The shed was built of wood, mouldy and rotten. The floorboards let gusts of wind in and a fair amount of rain dripped through the roof. Drafts crept in underneath the door, the door itself rusting away. Perhaps at one time or another, it was a fishing hut, although the lake beside it had dried up long ago, fresh green grass growing in its place.
And so, for this hut to house a cat would be like for a child to live in a tree. This cat, who had never had an owner, was a stray. This showed. Patches of its black fur had fallen out and its ribs jutted out, making the cat look more like a ghost than anything else. It huddled to a rather ragged, brown tweed jacket that had been forgotten there years ago.
The only human thing about this cat was an old bronze fob watch that was tied to a string and placed around her neck. The watch had the design of a dragon on the front and a flower pattern on the back. It wasn’t battery powered or wound up; it was powered by the movement of the cat. It ticked through the night although being drowned out by the thunder and lightning.
Clinging to the old cat was a small kitten, curled up and was no bigger than a small piglet. It was just like its mother, black all around. Except for his chin and neck fur. That was a fluffy white with a small patch of black on its chin, making this cat look as though it wore a tuxedo. Its paws were also white; making it look like it wore socks.
The next day, the storm had ceased, leaving a peaceful, tranquil forest. There was a thin frost over each blade of grass, and the threes glittering as though there were sequins covering them. The sun shone brightly over the forest, waking squirrels from their hibernation. Birds sang and the rabbits began nibbling at the grass.
Inside the hut, the cat still clung to its mother, even though the mother had turned cold hours ago. The sun kissed the two of them, but even then the cat was saddened. It kept to its mother’s side faithfully, hoping to be found eventually.
After many hours, the cat had given up hope. Using its claws, the cat took the fob watch from its mother, placing it around his own neck. The cat made its way to the door with a heart–breaking feeling inside of him. Taking one last look at his first home and at his mother, he crawled out from a crack under the door.
The cat had never been outside before; he had only ever seen from the ceiling and the cracks in the hut. What space there was! It was overwhelming for the cat to believe that he had never roamed around this huge space. Mud clung to his paws and the cat looked at the trees, all of which were new to him. He stood in the sunlight, enjoying the warmth it gave.
He looked at the sparrows flying across the sky. The cat knew what they were; his mother had brought him birds before. However, he had never seen them fly before. It was odd that they could fly, just by flapping their wings.
The cat began wandering and like the pilgrims or the gypsies he had no clear destination. It was just important than he remain walking. With a spirit that could take him to the ends of the Earth, he began walking.
The cat could only walk in time with the fob watch because it was the most reassuring sound he knew, like a baby who will hide behind its blanket. He past tree after tree, experiencing the most wonderful thing in the world– walking.
And then he saw a sparrow, nesting on the ground. It was gathering sticks and twigs that were scattered across the ground. An amazing instinct pumped through the cat’s brain. It’s breathing got quicker and it suddenly found its legs running.
Oh how they flexed! The cat pounced, its front paws outstretched. It sank its claws into the bird, biting it. The bird struggled to get away, thrashing its wings frantically, chirping as hard as it could.
The bird stopped chirping, it stopped breathing. The cat made quick work of the bird, being very hungry from all the walking. The cat decided that birds were wonderful things to eat and that he should catch more of them from now on.
The cat saw how the sun was dipping lower and lower behind the mountains. It was subtle at first and then without a word’s warning, it was night time.
The cat was worried. How could it sleep outside? Yet he need not worry. He curled up beside a tree, resting on some particularly long grass. The cat kept the fob watch close to it, finding the ticking very soothing. The cat closed its eyes and became very proud that he could sleep outside. Then, a quiet rumbling came from this cat– he was purring.
It was a clear and cloudless night, every star was shining brightly. The cat felt as though the stars were watching over him. This gave him great comfort. He breathing got more relaxed and the cat fell into a sleep.
He was sitting in one of the mighty trees! Sparrows were sitting on every branch. With great precision, the cat launched itself at a handful of birds, smacking his lips at how tender and juicy they were. He felt as though he weighed nothing. He enjoyed the idea of being able to zoom around, catching birds left, right and centre.
The cat woke with a startle. A piece of grass had been tickling his nose and had lodged itself into his nose. The cat began trying to dislodge the grass, before finally using all four of its paws. The first rays of sun were peaking over the trees and the cat began his journey.
The cat walked until his saw the end of the forest. He walked out and discovered a dirt road.
A dirt road was odd. There were no trees, just dust. The fine dust swirled in the wind, getting into the cat’s eyes and nose, making the cat sneeze. The cat stepped onto the dirt road, not looking back, determined to only move forward.
A huge, metal box on wheels came flying past. It had black wheels making it move forward with a huge metal box, carrying a man inside it. The man had fur around his mouth and chin and hardly any on the top of his head.
On the back of the metal box was wood that had been cut and placed into a box shape. Inside were many kittens, all clawing to get out. They cried out and tried to slip out but to no avail.
For the cat, this was amazing. He had never seen another cat other than his mother. The cat ran after the metal box but slowly began to tire. Eventually, the metal box seemed to get smaller and smaller until it was out of sight.
The cat decided on a whim to continue on the dirt road. It was important to him. He walked to the side to rest.
There he found a stream running through with fresh water. Eagerly, the cat drank noisily, lapping at the cold water.
The cat was so tired and the water was so inviting that soon the cat had jumped into the water. Water clung to his fur but the cat didn’t mind. It was so thrilling to be in the water.
The cat tried to walk in the water but found that walking in water was much harder than walking on land. Slowly but surely, the walking became a kicking and the cat soon found itself swimming.
It swam for miles and miles until the stream came to the side of a mountain. There was a strange circle. It was metal, with rectangular gaps in it. Murky water was flowing out of it and the cat could smell something horrible. Using his claws to hold on to the dirt, the cat dragged himself slowly out of the water.
A terrible gust of wind took that chance to blow. The cat shivered. It was cold enough but now he was wet and cold. That was the pits.
The cat surveyed the land around him. There was a dirt road that went over the mountain. Fresh green grass covered the land and trees had begun to blossom a bright purple.
The cat had travelled enough for one day. He decided that the best place to stay was underneath a burrow that had been hastily dug underneath the shelter of an old oak tree.
The cat saw a silky yellow ribbon wrapped around the tree and saw one end dangling. The cat thought how odd this was and swiped at the ribbon. As though it was alive the ribbon tried to thrash and get away. This triggered something in the cat and the cat took another swipe. The ribbon waved in the wind and the cat jumped, this time catching the ribbon around one of its claws.
The cat scratched and bit the ribbon, feeling a sense of fun inside of him. The ribbon slid off the tree and hovered down to the ground. The yellow ribbon ended up tattered and torn, with the cat worn out from attacking it. Pleased with himself, the cat snuggled down in the burrow and closed his eyes.
..
The cat was hit the next day by a passing taxi.
“What was that Robert?”
“My dear Marissa, I haven’t a clue. But whatever it was, it probably deserved it”
..
The taxi was populated by a whole of four people. The first and most crucial for the taxi to be operational was the driver, a withered old figure called Edward Trix. Edward or Ed as he preferred to be called was a man nearing the ends of his life. He had spent most of his life driving, driving remote cars when he was a boy, driving tanks in the second Great War, driving posthaste vehicles during the Cold War and finally in the end of his tenure, driving taxi cabs.
The next two occupants went by the names Dame Marissa Birmingham and The Honorable Robert Marx. The two were traveling partners in crime, deceitfully light.
The Honourable Robert Marx was a trustworthy, bright spark. A handsome face accompanied by a cleft chin, brown hair, clear skin and a winning smile. His outfit consisted of a white shirt, cream Panama hat, buccaneer boots, red waistcoat and crisp dark trenchcoat to match. A figure guaranteed to garner respect anywhere.
His companion, Marissa Birmingham, was also intelligent and rather good looking. A slender figure with doe–like eyes, long, light brown hair and a charismatic smile. Dressing in a Gothic Victorian ensemble and a similar black trenchcoat, her appearance was a little intimidating.
On their laps they each had a large traveling suitcase. Robert had an assortment of paraphernalia in his. What Marissa had is a complete mystery.
Also on Robert’s lap was a briefcase stuffed with various papers they had acquired during their travels. It was a sleek black colour, made from fine soft leather. Many a white–collar would have fought over it, the case being the absolute pinnacle of a businessman’s accessory. The lock was firmly in place and a padlock over that lock for anyone with any sense would easily guess the four digit combination.
The fourth occupant was Janet Palin, who after a series of drunken adventures with her best friend Mikayla, had ended up in the trunk of a taxi with Mikayla jamming the lock shut.
So much for good friends.
“Ireland was fantastic” Marissa laughed. “But like video games, talking with Southern and playing pool, maybe it’s just a treat when it’s occasional”
“Yes” Robert agreed. “And to think that the cargo ship was burgled by–”
“So where are we going next Mister Marx?” Marissa interrupted, opening up “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” and flipping to page 54.
“A ferry to take us to England” Robert beaming at his own cleverness. “Isn’t that brilliant?”
“Oh yes Robert, very brilliant. Astronomically, mind–blowing, cosmologically, heathenry,” Marissa said, rattling off all the adjectives that would flit while her mind was still yelling at the characters that the murderer of the story was not in fact the uncle, but Edwin Drood.
“Wait, what?”
“England” Robert repeated, this time getting each syllable pronounced in a slow, patronizing manner.
“Ah to be in the Queen’s country now that winter’s here” Marissa reminisced, putting an old quill in Edwin Drood to mark her page and closing the book gently. “Even though I love Selledrome City, England will always be my home”
“And it’ll be a place where our trenchcoats don’t stand out like glowworms at a butterfly convention!” Robert chirped, his head now aching at having to have it constantly at 90 degrees to talk to Marissa.
The taxi hit a bump. Janet screamed with all the air in the trunk which she wasn’t helping by taking huge panic breaths.
“Robert, are you sure you didn’t hear anything?”
“Nope, as silent as a corpse”
The taxi swerved before coming to a still.
“Here is your destination. Port 42” Ed said, applying the handbrake. “Your fee is $37.08 in cash please ma’am”
Robert fished into his coat pocket, producing a $100 note after finding a tea spoon, a bus ticket, a small copy of “The Devil’s Work by Tim Ernshaw” and what may or may not have been a piece of gum at one point.
‘Keep the change” Robert said, helping Marissa out of the vehicle. “We aren’t bothered by roots of evil”
“That’s very generous of you” Ed smiled, showing off his best feature– oddly white and straight teeth. “Please, call me Ed”
Ed smiled, wondering of how he was going to spend the money. It was currently a toss–up between giving it to his four–year–old grandson for lunch money or going down to the pub and drink back the cares of having kids.
“I think I’ll go down to the pub” Ed told Robert as he turned the ignition key. Driving away, he could already feel the varnished wood supporting his weight and cigar smoke ruining his appetite.
“Well that’s my good deed done for the day” Robert smiled, trying to lift his suitcase which, with the addition of several briefs for his pulp fiction inspiration, was now much heavier than his skinny limbs could lift. He attempted again but only succeeded in telescoping his spine.
Now that’s a wrench in his good mood.
“Marissa…”
“Wimp”
Marissa slowly wandered back to Robert who was currently struggling with two arms and a spinal cord to lift the suitcase off the ground.
“Marissa… help?”
With one hand and a will of iron, Marissa swept up the suitcase and took it to join her case. Robert stood there, weighing the chances of him being insidiously weak or Marissa being heinously strong.
“Marissa” Robert said, even struggling with the briefcase. “You are heinously strong”
“Worried you’re just insidiously weak?” Marissa quipped, heading towards the ferry.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Money, Friends & Definitive Ends
Written by
Cosmo Smith
..
From an idea by
Latimer Beaumont & Alisa Lawliet
..
Homicide. It’s a sterile word, overtly clinical, unpleasant when it leaves your mouth. Murder also has its strange connotations and the rest of the semantics aren’t worth going in to. Justice is slightly better to say, though no better to experience.
Necroshire is a sea side town. Though it didn’t start out that way. It started out as a sea side cemetery, for all the soldiers from the WWI who wanted to lie on the beach for eternity. After the second war, a widow though she might build a cottage near her husband. That got the widow’s friend thinking. Then before you’d know it, they thought there might be a town house for them to all play bridge on Thursdays. And all that bridge could get an elderly group of widowers hungry and so a shop was made. And to cash in the initial shop’s success, a café was built around the corner. Then, people who got sick from the food from the café needed some medicine. So a Doctor’s surgery was built, alongside a pharmacy and a casual knitwear shop. Then before you knew it, the young, ingénue doctor who treated the lovely young coffeehouse waitress spent his evenings with her, irrevocably taking behind the town library one night. Then the baby was born. Then a trend was started. Then a kindergarten was needed. Then a school. All those who wished to go to further study would need a ride out to polite society. Thus, the bus shelter was constructed. Then a flood of Chinese immigrants set up their own trades, commercial fishing, holiday resorts, and general stores. When tourists came in, they might be bored of the sea, no matter how blue it was. So a cinema was made. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
So what could twenty-year-old Jasper Rochester possibly be doing in such a cosy town? Fresh from Birmingham University with a BA in Music Theory, back to the scene of the crime, for I am the child of the child conceived from that meeting behind the library. Spending my time on the sandy beaches or in the coffeehouse, seeing what sweets we might find on the counter of the pharmacy or trying to get one of the older boys to buy us six-packs of beer, my childhood in a nut shell. But staying on-campus for my secondary study had opened my eyes; I was hungry for more of the urban than suburban life.
My friends in Necroshire were few. Back when I was a tot, there were the elderly women who had white paper bags of toffee in abundance and in turn, during my teen years I spent hanging around the beach with kids two or three years my junior, teaching them the proper way to skive off school or to pilfer chocolate bars and cigarettes from the newsagent. I don’t know how I didn’t end up with a face that repelled people; the only things I seemed to eat during my childhood were loaded with things unpronounceable to stutters. Even now, the things I consume are unpronounceable by lispers.
Still, even when I made my glorious return, those elderly women had joined their husbands in the holes held in the floor and those kids two or three years my junior had hitched a ride to London in order to make it big with their bands, their acting career and their comedy material. I may have spent nineteen years in the spit of the world but I’d made surprisingly few friends my own age in that town. Rosa Clisterham, a middle-school dropout who spent her days being ogled by the Primary school spawns as she held up a sweet shop. Neville Ceylon, the Environmental Reconstruction Executive Consultant for the Necroshire Branch, essentially the man who tells the lumberjacks where to go and steal our forests. Edwin Charles, a dim-witted goon met at a soccer game who wound up running an outdoor activities supply store.
I kept as much sand from my jeans as I blew out ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’. Truth was, that after getting a job at shipping and handling at the fishmonger, I found myself incredibly bored, even with three whole friends. My parents let me stay at home for twenty pounds a week, something which caused a dent in minimum wage work. Aside from the ten hours of work at the docks, I also spent five hours a day on weekends to help out at the library to make ends meet. I wasn’t living the life of Riley as I had envisioned, barely getting to play the flute or the acoustic guitar that had been my safety blanket at university. Whenever I had a free day, which was rare if ever, I used to sit on the beach and play a jazz tune while I soaked up the sunlight. It was solitary bliss until I heard a voice to break the confinement:
“Nice tune”
“I didn’t go to a university and study music for nothing” I smiled as Rosa joined me. Rosa was nothing special to look at, soft white hair, a nice smile and a somewhat buxom figure. Still, she was the closest thing I had to a girlfriend and that was only because she fit each separate component of the word. We were, we are, each other secret-keepers, she’s told me everything since we met, how she lost her virginity at age fifteen, how she used to pocket bills from the cash register. We trusted each other completely. Taking the sherbet lemon offered, I began to play ‘Send In The Clowns’.
“How’s your day been?” Rosa asked, to which I easily responded, “got up, got dressed, and here we are. What about you?”
“We ran out of aniseed balls today” shrugged Rosa, “people were a bit ticked at that”
“It seems that you and the dental practice in this place are in cahoots” I lowered the flute, “God, today is nice”
“Isn’t it just?” Rosa spoke like she was in a Jane Austen novel. Still, she was accurate for it was a cloudless day with a sparkling blue horizon, almost as if tailored for the calendar industry who arrived every few months to take pictures for next year, “you know, sometimes I feel like sailing away from this place, go see what’s outside this stupid box”
“For that you would need a boat”
“OK, then I’d fly away from this place”
“For that you would need a plane”
“OK, then I’d drive away, not exactly as picturesque but it’d be nice” Rosa unwrapped a raspberry lollipop, popping it into the side of her mouth, “it’s so damn boring now”
“When was this place ever exciting?” I said incredulously, “the whole foundation of this stupid hamlet was for dead bodies. The most riveting thing that’s happened this year is that new Australian couple moved in and they’re Australian” let it sink and then repeated, “Australian. That place sort of near New Zealand”
“New Zealand, might go there one day”
“What’ve they got what we haven’t got? Beaches and trees, we got that”
“You seen Edwin since you’ve been back?” Rosa asked, “he’s been asking around for you, said he’s got a favour to ask of you”
“Ah, been busy, two jobs, some household chores and a music career” I admonished, “OK, two jobs and household chores”
“Oh damn” Rosa checked her watch under her woolen jacket, I don’t why she wore it, it didn’t look exactly warm, “after-school rush. Every kid needs his soda and licorice”
“Well, be seeing you” and as she left, I tuned her departure with ‘Swan Lake’.
“Edwin” I entered the store which was customer-sparse. Edwin crawled out from under the counter, his pudgy limbs somewhat thicker since I’d last seen him, “you seem well”
“Jasper” Edwin breathed, “how was university?” and before I could answer he squeezed me tightly, perhaps too much so.
“So how’s your store?”
“Actually…” Edwin looked incredibly depressed, his cheeks sagging like a bulldog, “the store is failing- financially”
“Ah” I nodded in acceptance of the situation, “what do you need?”
“A start-up capital, someone to invest” Edwin began to wave papers at me, “I want to shift this place to somewhere a little closer to Cornwall”
“You think you could?”
Edwin looked determined as he spoke, “Jasper, I may have to declare bankruptcy but I know if I get to spin that wheel one more time…”
“I’d love to help you Edwin, really, but my hands are tied” I protested, “I’ve got to pay off student loans and all the tuition fees-”
“What? No” Edwin noted a misunderstanding, “you’re friends with that Neville, right? Neville…”
“Ceylon” I finished, “you want me to ask him if he’ll invest in your business”
“If it’s not too much trouble” he said sheepishly, “and I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate”
“I’ll see what I can do but Neville’s extremely tight with the wallet” I gave Edwin the look of hope he needed, even though I knew there was no way in hell that No-Bucks Ceylon would give a pence to Edwin, “no promises”
Neville did live in style. The nicest place in Necroshire, built from the very trees he’d had deforested, with enough room for a tennis court and room for servants, or at the very least, guests. He would never marry though, Neville was far too selfish for that, the only reason I kept a personal connection with him was that he’d loaned me seven hundred quid in order to survive campus life. I knocked on the door with a little too much force, rattling the handle slightly.
“Hello Jazz” Neville looked exactly like the characters in romantic comedies who steal the love interest and are secretly cheating behind their backs. Dressed in an expensive navy blue suit, Neville kept his hair smooth by washing it with a combination of turtle wax and the tears from orphans. I entered to see that he’d redecorated yet again, now to include even more expensive and useless artifacts.
“Say Neville…” I wasn’t quite sure how to approach it but luckily, a glass of champagne broke the ice, “this is nice, you might say that this champagne is…”
“Painstakingly fastidious” he offered to which I groaned in my head. He was reading the dictionary again, “I’ve had it imported from France” Neville expounded, “I’m planning on keeping a few cases here until the economy picks up again”
“Listen, Neville” but he stopped me again, “you must see the painting I’ve got hanging in the master bedroom, it’s a genuine Banham”
I had no idea who that was and after a flight of stairs, two kitchens and a rumpus room, we got to the master bedroom and I found that I still didn’t know who Banham was. The painting itself consisted of some sort of forest in which a young girl was fleeing from an unknown enemy.
“Doesn’t it just leak out the artist’s suspicion of environmental noir?” Neville always wanted to impress me, but unfortunately no one had ever told him that you don’t use words if you don’t know what they mean, “through its impressionistic colorization. What do you think?”
“It’s very nice” which satisfied Neville enough. We began to walk through Neville’s house, “listen, Neville, do you remember Edwin Charles?”
“Edwin?” he flicked his eyes to one side as he fumbled through his memory, “that little fat kid from school?”
“Yeah, that one” attempting to skive over the bullying Neville did, I pushed on, “he’s offering for you to invest in his business. For a man of your stature, of who money is no object-”
“Some things never change” Neville laughed, “he was a leech then and he’s a leech now”
His laughing got to the point that as we were about to descend from the staircase, he became almost paralyzed with laughter. I almost joined in but decided nothing would make me laugh as hard as Neville was laughing at that moment, leaning against the Louis wallpaper to balance himself.
Opportunity struck me at that moment. The opportunity to fix everyone’s problems. I figured if I was unsuccessful I could always say it was an accident and if I was found out, I could say it was an innocent nudge that had no malice intended. With an open palm and some force, I pushed Neville firmly down the steep staircase where he fell almost directly to the ground.
“Neville?” I said, perhaps too calmly. A red halo began to appear around Neville’s scalp, mingling with the turtle wax and the orphan tears, “you OK?”
Dead silence came from the shell of Neville Ceylon.
“Yeah, you’re fine”
Thoughts began to erupt across my mind. The first was to make a phone call. Heading to the nearest phone, I dialed the only person who I could trust.
“Rosa speaking”
“It’s me” I said to the receiver, “I killed Neville”
“Yeah, and I stopped global warming”
“No really I did”
“Oh, OK, one of us did something good today then” I knew why I was calm but I had no idea why she was as calm as I was, “do you still want to travel?”
“Of course”
“Make some excuse to go home” I instructed, “when you get back, pack one suitcase and all the money you’ve got. I’ll meet you there”
“You’re making us sound like we’re convicts”
“I am, aren’t I?” I hung up the phone. I looked at Neville. No one would be surprised if a rich boy suddenly disappeared on vacation. After checking his clothes for identification cards or money, I found his wallet which had his ATM cards and fifty pounds in notes. His car keys were in his breast pocket which gave me an idea. As a dead man, Neville was surprisingly light as I took him to the garage.
A Ford Anglia and a Ford Prefect stood side by side, hand polished and in perfect running order, each with a full tank. Opening the trunk of the Ford Prefect, I stuffed Neville into his final resting place, locking him inside. Keeping the key with me, I decided I could flush it down the toilet later. I did a quick hunt for any money in Neville’s home, finding that he’d kept wads of cash under his bed and behind the hot water heater.
It took me a few minutes to get the Ford Anglia to start and just when I was about to escape from Necroshire forever, another lightening bolt struck me. Neville was about my suit size and he definitely had a large wardrobe. A few trips upstairs and I had a dry-cleaned black suit, brogues and a leather coat, along with a suitcase full of other fine clothes. Dressed for action, I headed to the real world.
I stopped outside Edwin’s shop and noticed his car was gone. It was probably safer now that I was wearing my new attire. Though the door was locked, he’d left the window to the bathroom open a crack. Feeding fifty pound notes in three at a time, I left enough to be confident that Edwin could start up his new venture, though without Rosa or me to see it.
“Nice ride. The sixties called, they want their car back” Rosa smiled and threw her suitcase in the back seat, “nice suit too”
“It’s Neville’s”
“Is he really…?” she held off on the finishing word, not out of fear or disgust but rather out of politeness to which I appreciated, “yes, as a doorknob”
“Miserable git, good riddance” she said, changing tones, “I don’t think I ever liked him, he used to steal candy from babies. I wish I was kidding, that’s what I used to see him doing”
“What’s he got in the CD player?” I asked, fumbling with the tiny buttons, “hopefully something good”
As the Beatles’s ‘Eleanor Rigby’ blared out, I was about to change the song when Rosa stopped me, “don’t, I like this one”
We drove through Necroshire, seeing all the familiar buildings one last time. After we’d exited, it was a lot of hills, rolling green fields and the occasional fjord which we were always taught is pined after by the Norwegian Blue.
From there we felt like we could do anything and in truth, we weren’t that far off. We drove into a nearby town and hid the car into the parking lot of the local pub, the Lestrade Inn. A pub’s décor is sacred and rigidly follows the humble histories, the varnished wooden walls, the smoky aroma, the high ceilings with the exposed timber beams used to hold all sorts of English paraphernalia.
“Two pints of lager” I instructed to the bearded barman, and then before I could stop myself “and a packet of crisps”
The barman merely acknowledged my order with a feeble salute and acknowledged my joke with a slight cough. He’d probably heard it to death. I handed over one of Neville’s ten pound notes, folded perfectly and still warm with self-love.
“Nice place you’ve found” Rosa said, getting a foam moustache from the beer, “really… rustic”
“I like rustic” I took a long draught from the chipped glass, “this country got rid of the Americans by being rustic”
“So…” Rosa rubbed her knees and we began fighting an awkward pause. We hadn’t talked about Neville seriously since we’d left Necroshire, “he’s… he’s really…” she moved her finger across her throat.
“Yes Rosa, he really is…” I moved my finger across my throat, “suffice to say, he won’t be after us any time soon”
“Great…” Rosa took another awkward sip from the pint, “so… now what?”
“I’d say we go get something to eat” I glanced at my cheap, ten-pound watch, made of cheap plastic, “hungry? It’s almost five o’clock”
“Sounds nice”
We ended up at a fish-and-chip shop, run by an extremely polite Korean couple. Rosa and I ate our four quid of chips and sauce in the local playground, sitting on the pair of swings, rocking gently back and forth. We might have looked like just a young couple, out for the afternoon.
We didn’t say much, what could we talk about? I’ve heard that when you commit murder there’s a pang of guilt but really I didn’t feel anything, just the hot chips in my hand and the cool sensation as night inevitably fell.
“I want to go to a discotheque” Rosa said.
We both stood up from the swings and I threw the greasy chip-paper into a nearby litter bin, “a discotheque?”
“Well, back home, I’d see a discotheque on television but in Necroshire, it was dead so far as partying goes” she said as we walked to the car, “and since we’re now… free agents… why not?”
“Well if we’re going to go to a discotheque, then we’re going to do it properly” I started the car, “we’ll go to London or Birmingham or somewhere where they’ve got debauchery down to a science”
“We’ll never make it to Birmingham today”
“There’s probably somewhere we can stay” I said, “We’ll just look around for a while”
In the end, we found a cozy B&B run by the sweetest old lady and her three cats Celina, Elle, & Tina-Jane. We had a very comfortable room with clean linen and, because it was the summertime, fresh flowers in a ceramic vase. A record player that had survived the 1940s played Lou Preager as Rosa and I napped on the down-filled bed.
As we awoke, it must have been late as the house was solely illuminated by moonlight but not so late as the last of first of the night-owls had exited their basements. At what point did Rosa and I feel it was OK to kiss? We made love to each other just because we had nothing better to do, nothing substantial to talk about. It was an enjoyable experience though nothing fabulous, there was a lot of fumbling and dissatisfaction but we both felt lightly refreshed afterward.
Rosa asked me for a cup of tea and who was I to refuse? Her hair was tussled, just enough to give that slightly sexy glow about her. I crept down to the kitchen in the dark where I helped myself to two coffee mugs, teabags and some hot water from the well-polished kettle. As I prepared the tea, someone from the torn blue couch called to me.
“The long dark tea-time of the soul approaches” a voice in the dark called, “is there any Earl Gray in there somewhere?”
A lamp flickered on, the pale cream light percolating through the room. Sitting on the softest cushion was a man with an unshaven gaunt face, black curly hair which sat lazily along his scalp, a dark brown tweed suit with shiny black patent leather boots.
“Earl Gray? Wonderful stuff” the man said with an impeccable Estuary English accent, “fusion of hydrogen and theine molecules to get the neurons fired up and stimulated, get those little gray cells red again”
“Oh sorry, let me check” a quick scan of the cupboard revealed several tea varieties, but not Earl Gray, “sorry, anything else you might like?”
“There’s a bar of dark chocolate on the top shelf” the man said, “could you please pass it to me?”
I stirred sugar into both teas while the man unwrapped the golden foil, “What are you doing up so late?”
“I might ask you the same question”
“Well then I’ll answer first” the man broke a piece of chocolate off with his mouth and chewed loudly, “I’m a private detective and the one thing that private detectives are sure to get are bad dreams”
“A successful private detective? Go on, it sounds interesting”
“I’m actually off to investigate a murder” the man said, “a man was found in the trunk of his own car with blatant head trauma”
My blood froze, “what’s this man’s name?”
The man in the brown suit took another bite from his chocolate, “do you think his name in any way will help solve the case?”
“You’re right” I might have kicked myself being so blunt, but I felt sure that I needed to know if the man was investigating Neville, “so are you investigating a well-known person?”
“Well-known? I have no idea” the man shrugged with innocence, “the truth is I’ve still to visit the crime scene. I’m catching a cab there tomorrow. You know, I may be the first person in several decades to jump into a cab and not say ‘follow that black van’”
He laughed. I laughed. In that order. With very little overlap.
“Well, it’s your turn now” the man in the brown suit took another bite from the corner of his chocolate bar, “what are you doing up so late?”
“Couldn’t sleep” I said simply, shrugging with the same innocence, “it happens”
“But you have two cups of tea” the man nodded to the two mugs, “one for your companion?”
“You really are a private detective” I complimented, “what’s your name?”
The man flicked his eyes to the staircase, “You can call me Agramonte”
“OK, Agramonte” I did that strange thing you do when you first say someone’s name out loud to them, elongating each syllable as if to check it’s correct pronunciation, “well, I’d better go. Tea’s getting cold”
“Of course” the man was as courteous as a man from a Poirot novel, “delighted to have met you Jasper Rochester”
“How do you know my name?”
“I checked the number of plates laid out for breakfast and I noticed that there was one more than the number of guest signatures dated yesterday so I checked with the registrar and found you” Agramonte shrugged so nonchalantly he almost fooled himself, “Observation and inductive reasoning is not like riding a bike but like holding your whisky- it’s better to practice every day. My father said that right before that very unfortunate alcohol poisoning”
“Right, well...” I tried not to sound to uncomfortable as I retreated upstairs where Rosa was fast asleep. I sat beside her with two cold cups of tea on the nightstand, stroking her hair as I wondered where we were going to go.
I woke slowly, vaguely aware of Rosa’s absence and a shower running, head throbbing just enough to make talk a veritable pain. Though it was not actually raining, it was extremely chilly, with gusts of cold air nipping at my raw flesh through an open window. I drank the two cold cups of tea for the caffeine, struggling to swallow the liquid and the truth; that Rosa and I were free.
After Rosa was finished with her shower, I took mine, using the steaming hot water to wash away my old life. I must have seared my skin like a hot lobster, allowing the jet to brush against my red cheek. I dried myself off with a ragged towel and slipped into one of Neville’s suits, a black suit with a red shirt and stripey tie. I felt like a hermit crab, wearing the skin of a dead predecessor. Still, as a sharply-dressed hermit crab, I felt like a million quid ready to roll. Back on the road, we picked up a map book, some candy bars, and a Lonely Planet paperback. After consultation with the paperback, we headed off to Blackpool. Vowing only to stop for food, sleep, and petrol, we headed north.
I had erroneously assumed that when I was tired Rosa could take over driving but as it turned out, she had never bothered to learn. I wasn’t too annoyed at that but it’s hard to eat saltine crackers behind the wheel. We flew by the countryside, numb of the sheer mass of fields, paddocks, and other such pieces of land. Finally the drunkards of the country became replaced with drunkards of the city, almost identical except they were drinking slightly pricier plonk. A man loosened by claret gave us the way to the hub of Blackpool, a substitute for Las Vegas for those who could not afford the flight.
Rosa went shopping while I sipped coffee, my legs dangling over the pier. The sea air did wonders for my headache but the glorious sun beat down unfavourably. I removed my jacket and slung it over my figure, just like a figure from a mobster movie, yet again, an image I could not back up. The only time I had worn suits was weddings and funerals. In Blackpool, the smart-casual was something taken for granted.
When it got too hot for the wharf, I headed into an arcade, where the small children, and thus by extension, the paedophiles, were frequenting. I played all the classic pinball games, before heading to a jewellery store where I bought an expensive gold watch, the first time I ever got a time-piece that cost more than four dollars. I was beginning to look the part, whatever that part might be. I found a slot machine which dispensed all manner of cigarettes. I bought two cartons of Pall Mall reds and smoked them furiously, chain-smoking a quarter of the pack. I had never been a habitual smoker but things were beginning to align themselves that way.
After taking yet another review of the actions I had taken, the passenger I had hitched, and the destination I was going, I felt my throat scratch. I went to get some iced coffee, paid for it, and as I went back to the promenade I noticed Rosa. With another male friend. I’m not a confrontational guy, that’s not how I’m built, in that kind of situation, flight over fight any day.
I hope Rosa went to her discotheque because I never found out. I stepped back into the car and drove to the airport. A packet of Pall Mall cigarettes tasted bitter sweet. So was freedom.
Cosmo Smith
..
From an idea by
Latimer Beaumont & Alisa Lawliet
..
Homicide. It’s a sterile word, overtly clinical, unpleasant when it leaves your mouth. Murder also has its strange connotations and the rest of the semantics aren’t worth going in to. Justice is slightly better to say, though no better to experience.
Necroshire is a sea side town. Though it didn’t start out that way. It started out as a sea side cemetery, for all the soldiers from the WWI who wanted to lie on the beach for eternity. After the second war, a widow though she might build a cottage near her husband. That got the widow’s friend thinking. Then before you’d know it, they thought there might be a town house for them to all play bridge on Thursdays. And all that bridge could get an elderly group of widowers hungry and so a shop was made. And to cash in the initial shop’s success, a café was built around the corner. Then, people who got sick from the food from the café needed some medicine. So a Doctor’s surgery was built, alongside a pharmacy and a casual knitwear shop. Then before you knew it, the young, ingénue doctor who treated the lovely young coffeehouse waitress spent his evenings with her, irrevocably taking behind the town library one night. Then the baby was born. Then a trend was started. Then a kindergarten was needed. Then a school. All those who wished to go to further study would need a ride out to polite society. Thus, the bus shelter was constructed. Then a flood of Chinese immigrants set up their own trades, commercial fishing, holiday resorts, and general stores. When tourists came in, they might be bored of the sea, no matter how blue it was. So a cinema was made. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
So what could twenty-year-old Jasper Rochester possibly be doing in such a cosy town? Fresh from Birmingham University with a BA in Music Theory, back to the scene of the crime, for I am the child of the child conceived from that meeting behind the library. Spending my time on the sandy beaches or in the coffeehouse, seeing what sweets we might find on the counter of the pharmacy or trying to get one of the older boys to buy us six-packs of beer, my childhood in a nut shell. But staying on-campus for my secondary study had opened my eyes; I was hungry for more of the urban than suburban life.
My friends in Necroshire were few. Back when I was a tot, there were the elderly women who had white paper bags of toffee in abundance and in turn, during my teen years I spent hanging around the beach with kids two or three years my junior, teaching them the proper way to skive off school or to pilfer chocolate bars and cigarettes from the newsagent. I don’t know how I didn’t end up with a face that repelled people; the only things I seemed to eat during my childhood were loaded with things unpronounceable to stutters. Even now, the things I consume are unpronounceable by lispers.
Still, even when I made my glorious return, those elderly women had joined their husbands in the holes held in the floor and those kids two or three years my junior had hitched a ride to London in order to make it big with their bands, their acting career and their comedy material. I may have spent nineteen years in the spit of the world but I’d made surprisingly few friends my own age in that town. Rosa Clisterham, a middle-school dropout who spent her days being ogled by the Primary school spawns as she held up a sweet shop. Neville Ceylon, the Environmental Reconstruction Executive Consultant for the Necroshire Branch, essentially the man who tells the lumberjacks where to go and steal our forests. Edwin Charles, a dim-witted goon met at a soccer game who wound up running an outdoor activities supply store.
I kept as much sand from my jeans as I blew out ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’. Truth was, that after getting a job at shipping and handling at the fishmonger, I found myself incredibly bored, even with three whole friends. My parents let me stay at home for twenty pounds a week, something which caused a dent in minimum wage work. Aside from the ten hours of work at the docks, I also spent five hours a day on weekends to help out at the library to make ends meet. I wasn’t living the life of Riley as I had envisioned, barely getting to play the flute or the acoustic guitar that had been my safety blanket at university. Whenever I had a free day, which was rare if ever, I used to sit on the beach and play a jazz tune while I soaked up the sunlight. It was solitary bliss until I heard a voice to break the confinement:
“Nice tune”
“I didn’t go to a university and study music for nothing” I smiled as Rosa joined me. Rosa was nothing special to look at, soft white hair, a nice smile and a somewhat buxom figure. Still, she was the closest thing I had to a girlfriend and that was only because she fit each separate component of the word. We were, we are, each other secret-keepers, she’s told me everything since we met, how she lost her virginity at age fifteen, how she used to pocket bills from the cash register. We trusted each other completely. Taking the sherbet lemon offered, I began to play ‘Send In The Clowns’.
“How’s your day been?” Rosa asked, to which I easily responded, “got up, got dressed, and here we are. What about you?”
“We ran out of aniseed balls today” shrugged Rosa, “people were a bit ticked at that”
“It seems that you and the dental practice in this place are in cahoots” I lowered the flute, “God, today is nice”
“Isn’t it just?” Rosa spoke like she was in a Jane Austen novel. Still, she was accurate for it was a cloudless day with a sparkling blue horizon, almost as if tailored for the calendar industry who arrived every few months to take pictures for next year, “you know, sometimes I feel like sailing away from this place, go see what’s outside this stupid box”
“For that you would need a boat”
“OK, then I’d fly away from this place”
“For that you would need a plane”
“OK, then I’d drive away, not exactly as picturesque but it’d be nice” Rosa unwrapped a raspberry lollipop, popping it into the side of her mouth, “it’s so damn boring now”
“When was this place ever exciting?” I said incredulously, “the whole foundation of this stupid hamlet was for dead bodies. The most riveting thing that’s happened this year is that new Australian couple moved in and they’re Australian” let it sink and then repeated, “Australian. That place sort of near New Zealand”
“New Zealand, might go there one day”
“What’ve they got what we haven’t got? Beaches and trees, we got that”
“You seen Edwin since you’ve been back?” Rosa asked, “he’s been asking around for you, said he’s got a favour to ask of you”
“Ah, been busy, two jobs, some household chores and a music career” I admonished, “OK, two jobs and household chores”
“Oh damn” Rosa checked her watch under her woolen jacket, I don’t why she wore it, it didn’t look exactly warm, “after-school rush. Every kid needs his soda and licorice”
“Well, be seeing you” and as she left, I tuned her departure with ‘Swan Lake’.
“Edwin” I entered the store which was customer-sparse. Edwin crawled out from under the counter, his pudgy limbs somewhat thicker since I’d last seen him, “you seem well”
“Jasper” Edwin breathed, “how was university?” and before I could answer he squeezed me tightly, perhaps too much so.
“So how’s your store?”
“Actually…” Edwin looked incredibly depressed, his cheeks sagging like a bulldog, “the store is failing- financially”
“Ah” I nodded in acceptance of the situation, “what do you need?”
“A start-up capital, someone to invest” Edwin began to wave papers at me, “I want to shift this place to somewhere a little closer to Cornwall”
“You think you could?”
Edwin looked determined as he spoke, “Jasper, I may have to declare bankruptcy but I know if I get to spin that wheel one more time…”
“I’d love to help you Edwin, really, but my hands are tied” I protested, “I’ve got to pay off student loans and all the tuition fees-”
“What? No” Edwin noted a misunderstanding, “you’re friends with that Neville, right? Neville…”
“Ceylon” I finished, “you want me to ask him if he’ll invest in your business”
“If it’s not too much trouble” he said sheepishly, “and I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate”
“I’ll see what I can do but Neville’s extremely tight with the wallet” I gave Edwin the look of hope he needed, even though I knew there was no way in hell that No-Bucks Ceylon would give a pence to Edwin, “no promises”
Neville did live in style. The nicest place in Necroshire, built from the very trees he’d had deforested, with enough room for a tennis court and room for servants, or at the very least, guests. He would never marry though, Neville was far too selfish for that, the only reason I kept a personal connection with him was that he’d loaned me seven hundred quid in order to survive campus life. I knocked on the door with a little too much force, rattling the handle slightly.
“Hello Jazz” Neville looked exactly like the characters in romantic comedies who steal the love interest and are secretly cheating behind their backs. Dressed in an expensive navy blue suit, Neville kept his hair smooth by washing it with a combination of turtle wax and the tears from orphans. I entered to see that he’d redecorated yet again, now to include even more expensive and useless artifacts.
“Say Neville…” I wasn’t quite sure how to approach it but luckily, a glass of champagne broke the ice, “this is nice, you might say that this champagne is…”
“Painstakingly fastidious” he offered to which I groaned in my head. He was reading the dictionary again, “I’ve had it imported from France” Neville expounded, “I’m planning on keeping a few cases here until the economy picks up again”
“Listen, Neville” but he stopped me again, “you must see the painting I’ve got hanging in the master bedroom, it’s a genuine Banham”
I had no idea who that was and after a flight of stairs, two kitchens and a rumpus room, we got to the master bedroom and I found that I still didn’t know who Banham was. The painting itself consisted of some sort of forest in which a young girl was fleeing from an unknown enemy.
“Doesn’t it just leak out the artist’s suspicion of environmental noir?” Neville always wanted to impress me, but unfortunately no one had ever told him that you don’t use words if you don’t know what they mean, “through its impressionistic colorization. What do you think?”
“It’s very nice” which satisfied Neville enough. We began to walk through Neville’s house, “listen, Neville, do you remember Edwin Charles?”
“Edwin?” he flicked his eyes to one side as he fumbled through his memory, “that little fat kid from school?”
“Yeah, that one” attempting to skive over the bullying Neville did, I pushed on, “he’s offering for you to invest in his business. For a man of your stature, of who money is no object-”
“Some things never change” Neville laughed, “he was a leech then and he’s a leech now”
His laughing got to the point that as we were about to descend from the staircase, he became almost paralyzed with laughter. I almost joined in but decided nothing would make me laugh as hard as Neville was laughing at that moment, leaning against the Louis wallpaper to balance himself.
Opportunity struck me at that moment. The opportunity to fix everyone’s problems. I figured if I was unsuccessful I could always say it was an accident and if I was found out, I could say it was an innocent nudge that had no malice intended. With an open palm and some force, I pushed Neville firmly down the steep staircase where he fell almost directly to the ground.
“Neville?” I said, perhaps too calmly. A red halo began to appear around Neville’s scalp, mingling with the turtle wax and the orphan tears, “you OK?”
Dead silence came from the shell of Neville Ceylon.
“Yeah, you’re fine”
Thoughts began to erupt across my mind. The first was to make a phone call. Heading to the nearest phone, I dialed the only person who I could trust.
“Rosa speaking”
“It’s me” I said to the receiver, “I killed Neville”
“Yeah, and I stopped global warming”
“No really I did”
“Oh, OK, one of us did something good today then” I knew why I was calm but I had no idea why she was as calm as I was, “do you still want to travel?”
“Of course”
“Make some excuse to go home” I instructed, “when you get back, pack one suitcase and all the money you’ve got. I’ll meet you there”
“You’re making us sound like we’re convicts”
“I am, aren’t I?” I hung up the phone. I looked at Neville. No one would be surprised if a rich boy suddenly disappeared on vacation. After checking his clothes for identification cards or money, I found his wallet which had his ATM cards and fifty pounds in notes. His car keys were in his breast pocket which gave me an idea. As a dead man, Neville was surprisingly light as I took him to the garage.
A Ford Anglia and a Ford Prefect stood side by side, hand polished and in perfect running order, each with a full tank. Opening the trunk of the Ford Prefect, I stuffed Neville into his final resting place, locking him inside. Keeping the key with me, I decided I could flush it down the toilet later. I did a quick hunt for any money in Neville’s home, finding that he’d kept wads of cash under his bed and behind the hot water heater.
It took me a few minutes to get the Ford Anglia to start and just when I was about to escape from Necroshire forever, another lightening bolt struck me. Neville was about my suit size and he definitely had a large wardrobe. A few trips upstairs and I had a dry-cleaned black suit, brogues and a leather coat, along with a suitcase full of other fine clothes. Dressed for action, I headed to the real world.
I stopped outside Edwin’s shop and noticed his car was gone. It was probably safer now that I was wearing my new attire. Though the door was locked, he’d left the window to the bathroom open a crack. Feeding fifty pound notes in three at a time, I left enough to be confident that Edwin could start up his new venture, though without Rosa or me to see it.
“Nice ride. The sixties called, they want their car back” Rosa smiled and threw her suitcase in the back seat, “nice suit too”
“It’s Neville’s”
“Is he really…?” she held off on the finishing word, not out of fear or disgust but rather out of politeness to which I appreciated, “yes, as a doorknob”
“Miserable git, good riddance” she said, changing tones, “I don’t think I ever liked him, he used to steal candy from babies. I wish I was kidding, that’s what I used to see him doing”
“What’s he got in the CD player?” I asked, fumbling with the tiny buttons, “hopefully something good”
As the Beatles’s ‘Eleanor Rigby’ blared out, I was about to change the song when Rosa stopped me, “don’t, I like this one”
We drove through Necroshire, seeing all the familiar buildings one last time. After we’d exited, it was a lot of hills, rolling green fields and the occasional fjord which we were always taught is pined after by the Norwegian Blue.
From there we felt like we could do anything and in truth, we weren’t that far off. We drove into a nearby town and hid the car into the parking lot of the local pub, the Lestrade Inn. A pub’s décor is sacred and rigidly follows the humble histories, the varnished wooden walls, the smoky aroma, the high ceilings with the exposed timber beams used to hold all sorts of English paraphernalia.
“Two pints of lager” I instructed to the bearded barman, and then before I could stop myself “and a packet of crisps”
The barman merely acknowledged my order with a feeble salute and acknowledged my joke with a slight cough. He’d probably heard it to death. I handed over one of Neville’s ten pound notes, folded perfectly and still warm with self-love.
“Nice place you’ve found” Rosa said, getting a foam moustache from the beer, “really… rustic”
“I like rustic” I took a long draught from the chipped glass, “this country got rid of the Americans by being rustic”
“So…” Rosa rubbed her knees and we began fighting an awkward pause. We hadn’t talked about Neville seriously since we’d left Necroshire, “he’s… he’s really…” she moved her finger across her throat.
“Yes Rosa, he really is…” I moved my finger across my throat, “suffice to say, he won’t be after us any time soon”
“Great…” Rosa took another awkward sip from the pint, “so… now what?”
“I’d say we go get something to eat” I glanced at my cheap, ten-pound watch, made of cheap plastic, “hungry? It’s almost five o’clock”
“Sounds nice”
We ended up at a fish-and-chip shop, run by an extremely polite Korean couple. Rosa and I ate our four quid of chips and sauce in the local playground, sitting on the pair of swings, rocking gently back and forth. We might have looked like just a young couple, out for the afternoon.
We didn’t say much, what could we talk about? I’ve heard that when you commit murder there’s a pang of guilt but really I didn’t feel anything, just the hot chips in my hand and the cool sensation as night inevitably fell.
“I want to go to a discotheque” Rosa said.
We both stood up from the swings and I threw the greasy chip-paper into a nearby litter bin, “a discotheque?”
“Well, back home, I’d see a discotheque on television but in Necroshire, it was dead so far as partying goes” she said as we walked to the car, “and since we’re now… free agents… why not?”
“Well if we’re going to go to a discotheque, then we’re going to do it properly” I started the car, “we’ll go to London or Birmingham or somewhere where they’ve got debauchery down to a science”
“We’ll never make it to Birmingham today”
“There’s probably somewhere we can stay” I said, “We’ll just look around for a while”
In the end, we found a cozy B&B run by the sweetest old lady and her three cats Celina, Elle, & Tina-Jane. We had a very comfortable room with clean linen and, because it was the summertime, fresh flowers in a ceramic vase. A record player that had survived the 1940s played Lou Preager as Rosa and I napped on the down-filled bed.
As we awoke, it must have been late as the house was solely illuminated by moonlight but not so late as the last of first of the night-owls had exited their basements. At what point did Rosa and I feel it was OK to kiss? We made love to each other just because we had nothing better to do, nothing substantial to talk about. It was an enjoyable experience though nothing fabulous, there was a lot of fumbling and dissatisfaction but we both felt lightly refreshed afterward.
Rosa asked me for a cup of tea and who was I to refuse? Her hair was tussled, just enough to give that slightly sexy glow about her. I crept down to the kitchen in the dark where I helped myself to two coffee mugs, teabags and some hot water from the well-polished kettle. As I prepared the tea, someone from the torn blue couch called to me.
“The long dark tea-time of the soul approaches” a voice in the dark called, “is there any Earl Gray in there somewhere?”
A lamp flickered on, the pale cream light percolating through the room. Sitting on the softest cushion was a man with an unshaven gaunt face, black curly hair which sat lazily along his scalp, a dark brown tweed suit with shiny black patent leather boots.
“Earl Gray? Wonderful stuff” the man said with an impeccable Estuary English accent, “fusion of hydrogen and theine molecules to get the neurons fired up and stimulated, get those little gray cells red again”
“Oh sorry, let me check” a quick scan of the cupboard revealed several tea varieties, but not Earl Gray, “sorry, anything else you might like?”
“There’s a bar of dark chocolate on the top shelf” the man said, “could you please pass it to me?”
I stirred sugar into both teas while the man unwrapped the golden foil, “What are you doing up so late?”
“I might ask you the same question”
“Well then I’ll answer first” the man broke a piece of chocolate off with his mouth and chewed loudly, “I’m a private detective and the one thing that private detectives are sure to get are bad dreams”
“A successful private detective? Go on, it sounds interesting”
“I’m actually off to investigate a murder” the man said, “a man was found in the trunk of his own car with blatant head trauma”
My blood froze, “what’s this man’s name?”
The man in the brown suit took another bite from his chocolate, “do you think his name in any way will help solve the case?”
“You’re right” I might have kicked myself being so blunt, but I felt sure that I needed to know if the man was investigating Neville, “so are you investigating a well-known person?”
“Well-known? I have no idea” the man shrugged with innocence, “the truth is I’ve still to visit the crime scene. I’m catching a cab there tomorrow. You know, I may be the first person in several decades to jump into a cab and not say ‘follow that black van’”
He laughed. I laughed. In that order. With very little overlap.
“Well, it’s your turn now” the man in the brown suit took another bite from the corner of his chocolate bar, “what are you doing up so late?”
“Couldn’t sleep” I said simply, shrugging with the same innocence, “it happens”
“But you have two cups of tea” the man nodded to the two mugs, “one for your companion?”
“You really are a private detective” I complimented, “what’s your name?”
The man flicked his eyes to the staircase, “You can call me Agramonte”
“OK, Agramonte” I did that strange thing you do when you first say someone’s name out loud to them, elongating each syllable as if to check it’s correct pronunciation, “well, I’d better go. Tea’s getting cold”
“Of course” the man was as courteous as a man from a Poirot novel, “delighted to have met you Jasper Rochester”
“How do you know my name?”
“I checked the number of plates laid out for breakfast and I noticed that there was one more than the number of guest signatures dated yesterday so I checked with the registrar and found you” Agramonte shrugged so nonchalantly he almost fooled himself, “Observation and inductive reasoning is not like riding a bike but like holding your whisky- it’s better to practice every day. My father said that right before that very unfortunate alcohol poisoning”
“Right, well...” I tried not to sound to uncomfortable as I retreated upstairs where Rosa was fast asleep. I sat beside her with two cold cups of tea on the nightstand, stroking her hair as I wondered where we were going to go.
I woke slowly, vaguely aware of Rosa’s absence and a shower running, head throbbing just enough to make talk a veritable pain. Though it was not actually raining, it was extremely chilly, with gusts of cold air nipping at my raw flesh through an open window. I drank the two cold cups of tea for the caffeine, struggling to swallow the liquid and the truth; that Rosa and I were free.
After Rosa was finished with her shower, I took mine, using the steaming hot water to wash away my old life. I must have seared my skin like a hot lobster, allowing the jet to brush against my red cheek. I dried myself off with a ragged towel and slipped into one of Neville’s suits, a black suit with a red shirt and stripey tie. I felt like a hermit crab, wearing the skin of a dead predecessor. Still, as a sharply-dressed hermit crab, I felt like a million quid ready to roll. Back on the road, we picked up a map book, some candy bars, and a Lonely Planet paperback. After consultation with the paperback, we headed off to Blackpool. Vowing only to stop for food, sleep, and petrol, we headed north.
I had erroneously assumed that when I was tired Rosa could take over driving but as it turned out, she had never bothered to learn. I wasn’t too annoyed at that but it’s hard to eat saltine crackers behind the wheel. We flew by the countryside, numb of the sheer mass of fields, paddocks, and other such pieces of land. Finally the drunkards of the country became replaced with drunkards of the city, almost identical except they were drinking slightly pricier plonk. A man loosened by claret gave us the way to the hub of Blackpool, a substitute for Las Vegas for those who could not afford the flight.
Rosa went shopping while I sipped coffee, my legs dangling over the pier. The sea air did wonders for my headache but the glorious sun beat down unfavourably. I removed my jacket and slung it over my figure, just like a figure from a mobster movie, yet again, an image I could not back up. The only time I had worn suits was weddings and funerals. In Blackpool, the smart-casual was something taken for granted.
When it got too hot for the wharf, I headed into an arcade, where the small children, and thus by extension, the paedophiles, were frequenting. I played all the classic pinball games, before heading to a jewellery store where I bought an expensive gold watch, the first time I ever got a time-piece that cost more than four dollars. I was beginning to look the part, whatever that part might be. I found a slot machine which dispensed all manner of cigarettes. I bought two cartons of Pall Mall reds and smoked them furiously, chain-smoking a quarter of the pack. I had never been a habitual smoker but things were beginning to align themselves that way.
After taking yet another review of the actions I had taken, the passenger I had hitched, and the destination I was going, I felt my throat scratch. I went to get some iced coffee, paid for it, and as I went back to the promenade I noticed Rosa. With another male friend. I’m not a confrontational guy, that’s not how I’m built, in that kind of situation, flight over fight any day.
I hope Rosa went to her discotheque because I never found out. I stepped back into the car and drove to the airport. A packet of Pall Mall cigarettes tasted bitter sweet. So was freedom.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Pain, Nylon & Those By Sialon- Prologue
Crossover with Parable & Ashm's Sialon.
It angers me somewhat that there are so many of you humans out there who aim to reduce suffering. My livelihood is around seeing you maggots wiped out, like squealing rats from a burning building. I suppose you could say I was the template for what you know as the Devil, except all who have seen my true form have failed to communicate it. Your use of prayer is laughable, cursing at the darkness, only it isn’t ever just the darkness. I can hear you. And I do not come bearing gifts. If ever you think you see a shadow move, just for a second, that’s me. That’s always me. Not just any shadow, but every shadow.
I have a pet, a worthless human who I can use to spread my glorious name. A bone I can dig up when I feel like it. He’s an obedient little dog, enticed by my protection, and he does my bidding at my whim. There is nothing but a shell now, a puppet which I use to frighten those who don’t appreciate my work. I’m in every one of your eyes, but you try your best to close them, to busy yourself in petty activities to pass the time, to do your best to forget me. But they’re cosmetic. Because in the end, whenever you think you’ve escaped me, I’ll be around to even the score. In fact, there’s nothing I can enjoy more than tugging on the strings of my little puppet, with all of my weapon at disposal.
But my puppet is growing weak, his strings are growing lose. I think soon he’ll just fall apart like a stack of cards in the wind. Even my soldiers deserve a break. And I’ve found his replacement while he recovers. A replacement who was born ready-made, a vessel who understands me perfectly.
I am Sialon.
And he calls himself Benjamin Parable.
It angers me somewhat that there are so many of you humans out there who aim to reduce suffering. My livelihood is around seeing you maggots wiped out, like squealing rats from a burning building. I suppose you could say I was the template for what you know as the Devil, except all who have seen my true form have failed to communicate it. Your use of prayer is laughable, cursing at the darkness, only it isn’t ever just the darkness. I can hear you. And I do not come bearing gifts. If ever you think you see a shadow move, just for a second, that’s me. That’s always me. Not just any shadow, but every shadow.
I have a pet, a worthless human who I can use to spread my glorious name. A bone I can dig up when I feel like it. He’s an obedient little dog, enticed by my protection, and he does my bidding at my whim. There is nothing but a shell now, a puppet which I use to frighten those who don’t appreciate my work. I’m in every one of your eyes, but you try your best to close them, to busy yourself in petty activities to pass the time, to do your best to forget me. But they’re cosmetic. Because in the end, whenever you think you’ve escaped me, I’ll be around to even the score. In fact, there’s nothing I can enjoy more than tugging on the strings of my little puppet, with all of my weapon at disposal.
But my puppet is growing weak, his strings are growing lose. I think soon he’ll just fall apart like a stack of cards in the wind. Even my soldiers deserve a break. And I’ve found his replacement while he recovers. A replacement who was born ready-made, a vessel who understands me perfectly.
I am Sialon.
And he calls himself Benjamin Parable.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Beat Poem- Drugs
I know, you hate me. I don't like poetry either
Drugs
I think those who taken lithium tablets for depression are not weak or insane
No more than someone with a weak leg should carry a cane
Mental health is often overlooked as something you should battle on your own as opposed to cancer, still falling under the health bracket,
But here chemotherapy is widely pushed with a noisy bloody racket
So what does it matter if sometimes you’re down?
Why must you keep your frown
And have a sad but true life?
Why go through the strife
When asthmatics have inhalers,
When loose women have sailors,
Just because you have a chemical brain imbalance doesn’t mean you should suffer
And prolong how you think your life is rougher
Than your best friend’s or your mates,
And go around with bags of hate
To fling at your boss or your cat just because you’ve had to go through emotion due to your devotion to your anti-drug stance,
Why dance
And prance
Around with no antidepressants
But then feel hesitant
Over getting up in the morning,
When suicidal ideals are forming,
It’s nothing to be ashamed of to swallow a pill
Because you’re mentally ill,
Rather like a burn victim refusing skin grafts,
A starving vegetarian refusing to eat calf’s,
If you’ve got tourettes, bipolar, or a Schizophrenic
Head to a clinic
And get a prescription, there’s more to life than feeling sad
And those who say the pills are bad
Are selfish pricks, write them off as wankers and to fuck off
It’s not all sleeping pills and Smirnoff
If Disabled have wheelchairs, why berate them for not standing on their own two feet
Or for a blind to let go of his dog, it’s got better things to do
Than lead you around
It’s a crock; if you think mood stabilizers are bad
Just try telling that to so-and-so’s dear old dad
Who flung himself from twenty stories
In a fit of blind fury
It’s not a question on who’s going to depend
Because in the end
If you snatch the bottle out of some poor sap’s hand
Then you better be willing
To drown out the therapists
With a bloody marching band
Drugs
I think those who taken lithium tablets for depression are not weak or insane
No more than someone with a weak leg should carry a cane
Mental health is often overlooked as something you should battle on your own as opposed to cancer, still falling under the health bracket,
But here chemotherapy is widely pushed with a noisy bloody racket
So what does it matter if sometimes you’re down?
Why must you keep your frown
And have a sad but true life?
Why go through the strife
When asthmatics have inhalers,
When loose women have sailors,
Just because you have a chemical brain imbalance doesn’t mean you should suffer
And prolong how you think your life is rougher
Than your best friend’s or your mates,
And go around with bags of hate
To fling at your boss or your cat just because you’ve had to go through emotion due to your devotion to your anti-drug stance,
Why dance
And prance
Around with no antidepressants
But then feel hesitant
Over getting up in the morning,
When suicidal ideals are forming,
It’s nothing to be ashamed of to swallow a pill
Because you’re mentally ill,
Rather like a burn victim refusing skin grafts,
A starving vegetarian refusing to eat calf’s,
If you’ve got tourettes, bipolar, or a Schizophrenic
Head to a clinic
And get a prescription, there’s more to life than feeling sad
And those who say the pills are bad
Are selfish pricks, write them off as wankers and to fuck off
It’s not all sleeping pills and Smirnoff
If Disabled have wheelchairs, why berate them for not standing on their own two feet
Or for a blind to let go of his dog, it’s got better things to do
Than lead you around
It’s a crock; if you think mood stabilizers are bad
Just try telling that to so-and-so’s dear old dad
Who flung himself from twenty stories
In a fit of blind fury
It’s not a question on who’s going to depend
Because in the end
If you snatch the bottle out of some poor sap’s hand
Then you better be willing
To drown out the therapists
With a bloody marching band
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