it the ’Daily Sport’ treatment as well!
On the Bank Holiday itself Henry made me a present of two bottles of wine he had bought at the mini-mart. Of course it was a peace-offering. It was typical of Henry. He knew he had gone too far (again!) and gave me the wine to try and get on the right side of me again. The others all viewed this gift with the same suspicious contempt as they would a politician offering brown envelopes of used notes. (Although I noticed that it didn’t stop them drinking it!).
I couldn’t stomach the thought of spending the Bank Holiday holed up in Henry’s company, but fortunately Magda saved the day by offering to drive me and Misty out to have a butcher’s at a bungalow she wanted as another renovation project. She hadn’t even started on the apartment yet (still waiting for all the paperwork to go through). I voiced concern that she seemed to be taking too much on.
“This one is too good to miss though”, she said “Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, large garden, all going at an absolutely incredible price. It’s a real bargain. And it’s Art-Deco style, just like the apartment”.
I said there was a lot of property in this style in our neighbourhood. Most of the cottages down Beach Lane (including ‘Barnacles’) date from the 1920s and 30s. But I was keen to see it for myself. Even more keen when I heard that Aleck was going to the Medieval Fayre in Fobbington with Jason and Robbie, so I wouldn’t have to worry about him and Misty punching each other’s lights out!
The estate agents had given Magda the keys to show herself round, which I thought was a bit odd, but Magda made some joke about having a an honest face, and I get sick of sounding like a wet blanket, so I shut up.
The bungalow turned out to be on land belonging to Rattlebone Farm. I was gob smacked when Magda drove us out to that strange area we had only recently visited. We drove over a cattle grid and along a rough un-surfaced track which wound in an L-shape around the edge of a very large field.
“I’m going to have to make certain about access rights if I buy this place”, she said to me, as we bumped along “I’ve heard horror tales of people having the direct access to their houses cut off because the road was private”. “Who actually owns this bungalow?” I said, having been told that nobody had lived in it for years (hence the knock-down price) “It must be on land owned by the farm”.
“Oh the Rattlebone Farm people own it”, said Magda “It’s been in their family right from when it was first built. I understand that the farmer recently wanted to give it to his daughter as a wedding present, but she refused. It overlooks the sea, and she doesn‘t want a sea view”.
“She DOESN’T want a sea view?” I said, in astonishment “Normally people go nuts over a sea-view!”
“No, she doesn’t like it”, said Magda “Even at the farm she insisted on having her bedroom on the ground floor, as the sea can only been seen from the upstairs portion of the house there”.
Whereas the bungalow (as we discovered when we reached it) the property was faced full-on by the sea. The house stared out over the English Channel with nothing to hinder the view, which was magnificent. In spite of the view though, and the peaceful seclusion, there was something unsettling about that house. And this wasn’t simply due to its dilapidated condition. You get a feel when a property has never been loved, and this was certainly the case here. It was like a person with a dead soul.
All the time Magda was showing us around it, I kept thinking of the H P Lovecraft short story ’The Shunned House’, about a gloomy New England pile which wears down and decays anyone who lives in it, even to the extent that all the babies born it are born dead. This was a horrible thought, and I couldn’t shake myself free of it.
“And I thought we could convert this into a wet-room”, Magda was saying as she showed us into one of the bathrooms, which had a large 1930s shower unit in it “They’re all the rage now, and very useful for anyone coming straight in off the beach”.
“Magda, are you sure you want this place?” I said.
“Absolutely!” she beamed “It has enormous potential”.
Misty said he was going to go and wait outside.
“Is everything alright?” Magda asked me, when we were alone “You’re surely not going to tell me it’s haunted are you?!”
“No, but I think you need to find out more about it”, I said “Certainly before you sign on the dotted line anyway”.
“But I can’t sense anything here”, she said, referring to her ’psychic flashes’ “In fact I cant’ sense anything at all”.
“That’s the trouble”, I said “There’s nothing, just a deadness”.
“You sound a little fanciful”, Magda smiled.
“Well perhaps something awful once happened here”, I said, feebly “A murder or … something”.
“You’re talking to an ex-prison officer”, Magda laughed “I’ve heard far worse things than to let some murder mystery from decades ago bother me. Perhaps you’ve been reading too much Agatha Christie”.
“Perhaps”, I said.
She linked arms with me, and we strolled back through the house to the back door, where she went into raptures over an old laundry-rack that you let down from the kitchen ceiling in a pulley system.
“It’s the little touches like that that I love”, she said “Try and imagine it all spruced-up, Gray. Given a new lease of life”.
“I’ll try”, I said.
The charms of the laundry-rack palled on me pretty quickly, and I went outside to join Misty. We stood looking out over the Channel whilst we waited for her to lock up. I was once more struck by how odd it was to come across somebody who couldn’t bear the sight of the sea. It was something I had never come across before, although admittedly people do get phobias about the oddest things. (I remember Granny once told me she knew a woman who had had a phobia about buttons, and ones with bits of cotton still in them completely freaked her out!).
As we drove back towards Shinglesea thunder began to rumble overhead. We passed a burnt-out car which had been dumped in the gateway to a field. It must have been dumped very recently as there was no police awareness stick on it. Cynically, I thought that you could use it as an illustration of a British Bank Holiday. It’s unlike even me to get quite THAT cynical though, and I just put it down to the gloomy atmosphere of the bungalow really getting to me.