This is difficult. Of course at this point in the narrative I’m supposed to find myself racked with guilt and regret. Except that I felt nothing. It was a strange sensation. I remembered fondly his great ambition to swim the Channel, and I was very sad that it would now never come to pass. I remembered our talks on the sea-wall, when we had both tried to make sense of this crazy world. But it was as if I was remembering something from decades ago.
Life just moves too damn fast to do any great breast-beating about how badly things had turned out between us. And the fact was that Al, with all his childish sulking over the past few months, had made an already intolerable situation even worse. We had ALL needed his friendship and support, and he had turned away from us, either ignoring us all completely, or lashing out in sheer spite, or treating us with insulting casualness (such as when he had suddenly demanded, out of the blue, the spag bog recipe from Magda).
Xanthe had suggested that everybody meet at ’The Ship’ for a drink as a sort of informal wake for Al. But I’m never in the mood for platitudes, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for them now. I had already decided anyway that when I found the moment to be right, I would go and have a drink by myself first.
Misty dithered about whether to go or not, mainly because he didn’t want to upset Xanthe, so I packed him off there. Once alone, I changed into an old pair of purple pyjamas (for comfort’s sake), and thought about doing some serious work. My contemplative musings were shattered though by some idiot sat in a car outside Kristy’s house, blowing his horn for ages. Not for the first time I wished Kristy and her chaotic life all in Hades!
The few minutes after that were a bit muddled. I was aware of the plonker in the car revving up like a maniac before driving off, and then I heard something squelching round the outside of ’Barnacles’. I know this is going to sound bizarre, but it sounded like a giant maggot! And then I must have passed out. I had a vivid dream in which the whole area had got submerged under water, and a few of us were trying to live on a makeshift camp-site up at Chantley Stones (as being the highest point nearby), but this wasn’t unusual as I had had many of these flood dreams over the past few months.
When I was next aware of reality it was to feel my shoulders, arms and legs aching with cold. It wasn’t really surprising, as the front door was standing wide open, and I was lying on the sofa facing it. At first I thought that Misty had come back from the pub, and had left the door open. I shouted for him, thinking he was in the kitchen, but I got no reply.
In annoyance I got up and gave the door a hefty slam. I had a headache, and I went into the bathroom to get some aspirin. Then I noticed that my mobile, which I had left on the chest of drawers in our bedroom, was warbling away.
“There you are!” said Misty “I’ve been ringing and ringing you for ages. We wondered if you were going to join us after all”.
“I think I fell asleep”, I said.
“You THINK you fell asleep?” he exclaimed “I was getting worried about you. I was about to come home and see where you were”.
I looked at the clock radio and was startled to see that it was twenty-to-four. Misty had gone up to ’The Ship’ at ten past twelve. I had been out like a light for nearly 4 hours!
“This is turning into quite some wake isn’t it?” I said, trying to sound light-hearted.
“We haven’t been drinking very much”, he said “Playing darts mainly. I was worried you might be getting a bit lonely at home”.
“Well I am a little”, I said.
“I’ll come home”, he said “Did you get much work done?”
“None”, I snapped “I’ve been asleep, remember?”
“You don’t like sleeping during the day”, he said.
“I know”, I replied, and then said wearily “Come home, Misty. I need you”.
Trying to find out what exactly had happened to Al was like getting blood out of a stone. The most reliable report seemed to be that he had suffered a massive brain haemorrhage. On top of that there were hysterical rumours that massive bruising had been found on his torso, as though he had been punched in the stomach. This didn’t seem to tie in with anything else though, (there was no sign of any disturbance or violence at the caravan whatsoever) and I hoped that it was just hysterical rumour and nothing else. There was a strangely long gap before the funeral (over 2 weeks), which I thought was odd, but I guess when an otherwise healthy man of 42 dies suddenly, it’s only to be expected. The funeral was to be held by his family in Buckinghamshire. Apart from Robbie, none of the rest of us were to be invited, but I wasn’t surprised by that, although I think Xanthe was disappointed. At one time (only last year, begod!), I had thought she and Al might get it together, but sadly nothing had came of it.
Robbie rang up to say that his family seemed to be dropping off like flies, as he had heard that his Great-Great-Aunt had just died too, at the tender age of 104!
“The vultures in our lot will all be circling”, he said “All hoping for a slice of anything she’s left behind”.
I suppose that’s one of the few consolations about being poor really. Nobody can fight over your spoils when you’ve gone. Although, having said that, I did get an image of Arthur attacking my loose change box with a blunt knife, and desperately crying out “He must have left SOMETHING. Everybody knows all queers are loaded!”
Not all of them, sunny boy, not all of them. It was our turn to put the campervan in for an M.O.T now, and I was gleefully informed on the telephone that it needed new shock-absorbers, and the bill for this would come to several hundred pounds. Was left reeling somewhat after this. As if to stick the boot in further, the mechanic said that the lights on the dashboard needed fixing too, but as this would involve him ripping the dashboard out as well, this would cost even more. Oh no it won’t, I said, the dashboard lights can wait. He went into a bit of a flounce about this, and said that I couldn’t possibly claim my vehicle for another couple of days, as they Have To Wait For The Parts.
“Can’t it do without shock absorbers?” was Misty’s helpful contribution.
“Not if it wants to pass the M.O.T”, I said.
“Why don’t we just get rid of it?” he said.
“And what do we get around in?” I said.
“The bus”, said Misty.
“The last time we caught the bus into Fobbington”, I reminded him “It got cancelled without any warning, and we were left standing in the cold for an hour, waiting for the next one to turn up! And what do we live in if this place floods again?!”
There was no answer to that. The advice given out by the powers-that-be, should it happen again, is to move upstairs, but that’s a bit unhelpful when you live in a bungalow!
Misty insisted on coming with me when I went to collect the van the next day. I think he had some idea that I would either fall down in a dead faint when presented with the invoice, or punch the mechanic in the mouth. (I wasn’t planning on doing either actually, but never mind). When we came out of the garage I felt as though I had been mugged by a ruthlessly efficient mugger, and with the dismal knowledge that I was £840 poorer than when I went in.
We were waiting at the pedestrian crossing on the outskirts of Fobbington, when I got the shock of my life when I realised it was Tara Mitchell walking across in front of me. I felt like Janet Leigh at the beginning of ’Psycho’, when she sees her boss walking across in front of her. Like him, Tara did a double-take on seeing me. As when I had recently seen Rowland Richards, I was appalled at how thin she had become. She seemed to have the body of a 10-year-old girl. Waif-like is the only way to describe it. She had also cropped her hair short again, which only added to the disturbingly frail look. Some idiot behind me was honking his horn impatiently, so I had to drive on. But it was an unsettling experience all the same.
Strange dream that night, although it was so sort of real that it felt like more than a dream. I had the feeling that there was some crone-like old woman in the bedroom, a bit of a pathetically simple-minded creature, and she was hovering round the bed trying to tuck the duvet round me, and muttering “you poor dear” all the time. I don’t know if it was a dream, or that I had a visitation from a kind-hearted ghost.
Woken up finally by a soft, stinging sensation across my behind. Misty had whacked me with a dinky little sex-whip, which we had bought a few years ago, more as a joke than anything else. Serious hard-core S&M-ers would be monumentally unimpressed by it, as it virtually inflicts no pain whatsoever. In fact, we had used it to tickle each other with!
“Where did you dig that out from?” I said.
“It was in a box full of old books”, he said “You must have stuffed it in there when we were packing up after the floods. Anyway, I dug it out. It’s Valentine’s Day”.
I took the whip from him, and gently tickled his balls with it through the gap in his dressing-gown. His todger reared up almost instantly.
And then of course the bloody doorbell had to go and ring.
“Oh let’s just ignore them”, said Misty “Pretend we’re not in”.
As every light in the house seemed to be on, not to mention the radio blaring out, this wouldn’t have seemed very convincing! Plus our visitor seemed rather insistent. You can understand my extreme annoyance when I opened it to find an emissary from Dominic’s Flowers standing there, clutching a bunch of red roses wrapped in cellophane. This happens every sodding year, was my first reaction. I end up having to take in bouquets of flowers for Kristy, from one of her legions of hapless admirers! I was wrong though.
“The address I was given doesn’t seem to exist”, he wailed.
“Well who is it for?” I asked.
“Mrs Jeannette Temple, The Hedges, Beach Lane, Shinglesea”, he said.
“WHAT?!” Misty exclaimed.
“Jeannette Temple hasn’t been there in months”, I said.
“And the house fell down over a year ago!” said Misty.
“I got there and there was nothing there!” the little flower-boy continued to wail.
“Someone clearly doesn’t know that she’s … well we never did find out exactly what happened to her”, I said “But she certainly hasn’t been seen round here in about a year”.
“Who are they from?” asked Misty, bluntly.
“I-I don’t know, I didn’t take the order”, he replied “What am I going to do?”
(Oh ye gods, do I have to do everything around here!!!).
“You’re just going to have to take them back to the shop”, I said, with as much patience as I could “And explain the situation to your boss. Return To Sender, or whatever it is you do in situations like this”.
I finally managed to get rid of him, and closed the front door with relief.
“Who the hell is sending Jeannette Valentine’s roses after all this time?” said Misty.
“Dunno, don’t care”, I said, pulling him along by the elbow “Let’s get back to what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted!”
When you’ve been in a state of almost total sexual rapture for several days, you start to think that everybody knows about it! A few days later, vital necessity prodded me out of doors to go and get in some fresh food supplies, and it seemed like everybody was looking at me with a very knowing “we-know-what-you’ve-been-up-to” air. It felt as though I had it written all over me! It might also account for why I seemed to keep bumping into the same burly bloke (insanely wearing shorts in the middle of a Shinglesea February!) in every aisle in Tesco’s that I walked down. I went through checkout with almost superhuman speed, in the hope that I could leave him behind and get out of the building without having to have an amorous confrontation.
But then something far stranger happened. I have to point out first that it had been a calm day in Shinglesea. Bitterly cold, but all sunshine and no wind at all. Simply a still, frosty Winter’s day. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a mini cyclone arrived. For a few brief minutes mayhem ensued. People were flattening themselves up against walls and car alarms were going off all over the place. I struggled past the village green, and met Kristy at the top of Beach Lane. The wind was blowing her hair right back off her face in an almost horizontal straight line.
“Where’s this wind come from?” she shouted at me.
And then it was gone again. For a moment there was total silence, and then the birds started up twittering again, as though somebody had turned the sound up on a radio.
“Thank God it’s stopped”, was Kristy’s comment, and then with very Kristy-like pragmatism, she went about her business.
For that few minutes it was as though somebody had opened a giant door somewhere, and let in the wild weather of another dimension.
Thought that Jason might be interested in our mini-cyclone, so I e-mailed him about it. Had a reply very quickly, in which he said that he had been meaning to write to me anyway.
“ROBBIE RANG UP THIS MORNING. JUST WANTED ME TO TELL YOU THAT ALAN’S FUNERAL WENT OFF ALRIGHT. THERE WAS A BIT OF TROUBLE WITH ONE OF HIS AUNTIES, SHE ACCUSED THE WHOLE FAMILY OF NEGLECTING HIM, BUT AL’S DAD HAD SOME STRONG WORDS WITH HER AND PUT HER STRAIGHT. I MEAN, LET’S FACE IT, AL WAS A GROWN MAN WHEN ALL’S SAID AND DONE, WELL OVER THE AGE OF 18 AND ALL THAT. BUT I GUESS PEOPLE ALWAYS ACT A BIT WEIRD AT FUNERALS. XANTHE’S NOT COPING TOO WELL AT THE MOMENT, I THINK AL GOING HAS REALLY KNOCKED HER LOW. IF YOU GET A CHANCE TO COME UP HERE, THEN COME, BECAUSE I THINK MISTY MIGHT BE ABLE TO CHEER HER UP.
I’LL BE GLAD WHEN ROBBIE GETS BACK, AS I HATE SLEEPING IN THIS BEDROOM ON MY OWN. GIVES ME THE CREEPS. I KEEP WAKING UP IN THE NIGHT, AND THINKING I’M SEEING SOMETHING STANDING BY THE CURTAINS. I’D SLEEP WITH THE LIGHT ON EXCEPT IT’D MAKE ME FEEL SUCH A WIMP! I CAN’T TELL MAGDA ABOUT IT, AS SHE ALREADY GETS UPSET ENOUGH ABOUT THIS HOUSE AS IT IS.
PLENTY OF CRAZY STUFF GOING ON IN THE WORLD, HUH? I’M HAVING TROUBLE KEEPING UP WITH IT ALL. ALL THOSE SUICIDES IN BRIDGEND, WHAT’S THAT ALL ABOUT? AIRCRAFT ARE GOING MISSING, NOT TO MENTION PEOPLE. ANYWAY, TALK TO YOU ABOUT IT ALL SOON, NO DOUBT. CHEERS, JASON’.
The site of Henry’s old house had been completely abandoned (apart from the odd seemingly pointless visit by men in fluorescent jackets) for over a year, but suddenly someone decided to put a ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ sign at the gate. Neither of us saw who had done this, and, unusually, there was nothing on the sign to say who was responsible.
It was in a gloomy frame of mind that I drove Misty up to Rattlebone Farm to see Xanthe. I had a feeling that the visit would prove to be depressing, or even upsetting. Robbie wasn’t back yet, and the others seemed in a very down-spirited mood. I left Misty with Xanthe, and went into the kitchen of the bungalow to speak to Magda. She looked like someone who was slowly recovering from a serious illness, which, considering she was normally a robust, healthy-looking lady, was all the more disconcerting.
“Sometimes this damn place”, she said, looking around the kitchen “No one’s going to buy it, I’d be better off setting fire to it!”
“It might be more sensible to do it as a holiday let”, I said “You might at least get some money out of it that way”.
“It’s not as if anything actually HAPPENS here”, she said “No green slime oozing from the walls, disembodied hands in the fridge, that sort of thing, but the Atmosphere is just so WRONG. It’d make a pretty depressing holiday for anyone”.
“It might not”, I said “People here in a holiday mood might invigorate the place. You’re stressed out when you’re here, so that’s different”.
“The whole farm is all wrong”, she said “One of the cows in the fields was found with its throat cut recently. Who could do such a thing?!”
I remembered the attacks on horses there had been in this area over the years, and the pregnant dog that had been found disembowelled on the scrubland.
“All I can say is that some weird shit has gone on here at times”, I said.
To be quite honest with you I was relieved to get away from this downbeat atmosphere. Ever since the depression had struck me down last year, I had been determined that it wasn’t going to hit me again. Rightly or wrongly, I found that these days I had very little patience with people who just gave into the blues. I had seen for myself that there is nothing to be gained from letting life vampirise you. I don’t mean you have to fight all the damn time (very wearying, and sometimes simply not appropriate), but just be more philosophical. And ye Gods, I do know how hard that can be (after all it’s taken me a long time not to go into a right two-and-eight every time it rains!).
It was a relief to get back to Shinglesea, where Kristy was wanting to tell me in great detail about the upcoming horror of having her kitchen completely ripped out and put back in. Kristy has annoyed me many times in the past (or rather I think it’s fairer to say her family and endless stream of visitors have annoyed me), but at least she’s a survivor. I’ve seen her angry, I’ve seen her tearful (particularly after her mother died, and when that nutter obscenely vandalised her shed last Spring), but she always bounces back up again like a Jack-In-The-Box. I have no doubt whatsoever that the saga of her kitchen renovation will prove to be every bit as longwinded and irritating as the patio was, but at least she gets on with life. It’s a quality that isn’t valued enough these days.
I was checking my e-mails, and had an amused notion that news of my recent marathon of kinky antics had even reached Pakistan, as a gentleman there was offering to sell me a wide selection of leather gloves! (It makes a change from penis extensions and bent watches I suppose, let alone somebody wanting me to do some money laundering for them). My mobile rang. It was Jason.
“Sorry to bother you, mate”, he said “I know you must be busy, but could you pop up again and see Xanthe”.
“We only saw her yesterday”, I said.
“Yeah I know, but I’m worried about her”, he said “Everything’s knocked her down. Al going, and all these stories of animals being attacked and killed. You know what she’s like about animals, she donates to WSPA regularly, even though I know she can’t really afford it. Anyway, she’s really starting to lash out at people, and then she’s got this bladder infection as well. I think that’s an aftermath of the floods myself”.
“Could be very likely”, I said (we’ve had numerous attacks of strange rashes, blotches, plus Misty’s piles since July).
“I’ve got some interesting news for you anyway”, he went on “You remember that story of the girl at the farm who insisted on sleeping on the ground floor?” “Oh yes, because she didn’t want a sea-view”, I said.
“I’ve heard a bit more”, he said “One of the guys who works at the farm told me. He said she claimed there were people coming out of the sea. Well that ties in with some of the experiences you’ve had doesn’t it?”
“It’s certainly food for thought”, I said “It ties in with a lot of things round here, like that tall bloke I saw just below the sea-wall, who looked soaked to the skin”.
“Makes you think don’t it?” he said.
I agreed, although think about what I’m not quite sure at the moment.
“Anyway”, he continued “I’m getting the real heebie-jeebies sleeping in this room on my own, so my mate Dave’s coming up to stay until Robbie gets back”.
I remembered My Mate Dave from the photograph taken of him in Fobbington churchyard. A rather gaunt, red-eyed figure who should be more than a match for any supernatural night intruders I would have thought!
Due to a combination of work and sexual high-jinks, (too much of both) I did my back in. It had been grumbling for several days, but finally went ping when I went out to get the recycling boxes in. Suddenly I was hobbling around on a stick, and spending the rest of my time lying rigidly on the sofa with three cushions placed at strategic intervals beneath me. Even simple things like wiping my bum on the loo suddenly required a great deal more thought and planning than would normally have been required. I had once read a debate on euthanasia on the Internet, and some opinionated sod had said he would like to be put down when he couldn’t wipe his own arse anymore. Well I’m having trouble at the moment, I thought, but I’m pretty certain I’m not ready to be taken to the vets just yet!!!
I thought I’d take the less drastic solution of going to see the osteopath instead. My regular one wasn’t there, and I got seen to by his locum, a little Frenchman in a ponytail, who looked like a sort of New Age version of Hercule Poirot. In spite of the fact that he only came up to my shoulder, he was possessed of quite remarkable strength, and at one point even succeeded in putting his arms under my armpits and lifting me clean off my feet! I’m not quite sure what this was supposed to do to my back, but it left me impressed all the same.
When he had finished I went out to the van, where Misty instantly jumped out to help the poor, doddery old bastard (me) back into the driver’s seat, which I had to spend an age adjusting again and rearranging the poncey cushions behind my back.
“Jason rang on your mobile whilst you were being seen to”, he said, when he had got back into the passenger seat.
“What now?” I snapped “I’m not in the mood for driving all the way up there today!”
“No, he wants your opinion”, said Misty “He’s thinking of starting up a new website, dedicated to all the strange things that have been going on in this area”.
“I’m quite surprised actually he hasn’t thought of doing it before”, I said.
“And he wants there to be a forum where people can talk about it”, he said “You can go on there and tell them about everything that’s happened to us here”.
That thought filled me with horror. The idea of going into cyberspace and telling about all the weird shit that’s happened in the Shinglesea area, and then get torn to pieces by every ignorant, sneering troll lurking in the vicinity was too much to bear.
“Hasn’t he got any new entrances to Hell he can go and investigate instead?” I sighed.