c 2001
I go out of the house after lunch, to get the bus by the beach. I have afternoon class now. I walk past the wooden kampung housing, complete with coconut palm and chicken. This time of the afternoon, there are few of anything about. It is quiet. I go on for about three or four minutes until I get to Jalan Pantai, to wait for the minibus to take me. In front there is the open sea, going to meet the horizon, the horizon meeting the sky, clear and high. I cross Jalan Pantai and wait, trying to get a little protection of the tree group from the sun. This time of day, of course, it’s hot. The temperature must be around 32 Celsius; it is on most days of the year, barring the monsoon, when there might be a three of four degree respite. But it doesn’t appear to be that hot; the breeze is continual, taking the edge off the bite.
I look around. The road is straight here, and I can see the bus coming from some distance away; it might appear opposite, from down the same road that I have just come.
I am in what is the suburbia of the beach; the outer reaches of the sand, with the ankle-height rough grass. You wonder how it can carry on here, in inhospitable albeit attractive terrain. I think that they, like me, enjoy the introspection of the place, the bouquet of the air, and the touch of the breeze; maybe too, the clarity of being here.
I note in acute examination, the tall, thin trunk rough to the touch, with narrow spreading branches, ready to whip the unwary, brittle twig, three centimetre needle leaf, soft yet strong, green with flecks of yellow, alternating both, like rugby socks. The new 1 cm segments are soft on the hand, touching me like a woman’s hair. I put my nose near; then in gentle, unobjectionable way, massage them to get the aroma, a rich combination of earth, juice and sea air. I could have this put in a bottle, and live in a house with it. Apart from the odd car, there is just the sea on the beach and the noise of the wind in the tree. A couple of teachers pull up, and ask if I want a lift. I reply that I am waiting; that is true.
I have no recollection of what or who I taught that afternoon, although I do have a record of my time there. I can think with some pleasure though, of one afternoon by a beach tree ...
Monday, February 23, 2009
2005 Abergavenny - summer soltice
2005 some bloody summer
After a spaghetti breakfast, with bowl of chicken stock, thick, warm, rich yellow, I wandered in aimless fashion in the garage block to think of what I could storm. But I haven’t the heart to grant permission to throw away in a brutality, at least to me, things that used to belong to my aunt. I prepared early, a lunch that I would take in the late afternoon, around three; three thin loin steaks, cherry tomato, chicken stock, salt, pepper, a slug of oil, a chunk of butter. They simmer, bubble, steam, in emotionless anxiety.
I switch it off; then I open an earlier-than-usual-bad-for-the-body beer, put my clothes in the washing machine, then drink, in rawness, like a macho-man in a cowboy saloon in western days of yore when men taught their women the truth about what little they knew, the gun, the horse and the cow; it must have seemed an interesting time to those living there ...
I struggle upstairs, shower, then make my way, in fresh clothes with dashing perfume, out of the house down St Francis. He, I think, would like me; I throw bread and other bits to the birds, every morning, I fill their bowl with water, without charge. Magpie, sparrow, robin, tit; it pleases me much when they come to drink, or take a bath.
I went yet again to the corner shop, on Llwynu to pick up a few cans of relaxing juice for me. The assistant was the bend-over woman of male hormonal passion, alas, but not today.
It is the early afternoon, cloudy, but warm; I walked back, to stop for a brief rest to hear the heat of the beat of my heart in my chest. I went, without further thought, to my place where the pylons terminate; there, a carrier bag, the cry of the magpie, I think, in the upper part of the tree. I gazed upon the colours of the green valley, the occasional bird-flirt through the afternoon air. There were light green, dark green, in-between green, un-cooked green, lettuce green, old and young green, bake, fry, grill, mezzo forte, pianissimo green; they were clear in the muggy, warm, and colourless air. Two wretched trains went by, from the north, one, a hideous mélange of unrelated bastard colour that might have suited some inept Amsterdam suburb, the other, a violent shade of sporty green; both burst upon that pastoral purity like some drug festooned freak.
A bird or birds sang through the tree. I analysed the plant life; a loving creeper that swirled around tree trunk; the white cluster of light mustering flowers that had tiny stalks of yellow. There, the small white and yellow mini-thorn creepers. The Oranjeboom can I kicked into the rough grass at the edge. I think Percy Montgomery might have appreciated my artistry, for the can too was part of the natural scene. I poured the last few drops of my Carlsberg on it; it’s not what you might think. I thought I might leave another can, hidden from the public gaze that they might mate on a warm summer’s night in a million years hence, the life forms coming in a new molecular rural brewery. Thoughts of an insane, hooch-coloured mind, maybe, but the world evolved into this insanity in the aeons of Silurian mishmash, Carboniferous mayhem and Jurassic trash, so why not my discarded can of Oranjeboom?
An elderly woman passed by, a brief greeting. Then, a mother came by with a child in a pushchair, whose crying hurt the afternoon air. I hate it when youngsters cry, especially when they have to bear the mercy of someone who might not be taking good care of them. I think that if I saw an adult berate a youngster, I would become angry and not waste time to castigate, but maybe in a violent exciting way, pull out a hunting knife, thrust, turn, kill, and would not regret, and yet ... but this mother, or grandmother, I wasn’t sure, seemed kind, and didn’t abandon their duty, to teach the child that the father had to go to work.
The evening clock ticks in the warm air of the evening, the early weak rays complete their marathon run. Next to me, resting after the journey, the illiterate envelope from my wife, with two rough stamps on it, scuffed and scruffy, two international hobos, with a fifty cent ‘Ananas comosus’, and a one ringgit ’Garcinia mangostana’; thoughts of walk-by-sea big-chess-eat-by-the-pool hotel Kijal-golf course Awana.
The tang of the former and the juice of the latter would go down well now. The fruit I refer to.
But at least on this summer solstice, I can share their warmth.
After a spaghetti breakfast, with bowl of chicken stock, thick, warm, rich yellow, I wandered in aimless fashion in the garage block to think of what I could storm. But I haven’t the heart to grant permission to throw away in a brutality, at least to me, things that used to belong to my aunt. I prepared early, a lunch that I would take in the late afternoon, around three; three thin loin steaks, cherry tomato, chicken stock, salt, pepper, a slug of oil, a chunk of butter. They simmer, bubble, steam, in emotionless anxiety.
I switch it off; then I open an earlier-than-usual-bad-for-the-body beer, put my clothes in the washing machine, then drink, in rawness, like a macho-man in a cowboy saloon in western days of yore when men taught their women the truth about what little they knew, the gun, the horse and the cow; it must have seemed an interesting time to those living there ...
I struggle upstairs, shower, then make my way, in fresh clothes with dashing perfume, out of the house down St Francis. He, I think, would like me; I throw bread and other bits to the birds, every morning, I fill their bowl with water, without charge. Magpie, sparrow, robin, tit; it pleases me much when they come to drink, or take a bath.
I went yet again to the corner shop, on Llwynu to pick up a few cans of relaxing juice for me. The assistant was the bend-over woman of male hormonal passion, alas, but not today.
It is the early afternoon, cloudy, but warm; I walked back, to stop for a brief rest to hear the heat of the beat of my heart in my chest. I went, without further thought, to my place where the pylons terminate; there, a carrier bag, the cry of the magpie, I think, in the upper part of the tree. I gazed upon the colours of the green valley, the occasional bird-flirt through the afternoon air. There were light green, dark green, in-between green, un-cooked green, lettuce green, old and young green, bake, fry, grill, mezzo forte, pianissimo green; they were clear in the muggy, warm, and colourless air. Two wretched trains went by, from the north, one, a hideous mélange of unrelated bastard colour that might have suited some inept Amsterdam suburb, the other, a violent shade of sporty green; both burst upon that pastoral purity like some drug festooned freak.
A bird or birds sang through the tree. I analysed the plant life; a loving creeper that swirled around tree trunk; the white cluster of light mustering flowers that had tiny stalks of yellow. There, the small white and yellow mini-thorn creepers. The Oranjeboom can I kicked into the rough grass at the edge. I think Percy Montgomery might have appreciated my artistry, for the can too was part of the natural scene. I poured the last few drops of my Carlsberg on it; it’s not what you might think. I thought I might leave another can, hidden from the public gaze that they might mate on a warm summer’s night in a million years hence, the life forms coming in a new molecular rural brewery. Thoughts of an insane, hooch-coloured mind, maybe, but the world evolved into this insanity in the aeons of Silurian mishmash, Carboniferous mayhem and Jurassic trash, so why not my discarded can of Oranjeboom?
An elderly woman passed by, a brief greeting. Then, a mother came by with a child in a pushchair, whose crying hurt the afternoon air. I hate it when youngsters cry, especially when they have to bear the mercy of someone who might not be taking good care of them. I think that if I saw an adult berate a youngster, I would become angry and not waste time to castigate, but maybe in a violent exciting way, pull out a hunting knife, thrust, turn, kill, and would not regret, and yet ... but this mother, or grandmother, I wasn’t sure, seemed kind, and didn’t abandon their duty, to teach the child that the father had to go to work.
The evening clock ticks in the warm air of the evening, the early weak rays complete their marathon run. Next to me, resting after the journey, the illiterate envelope from my wife, with two rough stamps on it, scuffed and scruffy, two international hobos, with a fifty cent ‘Ananas comosus’, and a one ringgit ’Garcinia mangostana’; thoughts of walk-by-sea big-chess-eat-by-the-pool hotel Kijal-golf course Awana.
The tang of the former and the juice of the latter would go down well now. The fruit I refer to.
But at least on this summer solstice, I can share their warmth.
Oscar cinema
The Guns of Navarone
Based on a true World War Two incident in Greece, it tells the story of a group of Allied soldiers with a Greek guide who try to blow up huge Nazi German guns on a Greek island, by climbing up a sheer rock cliff, using hot tea for energy, helped by local Greek resistance, all of whom speak fluent English. They are betrayed, and then caught by the Wehrmacht and Gestapo, all of whom speak fluent English. In the end, they blow up the guns, and the Greek, who has spent much of the film sharpening his knife to kill Gregory Peck, then forgives him.
James Robertson Justice is the suave, rather posh Director of British Intelligence, and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot whose favourite word is ‘Bloody’. He has lost most of his squadron, being unable to bomb a crack in the cliff and climb at the same time, a law of elementary Physics clear to the most ignorant filmgoer. Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
The Nuns of Gaborone
Based on a true Apartheid Era incident in Botswana, it tells the story of a group of Allied nuns with a Bushman guide who try to blow up a huge South African hotel in a Botswana game reserve, by climbing up a sheer rock cliff, using biltong for energy, helped by local bushman resistance, all of whom speak fluent English. They are betrayed, and then caught by the South African Bureau of State Security, all of whom speak fluent English. In the end, they blow up the hotel, and the bushman, who has spent much of the film sharpening his knife to kill Gregory Peck, then forgives him.
James Robertson Justice is the rather posh Director of South African Intelligence, and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot whose favourite word is ‘Bloody’. He has lost most of his squadron because they thought the main Okavango watercourse was the runway.
Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
The Jones of Aberbone
Based on a true early Twentieth Century incident in Wales, it tells the story of a group of Allied Bakery amateur fishermen with an English guide who try to blow up a huge Scottish brewery next to a rugby stadium, by climbing up a sheer rock cliff, using sesame street buns for energy, helped by local Welsh resistance, all of whom speak fluent English. They are betrayed, and then caught by the South Wales Police, all of whom speak fluent English. In the end, they blow up the brewery, and the Englishman, who has spent much of the film sharpening his knife to kill Gregory Peck, then forgives him.
James Robertson Justice is the rather posh Director of Welsh Rugby Coaching and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot whose favourite word is ‘Bloody’. He has lost most of his squadron because they confused mine sweeping operations with cleaning the colliery. Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
Based on a true World War Two incident in Greece, it tells the story of a group of Allied soldiers with a Greek guide who try to blow up huge Nazi German guns on a Greek island, by climbing up a sheer rock cliff, using hot tea for energy, helped by local Greek resistance, all of whom speak fluent English. They are betrayed, and then caught by the Wehrmacht and Gestapo, all of whom speak fluent English. In the end, they blow up the guns, and the Greek, who has spent much of the film sharpening his knife to kill Gregory Peck, then forgives him.
James Robertson Justice is the suave, rather posh Director of British Intelligence, and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot whose favourite word is ‘Bloody’. He has lost most of his squadron, being unable to bomb a crack in the cliff and climb at the same time, a law of elementary Physics clear to the most ignorant filmgoer. Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
The Nuns of Gaborone
Based on a true Apartheid Era incident in Botswana, it tells the story of a group of Allied nuns with a Bushman guide who try to blow up a huge South African hotel in a Botswana game reserve, by climbing up a sheer rock cliff, using biltong for energy, helped by local bushman resistance, all of whom speak fluent English. They are betrayed, and then caught by the South African Bureau of State Security, all of whom speak fluent English. In the end, they blow up the hotel, and the bushman, who has spent much of the film sharpening his knife to kill Gregory Peck, then forgives him.
James Robertson Justice is the rather posh Director of South African Intelligence, and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot whose favourite word is ‘Bloody’. He has lost most of his squadron because they thought the main Okavango watercourse was the runway.
Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
The Jones of Aberbone
Based on a true early Twentieth Century incident in Wales, it tells the story of a group of Allied Bakery amateur fishermen with an English guide who try to blow up a huge Scottish brewery next to a rugby stadium, by climbing up a sheer rock cliff, using sesame street buns for energy, helped by local Welsh resistance, all of whom speak fluent English. They are betrayed, and then caught by the South Wales Police, all of whom speak fluent English. In the end, they blow up the brewery, and the Englishman, who has spent much of the film sharpening his knife to kill Gregory Peck, then forgives him.
James Robertson Justice is the rather posh Director of Welsh Rugby Coaching and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot whose favourite word is ‘Bloody’. He has lost most of his squadron because they confused mine sweeping operations with cleaning the colliery. Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
The Moron by the Beach
Based on a true end 20th century incident in Malaysia, it tells the story of a teacher who was unable to get funding for a film about marking homework.
James Robertson Justice is the rather posh headmaster of the school, and Richard Harris, an Australian pilot who has lost most of his squadron because he was unaware of the Royal Malaysian Police policy of not permitting firearms, including operational Wellington and Halifax bombers with crew, into the country. Both of them appear only for a few minutes in the beginning.
Swansea City
A Swansea City supporter analyses the effectiveness of Cameron Self’s poetry
Yeah, well, like, I dunno, I think it maybe, Roger Milla used to play for them before he retired but now he’s retired he don’t play from them. Nice colours like, but I don’t know if it's green shirt, red shorts and yellow socks, or yellow shirt, green shorts and red socks, or red shirt, yellow shorts and green socks, I dunno, but there not selfish coz they didn’t win the World Cup the last time or in the future.
Yeah, I think African poetry is very effective if you like that sort of thing, I think we’ll hammer them if they come here, thrash them like, why, anyone get thrashed here.
It’s beginning to rain, I want fish and chips, the pavements getting wet, too.
Yeah, well, like, I dunno, I think it maybe, Roger Milla used to play for them before he retired but now he’s retired he don’t play from them. Nice colours like, but I don’t know if it's green shirt, red shorts and yellow socks, or yellow shirt, green shorts and red socks, or red shirt, yellow shorts and green socks, I dunno, but there not selfish coz they didn’t win the World Cup the last time or in the future.
Yeah, I think African poetry is very effective if you like that sort of thing, I think we’ll hammer them if they come here, thrash them like, why, anyone get thrashed here.
It’s beginning to rain, I want fish and chips, the pavements getting wet, too.
Cameron
A Welsh rugby supporter analyses the effectiveness of Cameron Self’s poetry.
Oh, aye, well, I dunno, really, like, it’s a bit difficult like, coz I don’t read a huge amount of poetry, I know the wandering around with a daffodil thing, the Charge of the Fire Brigade like, Shakespeare, you know, well, I think it’s like up to you like, you gotta make up your own mind, yeah, I’ll have another, yeah, same again, but, er well, you know, it’s one of those things like, you don’t really get it sometimes like, he’s from Norfolk, oh aye, that’s quite a way from here, I think, it’s the other side of Hereford, Birmingham, or somewhere, got a turkey farm, I know that, coz I read about the bird flu or mad cow disease or something like, then they have canary farms too, I think, the football team is the Canaries, they wear yellow, on their website they sell insurance for the house and car, green and yellow like, I suppose coz it‘s the colour of the canaries, tribute to the bird I suppose, I dunno, it seems like it, used to have canaries in the Valleys years ago, yeah, okay, I’ll have another pint, yeah, testing for methane gas or something, stick the bird in the gas leak, if it snuffed it like, they cleared of to the top of the mine like, the whole bloody Rhondda ready to explode, what? No he can’t, you stupid bugger, he’s a flanker not a fly half, you fool, you can’t switch like that. People like animals though, there’s the British Lions, the Wallabies, the French got the cockerel, the thing running round the Arms Park scared stiff, the French forwards looking at the thing, the winger trying to tackle it, crashing into the advertising hoardings, getting a cracked head before kick off, talk about using your brains, before you do anything, Yeah, well, it’s um an interesting book like, there are a couple of poems in it like, a couple in the beginning and a few in the rest of the book like, yeah, okay, you get it, it’s my round, no, no, I’ll pay, you just queue up at the bar, I’m in erudite academic discussion at the moment like, okay, right, the one about getting into university and the concrete boat like, what can you make of that like, you know, difficult to float the thing, innit, what d’you think, Emrys, oh he’s with the young lady there, that’s the end of him tonight I expect, can’t blame the youngsters though, can you like, you know, one of those things like, nature running through its course or something, yeah, they go to a college of education these days, thick as two short planks, mention Owain Glendower, they think it’s the bloke in the corner shop, yeah, things are terrible now. Cameron wrote these himself, is that right, talented to write like, bit like, oh what is it, oh, what was his name, hey, Geraint, what’s the bloke from Swansea, no, not the pop singer, the bloke who wrote a lot and drank a lot, that’s right, Dylan Thomas ‘Under Milk Wood’, brilliant like, a classic here it is, Robin and his merry men, no that’s something else isn’t it, ah, right, what? No he can’t, he’s under contract to Pontypool till the end of the season, no, it’s in the ‘Echo’, why don’t you buy it, well, in that case try reading the bloody thing as well, yeah, writing’s a wonderful thing,, how green was my valley, all that sort of thing, you know, yeah, okay, get me another, yeah, Felinfoel, what? Run out, make it Brains then, this landlord, he’d be out of business in any other place, useless bugger, yeah, right, um, well, I guess we gotta make a move soon, pop in for a curry and chips on the way back like,, nice meeting you, very interesting, no, that’s not right, who told you that? They must be an idiot, you get tickets from the clubhouse; don’t be stupid, well, yeah, nice to meet you, yeah, makes a good present for the children I imagine, funny like, who the heck are Foxy and Flecky? Bloody queer names, oh, they’re the players, alright, yeah, I got it, that’s cleared things up a bit, I’m with it now, right, bid you a very good night, that’s Nos da Ta-raa, oh, what’s ‘Norfolk Poet’ mean, see there, ‘Norfolk Poet’, what’s it mean? Oh, a poet from Norfolk, oh right, I get it, he comes from Norfolk, so where’s he going then? No, I mean if he’s come from somewhere... oh, you mean it place of origin like, is it, right, I get it. Whose bigger, Flecky or Foxy? They’re looking back in retrospection, is that right, okay, got that, clear now. Right, well, um, er, excellent book, yeah, right, ta-raa then, take care.
Nice bloke; haven’t got a clue what he’s going on about, can’t spell, qwik, wot etc, went to university too, no, I haven’t hear of it either, thought the place was rugby league, the North Sea fishing fleet, must stink there, but that’s their way of life, innit. Hey, you lot, catch this.
A Norfolk turkey came from a farm with warm air
onto my plate, when it was there,
I ate it,
bit by bit,
with an aperitif of apple juice…
Dylan Thomas the second, you are, boy; brilliant. Hey, you think turkeys came from Turkey?
Why not, they could fly here.
Oh, aye, well, I dunno, really, like, it’s a bit difficult like, coz I don’t read a huge amount of poetry, I know the wandering around with a daffodil thing, the Charge of the Fire Brigade like, Shakespeare, you know, well, I think it’s like up to you like, you gotta make up your own mind, yeah, I’ll have another, yeah, same again, but, er well, you know, it’s one of those things like, you don’t really get it sometimes like, he’s from Norfolk, oh aye, that’s quite a way from here, I think, it’s the other side of Hereford, Birmingham, or somewhere, got a turkey farm, I know that, coz I read about the bird flu or mad cow disease or something like, then they have canary farms too, I think, the football team is the Canaries, they wear yellow, on their website they sell insurance for the house and car, green and yellow like, I suppose coz it‘s the colour of the canaries, tribute to the bird I suppose, I dunno, it seems like it, used to have canaries in the Valleys years ago, yeah, okay, I’ll have another pint, yeah, testing for methane gas or something, stick the bird in the gas leak, if it snuffed it like, they cleared of to the top of the mine like, the whole bloody Rhondda ready to explode, what? No he can’t, you stupid bugger, he’s a flanker not a fly half, you fool, you can’t switch like that. People like animals though, there’s the British Lions, the Wallabies, the French got the cockerel, the thing running round the Arms Park scared stiff, the French forwards looking at the thing, the winger trying to tackle it, crashing into the advertising hoardings, getting a cracked head before kick off, talk about using your brains, before you do anything, Yeah, well, it’s um an interesting book like, there are a couple of poems in it like, a couple in the beginning and a few in the rest of the book like, yeah, okay, you get it, it’s my round, no, no, I’ll pay, you just queue up at the bar, I’m in erudite academic discussion at the moment like, okay, right, the one about getting into university and the concrete boat like, what can you make of that like, you know, difficult to float the thing, innit, what d’you think, Emrys, oh he’s with the young lady there, that’s the end of him tonight I expect, can’t blame the youngsters though, can you like, you know, one of those things like, nature running through its course or something, yeah, they go to a college of education these days, thick as two short planks, mention Owain Glendower, they think it’s the bloke in the corner shop, yeah, things are terrible now. Cameron wrote these himself, is that right, talented to write like, bit like, oh what is it, oh, what was his name, hey, Geraint, what’s the bloke from Swansea, no, not the pop singer, the bloke who wrote a lot and drank a lot, that’s right, Dylan Thomas ‘Under Milk Wood’, brilliant like, a classic here it is, Robin and his merry men, no that’s something else isn’t it, ah, right, what? No he can’t, he’s under contract to Pontypool till the end of the season, no, it’s in the ‘Echo’, why don’t you buy it, well, in that case try reading the bloody thing as well, yeah, writing’s a wonderful thing,, how green was my valley, all that sort of thing, you know, yeah, okay, get me another, yeah, Felinfoel, what? Run out, make it Brains then, this landlord, he’d be out of business in any other place, useless bugger, yeah, right, um, well, I guess we gotta make a move soon, pop in for a curry and chips on the way back like,, nice meeting you, very interesting, no, that’s not right, who told you that? They must be an idiot, you get tickets from the clubhouse; don’t be stupid, well, yeah, nice to meet you, yeah, makes a good present for the children I imagine, funny like, who the heck are Foxy and Flecky? Bloody queer names, oh, they’re the players, alright, yeah, I got it, that’s cleared things up a bit, I’m with it now, right, bid you a very good night, that’s Nos da Ta-raa, oh, what’s ‘Norfolk Poet’ mean, see there, ‘Norfolk Poet’, what’s it mean? Oh, a poet from Norfolk, oh right, I get it, he comes from Norfolk, so where’s he going then? No, I mean if he’s come from somewhere... oh, you mean it place of origin like, is it, right, I get it. Whose bigger, Flecky or Foxy? They’re looking back in retrospection, is that right, okay, got that, clear now. Right, well, um, er, excellent book, yeah, right, ta-raa then, take care.
Nice bloke; haven’t got a clue what he’s going on about, can’t spell, qwik, wot etc, went to university too, no, I haven’t hear of it either, thought the place was rugby league, the North Sea fishing fleet, must stink there, but that’s their way of life, innit. Hey, you lot, catch this.
A Norfolk turkey came from a farm with warm air
onto my plate, when it was there,
I ate it,
bit by bit,
with an aperitif of apple juice…
Dylan Thomas the second, you are, boy; brilliant. Hey, you think turkeys came from Turkey?
Why not, they could fly here.
Time out at 5 30
It was a morning like every other, although this one didn’t turn out the way I thought it might, at least, not the beginning, as you'll find out. I woke up naturally around 4 30 or 5 am. By naturally, I mean without someone waking me, or an alarm clock. I am quite good at this, and even better at judging the time. On this morning, Friday 30 March, I went into the kitchen as usual. The first thing I did was to put on the garden light; tthis gave enough light to see what I was doing, without being too bright on the eyes first thing. Then, I switched on the gas, and put the kettle on. It’s a big kettle, and takes a while to come to the boil, meaning that one is free to do other things, like getting a shave. This is a bit of an effort because the strip light in the en-suite bathroom hasn’t worked for a few months, and we haven’t seen it necessary to get a replacement yet.
Anyway, I finished in there, and then went into the front bathroom to put on the washing machine. I try to get one wash out of the way before the rest of the family get up. It’s a very warm bathroom, facing eastwards, thereby getting the full force of most of the am sun, and it seems to keep the heat throughout the afternoon, and also the night.
I put in some soap, then switched on the machine. I went out, closing the door behind me.
Back in the kitchen, I began to lay the table, putting the bread, fruit, butter and mugs of water under the large plastic food protector.
The kettle, now going for some twenty minutes, whistled the end of time. It was rather like the crowd at a football match. I went across, switched off the gas, and got the steel teapot from the tray. I emptied yesterday’s tea into the sink, rinsed the pot, and put in a good pinch of fresh tea. Then, having let the water cool to just under 100 degrees, I added some to the teapot. It was a thin tea, not really a breakfast tea; it was supposed to be medicinal as well. The tea however, was for later.
I picked up a tablespoon, and put some sugar and chocolate into my mug. It's a white mug, with a cartoon picture of a goofy rabbit holding a toothbrush. We had a gift after buying some toothpaste a couple of years ago. I didn’t tell people it was my mug; I wouldn’t want to be seen with it outside the house, by the front, for example. It is the sort of thing that a kindergarten or lower primary school student would enjoy. But in the kitchen, or the rest of the house, I didn’t care. I added the hot water, and gave the mixture a stir, turning it over to get it to cool a bit. A quicker way would be to add ice, but in the morning, that seldom occurred to me.
I looked at the clock on the wall; it read 5 15.
I went back into the bedroom and lay down next to my sleeping wife. She must have sensed me getting into bed, because there was a slight movement and she asked the time. I told her, then asked her to rub my back. I don’t suffer from a back problem, but I just enjoy a semi-massage first thing in the morning. Her hands went to the lower back, the centre and then the shoulders. There, they would move to the neck and up onto the scalp. I lay there, enjoying the experience in the pre-dawn coolness and quiet. After a few, too short minutes, she asked me to check the time. I got up, but before going into the kitchen, I went across to switch off the air-conditioning unit. Then, I went to the rear to look at the clock.
It said 5 30.
I heard the birds, but the dog had stopped barking, although it would most likely begin again. I could hear the washing machine speeding up for the final spin, and the rocking sound it gave out. I went back into the bedroom and lay down, muttering sotto-voce that it was 5 30. She began to massage my back again. I turned towards the curtains, watching through the cracks, the early dawn waiting to appear.
I don’t know whether I fell asleep again, a thing I am loathsome to do, as it brings on a deep and tiring sleep prior to getting out of bed, or whether I was just dreaming whilst awake, with my mind not registering the time. There was an urgent sleepy whisper.
‘What’s the time? You better go and check.’
I got out of bed, and went into the kitchen. The clock read 5 30. I blinked, and then looked again. To cross check, I went into the lounge and looked at the clock in there. It also said 5 30.
It was quite obvious I had misread the time on the previous occasion. I must have got up a full hour before time. I went and had a sip of my chocolate drink and waited. I then slowly finished the mug, rinsed it out in the sink, and put it back on the tray. I went back into the bedroom.
‘It’s 5 30,’ I told her. ‘I must have misread the time. Sorry.’
There was a slight intake of breath, and she turned over and went back to sleep. I lay next to her on my back, and looked through the early morning light at nothing. A number of thoughts came to me. I thought I might sell the house and get another one, a place a bit cheaper than the one I had, so I could release some much-needed cash. I wanted something I could rent out to bring a little, albeit modest, extra money. There were some places near my brother’s house in the centre of England. A place there would have the advantage that he would be able to look after it for me whilst I was out here. Then I went on to what I might get for lunch, and by extension, dinner this evening. She had told me before on a number of times that I shouldn’t worry, at 5 30 am, about what to eat at sunset. I agreed, but had told her that I wasn’t worrying about it, I was thinking about it, and that, in my book, was not the same thing. She has a tendency to confuse thinking about something with worrying about it.
I returned to the present and thought about the time. It must be at least 5 50 now, although the light was still opaque enough to be an hour earlier. I got out of bed yet again, tightened the sarong around my waist and went into the kitchen again. I switched on the main light this time. I blinked in the expected brightness, and after a few seconds of adjustment, looked up again at the wall clock. To my annoyance, it still read 5 30. That made a problem. The children, if we were running way behind time, would be late for school. I went into the lounge, and switched on one of the main lights there. Once gain, I blinked and waited before looking up at the clock. The hands pointed to 5 30.
Now this I found hard to take in. One clock going wrong was a nuisance; two were the makings of a disaster. I thought as quickly as I could, bearing the time of the morning.
Ah, yes, I thought, check the television. The problem with that was that it took a couple of minutes for the display to come on. I walked over, and flicked the On switch. I stood there, muttering ‘Come-on,’ a number of times. A bit silly really, because the machine wouldn’t know. The display area where one could see the channel and time began to flicker, and the green light came on. I picked up the remote control. The number was the ‘Animal Planet’ channel. I pressed a number of buttons on the remote, being unsure which one was correct. After a few tries, the time came on.
It showed 5 30.
This couldn’t be right. Two clocks showing the same time, and now the television.
I paused, now becoming unsure of what was going on, and what I must do. Maybe I was dreaming, although the kettle and the table had seemed real enough. The hot chocolate had, too.
I went back into the kitchen. I looked at the table. I felt the kettle; it was hot. This wasn’t a dream, but what was it?
I glanced towards the rear window, and out into the garden. The dogs of the opposite neighbour were barking again, and I could hear the birdsong. But where was the light? It was still the same half-obscurity of the pre-dawn. I went to look at the clock again.
It was the same, 5 30.
I went into the lounge and did the same. It was 5 30. I walked across to the television. To my amazement, it still read 5 30. But I had spent a minute or two in the back, looking out of the window, listening to the dogs and the birds, and looking at the clock. It must have gone on a minute or two.
Ah, I thought, I can check the computer. I walked back to the rear corner of the lounge where the computer had its home on the table. I pressed everything, and the hum began. I leaned across and switched on the fan. The pre-programme came on, and then the main part; I typed in the password, and waited a moment. I clicked on ‘Start’ and then ‘Control Panel’. Right, this would solve the problem.
I was so engrossed that the thought of getting the children up didn’t cross my mind at this point.
Here we are, I thought, ‘Date and Time’. It popped up halfway up the screen, blocking part of the picture. The picture I had chosen - wallpaper, I think the term is - was deliberately way different to the tropical scenery here; it showed the autumn in full golden colour, a land flanked by full leaf trees. I thought it pretty; others might think it boring. No matter, I look at it, not them. I looked at the time.
Yes, Friday 30 March 2007. It looked right.
I felt the hairs on my arms rise, and a coldness entered my stomach. I licked my lips and involuntarily swallowed, and my hand went to my throat. Oh no, I thought. The clock wasn’t moving. The second hand remained without motion. The hands pointed to 5 30, and the digital display beneath read 05:30:20. It too, had stopped. My heart and brain, momentarily I think, did the same.
I don’t know how long I waited there, staring at a clock that didn’t move. Then, I had an idea, if that is the correct word. I clicked on ‘Time Zone’, and found GMT. To my amazement, or maybe now horror might be the word, I saw the same thing; a clock that didn’t move, except that this one was eight hours difference.
I returned to local time; the clock remained without change.
I turned, and went into the rear and looked out the back. Nothing had changed. The light was
the same as it was when I first came out. I went back into the lounge, and pulled back the curtains that covered the sliding French window. I peered out. The lane was still lit by the weak orange light of the streetlights. Across the way, a neighbour’s house looked still and quiet. There ought to be a light on there now, I thought. She is a teacher, and gets up at the crack of dawn.
But she wasn’t this morning; that was clear. The whole place seemed motionless and quiet, as far as humans were concerned. The dogs had finally shut up at the back, but I could still hear the sounds of the birds. There was electricity in the house, the water was running, the gas worked, but the light remained unchanging, and the clocks were going nowhere.
What on earth was happening?
I had heard of the expression ‘time warp’ many times, in documentaries of course, and also in the film… bugger it, what was it’s name? I hate it when I can’t recall something. An American aircraft carrier, in modern times, goes through a time warp back to World War Two. But that was a film, right? Martin Sheen, Kirk Douglas, etc. This is not, I thought, my initial worry having gone through confusion, bewilderment to the beginning of apprehension. What was happening? Was I dreaming? Had something gone wrong in my brain? Was I here, or really in a mental hospital, but thinking I am home. I looked at myself. The legs, arms, torso seemed okay. I felt my chin; it was smooth. The shave I hadn’t imagined. Or am I imagining it now? I felt a warm flush of alarm come over me. I felt trapped. I began to shake.
‘This is awful,’ I whispered, ‘what is going on? This can’t be for real, can it?’
It was a foolish question. It was quite clear that it was real. Too much had happened for it to be otherwise. You don’t imagine the smell of the foam, the toothpaste, you don’t imagine drinking a cup of hot chocolate, you don’t imagine blinking in the bright light of the fluorescence. You don’t imagine switching on the gas, the television, the computer, you don’t imagine opening the curtains, and above everything, you don’t imagine the fear, you don’t imagine the sweat, the dry throat. No, I don’t think so. Everything was as real to me as any other morning here.
I came back to the reality of the present. I walked across the lounge and opened the first bedroom door, in apprehension. There she lay, fast asleep. I could see the rising of the breathing body. I softly closed the door and opened bedroom two. The boy lay there, clutching the pillow, fast asleep too. I sighed and closed the door. At least they were alright. That gave me a little easing up of the worry. I half-paused; that’s not good English, is it? No, I thought, but I can’t get out the words I want to use at the moment.
The thought came quickly. I hadn’t spoken to my wife. I opened the rear bedroom door and went in. She was asleep, laying on her front, arms stretched out across the pillows. The bed sheet had risen, as had her sarong, showing her legs right up to her thighs. That much I was able to make out in the dimness. I reached over and began to rub her back.
‘Wake up,’ I said a couple if times, ‘come on, it’s late, wake up.’
I knew bloody well it wasn’t late, but I had to get her attention. She turned over, groaned either in stretching, or in dismay, and put out her arm. I took her hand and pulled her up. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I pulled up the sheet and made the bed, making sure it was tidy looking; then I went into the lounge again. At this moment, I had no thought of how to explain what was happening, or what we could do, if anything. A few minutes later, she came out, her hair tousled; her eyes blinking like a naughty student caught breaking the rules about smoking. In the morning, she frequently looked as if she had enjoyed a night on the town with three or four too many. But in reality, the strongest thing she drank was a herbal tea.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked. I pointed to the clock. ‘Huh? You told me 5 30 an hour ago. I think the clock is broken.’
‘Try the kitchen one.’
She went to the back, to re-emerge a couple of seconds later,
‘Huh, two clock go broken.’ I pointed to the television. ‘Look at that.’
She walked across the lounge, and bent forward to peer at the number. She straightened up and looked at me.
‘5 30. Why we pay so much money for Astro when broke also?’
‘It’s not broken.’
I took her hand and we went to the computer. She looked at the unmoving clock for a long time. I expected her to be puzzled. She wasn’t.
‘How you break every clock in the house? You very good break things. When I small girl, I no money; I no break anything. I keep for twenty years; you keep one week, broken.’
I looked at her.
‘No, the time has stopped. The clocks are not broken; the time has stopped. Look at the light outside... it hasn’t changed colour since I got out of bed.’
There was a long pause as she pulled the curtains back, and like me, looked out onto a deserted lane, with no car movement, no people getting ready for work, no house lights on, except for the security by the car porch. She turned to me, licking her lips in a puzzled way.
‘What happening?’ She held my hand, and squeezed it a little.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. I wasn’t going to try to explain the film about time warp at this time of the morning. It might not be a time warp. I mean, did they even exist out of Hollywood? I didn’t know. How long we waited there, in front of the French windows, looking at the deserted street with only birdsong and dog barking for company, I don’t know. She turned to me with a brisk motion.
‘The children? Are they…
‘Yes, I checked on them earlier. They’re fine.’
That wasn’t enough. She turned and went into both the bedrooms. I watched her pull up a bed sheet over the boy, before she came out again. he was a very caring mother, although a bit loud at times.
‘I make some Milo’,’ she said, and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, I followed, taking the mug of chocolate from her, and sipping a bit. It was then that the roaring began. At first, neither of us paid much attention, as we are under the flight path of the helicopters that transport men and materials to the offshore oilrigs. The throbbing of the rotors is something we hear so often, it almost doesn’t register much of the time. This was our first thought, therefore.
Then I thought to myself, 'it’s 5 30. Not even the choppers get away that early, do they?’
I had little time to reflect on this, for the noise grew louder minute by minute. Again, I thought it might be the Air Force doing some early morning training; again, this was something not that uncommon. But this noise now was becoming different, a higher yet at the same time, deeper noise, a cross between a hum, a vibration and a high whine of a plane taking off. Then, to our mutual horror, the house began to shake, albeit gently.
My first thought was to give thanks we had a single storey place, or weren’t living in some condominium somewhere on the west coast. The shaking increased along with the noise, now coming in a pulse; the sky remained the same colour. I pulled my wife away from the window in case of the glass shattering, and we went near the doors to the two bedrooms. Looking in, the children weren’t being disturbed one iota. That was one good thing, I thought. The noise increased, and then without warning, there was a whooshing, rather like an overgrown firework having failed to ignite. I half expected to hear the theme music from ‘Dr Who’.
Then, there was total silence: no birds, dogs, cats, wind in the tree, nothing, just an empty, unmoving quiet.
Then there was a sudden quiet noise from the master bedroom. At first, I had no idea what it could be; I went to the rear, to find the alarm clock I keep by the bed peeping away. I pressed the top to stop the alarm, and looked at the time.
It showed 5.45. I felt my pulse racing, and my chest was tight. My wife came in and looked at me. I held up the alarm clock. She looked in amazement. I saw her trying to swallow.
‘How?’ was all she could manage.
‘I have no idea,’ I answered, half-breathing out, half-sighing in… in what, I don’t know.
A thought came to me. I walked back into the lounge and looked up at the clock. 5 45. I went across to the computer. 5 45. The second hand was moving again.
‘Check the TV,’ I asked her. She walked towards it, and bent forward.
‘Yes, 5 45,’ she said in surprise.
We went to the front window, and for the next few minutes, listened to the dogs barking again. On the fence, we could make out the shape, but not the colours of a bird, singing to itself or its mate. In the house opposite, a light went on.
‘Time to get the children up,’ I said.
A few minutes later, the two teenagers came for their breakfast, sitting half-awake around the grey circular table. They drank some water, had a banana and some bread. My wife was preparing the oats on the cooker. After stirring a couple of times, she put the hot oats into their bowls, and they tucked in. A couple of minutes later, they finished, drank water again, and then pushed their chairs back. Now it was their turn to use the shower, and then get dressed for school. This would take them about ten to fifteen minutes. Then, just after 7 o’clock, they would in the car and away.
But this morning was different. They both finished their water, and then there was a pause. They remained sitting in the chairs round the table.
The boy began, ‘I had a really strange dream last night. I was in a time warp…'
‘Me, too,’ the girl interrupted. ‘It was so real. I was dreaming of you and Mum in the lounge, when all the clocks in the house stopped. It was really funny.’
‘Yes,’ said the boy, ‘and Dad was by the computer clock, shaking with terror.’
They looked at each other and began to laugh.
‘Why are dreams so stupid?’ he asked me.
I swallowed, licked my very dry lips, and croaked,
‘I don’t know, I just don’t know.’
The two children got up from the table, pushed the chairs underneath, and went off to get themselves ready. In my head, I heard the noise of the humming, I saw the half-light of 5 30, and the unmoving clocks. The hairs on my neck and arms began to rise. My wife turned, and began to wash up the breakfast things. I walked over to her, and put my arms around her waist. She put her body against me. Both of us were quiet now in the morning air.
Anyway, I finished in there, and then went into the front bathroom to put on the washing machine. I try to get one wash out of the way before the rest of the family get up. It’s a very warm bathroom, facing eastwards, thereby getting the full force of most of the am sun, and it seems to keep the heat throughout the afternoon, and also the night.
I put in some soap, then switched on the machine. I went out, closing the door behind me.
Back in the kitchen, I began to lay the table, putting the bread, fruit, butter and mugs of water under the large plastic food protector.
The kettle, now going for some twenty minutes, whistled the end of time. It was rather like the crowd at a football match. I went across, switched off the gas, and got the steel teapot from the tray. I emptied yesterday’s tea into the sink, rinsed the pot, and put in a good pinch of fresh tea. Then, having let the water cool to just under 100 degrees, I added some to the teapot. It was a thin tea, not really a breakfast tea; it was supposed to be medicinal as well. The tea however, was for later.
I picked up a tablespoon, and put some sugar and chocolate into my mug. It's a white mug, with a cartoon picture of a goofy rabbit holding a toothbrush. We had a gift after buying some toothpaste a couple of years ago. I didn’t tell people it was my mug; I wouldn’t want to be seen with it outside the house, by the front, for example. It is the sort of thing that a kindergarten or lower primary school student would enjoy. But in the kitchen, or the rest of the house, I didn’t care. I added the hot water, and gave the mixture a stir, turning it over to get it to cool a bit. A quicker way would be to add ice, but in the morning, that seldom occurred to me.
I looked at the clock on the wall; it read 5 15.
I went back into the bedroom and lay down next to my sleeping wife. She must have sensed me getting into bed, because there was a slight movement and she asked the time. I told her, then asked her to rub my back. I don’t suffer from a back problem, but I just enjoy a semi-massage first thing in the morning. Her hands went to the lower back, the centre and then the shoulders. There, they would move to the neck and up onto the scalp. I lay there, enjoying the experience in the pre-dawn coolness and quiet. After a few, too short minutes, she asked me to check the time. I got up, but before going into the kitchen, I went across to switch off the air-conditioning unit. Then, I went to the rear to look at the clock.
It said 5 30.
I heard the birds, but the dog had stopped barking, although it would most likely begin again. I could hear the washing machine speeding up for the final spin, and the rocking sound it gave out. I went back into the bedroom and lay down, muttering sotto-voce that it was 5 30. She began to massage my back again. I turned towards the curtains, watching through the cracks, the early dawn waiting to appear.
I don’t know whether I fell asleep again, a thing I am loathsome to do, as it brings on a deep and tiring sleep prior to getting out of bed, or whether I was just dreaming whilst awake, with my mind not registering the time. There was an urgent sleepy whisper.
‘What’s the time? You better go and check.’
I got out of bed, and went into the kitchen. The clock read 5 30. I blinked, and then looked again. To cross check, I went into the lounge and looked at the clock in there. It also said 5 30.
It was quite obvious I had misread the time on the previous occasion. I must have got up a full hour before time. I went and had a sip of my chocolate drink and waited. I then slowly finished the mug, rinsed it out in the sink, and put it back on the tray. I went back into the bedroom.
‘It’s 5 30,’ I told her. ‘I must have misread the time. Sorry.’
There was a slight intake of breath, and she turned over and went back to sleep. I lay next to her on my back, and looked through the early morning light at nothing. A number of thoughts came to me. I thought I might sell the house and get another one, a place a bit cheaper than the one I had, so I could release some much-needed cash. I wanted something I could rent out to bring a little, albeit modest, extra money. There were some places near my brother’s house in the centre of England. A place there would have the advantage that he would be able to look after it for me whilst I was out here. Then I went on to what I might get for lunch, and by extension, dinner this evening. She had told me before on a number of times that I shouldn’t worry, at 5 30 am, about what to eat at sunset. I agreed, but had told her that I wasn’t worrying about it, I was thinking about it, and that, in my book, was not the same thing. She has a tendency to confuse thinking about something with worrying about it.
I returned to the present and thought about the time. It must be at least 5 50 now, although the light was still opaque enough to be an hour earlier. I got out of bed yet again, tightened the sarong around my waist and went into the kitchen again. I switched on the main light this time. I blinked in the expected brightness, and after a few seconds of adjustment, looked up again at the wall clock. To my annoyance, it still read 5 30. That made a problem. The children, if we were running way behind time, would be late for school. I went into the lounge, and switched on one of the main lights there. Once gain, I blinked and waited before looking up at the clock. The hands pointed to 5 30.
Now this I found hard to take in. One clock going wrong was a nuisance; two were the makings of a disaster. I thought as quickly as I could, bearing the time of the morning.
Ah, yes, I thought, check the television. The problem with that was that it took a couple of minutes for the display to come on. I walked over, and flicked the On switch. I stood there, muttering ‘Come-on,’ a number of times. A bit silly really, because the machine wouldn’t know. The display area where one could see the channel and time began to flicker, and the green light came on. I picked up the remote control. The number was the ‘Animal Planet’ channel. I pressed a number of buttons on the remote, being unsure which one was correct. After a few tries, the time came on.
It showed 5 30.
This couldn’t be right. Two clocks showing the same time, and now the television.
I paused, now becoming unsure of what was going on, and what I must do. Maybe I was dreaming, although the kettle and the table had seemed real enough. The hot chocolate had, too.
I went back into the kitchen. I looked at the table. I felt the kettle; it was hot. This wasn’t a dream, but what was it?
I glanced towards the rear window, and out into the garden. The dogs of the opposite neighbour were barking again, and I could hear the birdsong. But where was the light? It was still the same half-obscurity of the pre-dawn. I went to look at the clock again.
It was the same, 5 30.
I went into the lounge and did the same. It was 5 30. I walked across to the television. To my amazement, it still read 5 30. But I had spent a minute or two in the back, looking out of the window, listening to the dogs and the birds, and looking at the clock. It must have gone on a minute or two.
Ah, I thought, I can check the computer. I walked back to the rear corner of the lounge where the computer had its home on the table. I pressed everything, and the hum began. I leaned across and switched on the fan. The pre-programme came on, and then the main part; I typed in the password, and waited a moment. I clicked on ‘Start’ and then ‘Control Panel’. Right, this would solve the problem.
I was so engrossed that the thought of getting the children up didn’t cross my mind at this point.
Here we are, I thought, ‘Date and Time’. It popped up halfway up the screen, blocking part of the picture. The picture I had chosen - wallpaper, I think the term is - was deliberately way different to the tropical scenery here; it showed the autumn in full golden colour, a land flanked by full leaf trees. I thought it pretty; others might think it boring. No matter, I look at it, not them. I looked at the time.
Yes, Friday 30 March 2007. It looked right.
I felt the hairs on my arms rise, and a coldness entered my stomach. I licked my lips and involuntarily swallowed, and my hand went to my throat. Oh no, I thought. The clock wasn’t moving. The second hand remained without motion. The hands pointed to 5 30, and the digital display beneath read 05:30:20. It too, had stopped. My heart and brain, momentarily I think, did the same.
I don’t know how long I waited there, staring at a clock that didn’t move. Then, I had an idea, if that is the correct word. I clicked on ‘Time Zone’, and found GMT. To my amazement, or maybe now horror might be the word, I saw the same thing; a clock that didn’t move, except that this one was eight hours difference.
I returned to local time; the clock remained without change.
I turned, and went into the rear and looked out the back. Nothing had changed. The light was
the same as it was when I first came out. I went back into the lounge, and pulled back the curtains that covered the sliding French window. I peered out. The lane was still lit by the weak orange light of the streetlights. Across the way, a neighbour’s house looked still and quiet. There ought to be a light on there now, I thought. She is a teacher, and gets up at the crack of dawn.
But she wasn’t this morning; that was clear. The whole place seemed motionless and quiet, as far as humans were concerned. The dogs had finally shut up at the back, but I could still hear the sounds of the birds. There was electricity in the house, the water was running, the gas worked, but the light remained unchanging, and the clocks were going nowhere.
What on earth was happening?
I had heard of the expression ‘time warp’ many times, in documentaries of course, and also in the film… bugger it, what was it’s name? I hate it when I can’t recall something. An American aircraft carrier, in modern times, goes through a time warp back to World War Two. But that was a film, right? Martin Sheen, Kirk Douglas, etc. This is not, I thought, my initial worry having gone through confusion, bewilderment to the beginning of apprehension. What was happening? Was I dreaming? Had something gone wrong in my brain? Was I here, or really in a mental hospital, but thinking I am home. I looked at myself. The legs, arms, torso seemed okay. I felt my chin; it was smooth. The shave I hadn’t imagined. Or am I imagining it now? I felt a warm flush of alarm come over me. I felt trapped. I began to shake.
‘This is awful,’ I whispered, ‘what is going on? This can’t be for real, can it?’
It was a foolish question. It was quite clear that it was real. Too much had happened for it to be otherwise. You don’t imagine the smell of the foam, the toothpaste, you don’t imagine drinking a cup of hot chocolate, you don’t imagine blinking in the bright light of the fluorescence. You don’t imagine switching on the gas, the television, the computer, you don’t imagine opening the curtains, and above everything, you don’t imagine the fear, you don’t imagine the sweat, the dry throat. No, I don’t think so. Everything was as real to me as any other morning here.
I came back to the reality of the present. I walked across the lounge and opened the first bedroom door, in apprehension. There she lay, fast asleep. I could see the rising of the breathing body. I softly closed the door and opened bedroom two. The boy lay there, clutching the pillow, fast asleep too. I sighed and closed the door. At least they were alright. That gave me a little easing up of the worry. I half-paused; that’s not good English, is it? No, I thought, but I can’t get out the words I want to use at the moment.
The thought came quickly. I hadn’t spoken to my wife. I opened the rear bedroom door and went in. She was asleep, laying on her front, arms stretched out across the pillows. The bed sheet had risen, as had her sarong, showing her legs right up to her thighs. That much I was able to make out in the dimness. I reached over and began to rub her back.
‘Wake up,’ I said a couple if times, ‘come on, it’s late, wake up.’
I knew bloody well it wasn’t late, but I had to get her attention. She turned over, groaned either in stretching, or in dismay, and put out her arm. I took her hand and pulled her up. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I pulled up the sheet and made the bed, making sure it was tidy looking; then I went into the lounge again. At this moment, I had no thought of how to explain what was happening, or what we could do, if anything. A few minutes later, she came out, her hair tousled; her eyes blinking like a naughty student caught breaking the rules about smoking. In the morning, she frequently looked as if she had enjoyed a night on the town with three or four too many. But in reality, the strongest thing she drank was a herbal tea.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked. I pointed to the clock. ‘Huh? You told me 5 30 an hour ago. I think the clock is broken.’
‘Try the kitchen one.’
She went to the back, to re-emerge a couple of seconds later,
‘Huh, two clock go broken.’ I pointed to the television. ‘Look at that.’
She walked across the lounge, and bent forward to peer at the number. She straightened up and looked at me.
‘5 30. Why we pay so much money for Astro when broke also?’
‘It’s not broken.’
I took her hand and we went to the computer. She looked at the unmoving clock for a long time. I expected her to be puzzled. She wasn’t.
‘How you break every clock in the house? You very good break things. When I small girl, I no money; I no break anything. I keep for twenty years; you keep one week, broken.’
I looked at her.
‘No, the time has stopped. The clocks are not broken; the time has stopped. Look at the light outside... it hasn’t changed colour since I got out of bed.’
There was a long pause as she pulled the curtains back, and like me, looked out onto a deserted lane, with no car movement, no people getting ready for work, no house lights on, except for the security by the car porch. She turned to me, licking her lips in a puzzled way.
‘What happening?’ She held my hand, and squeezed it a little.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. I wasn’t going to try to explain the film about time warp at this time of the morning. It might not be a time warp. I mean, did they even exist out of Hollywood? I didn’t know. How long we waited there, in front of the French windows, looking at the deserted street with only birdsong and dog barking for company, I don’t know. She turned to me with a brisk motion.
‘The children? Are they…
‘Yes, I checked on them earlier. They’re fine.’
That wasn’t enough. She turned and went into both the bedrooms. I watched her pull up a bed sheet over the boy, before she came out again. he was a very caring mother, although a bit loud at times.
‘I make some Milo’,’ she said, and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, I followed, taking the mug of chocolate from her, and sipping a bit. It was then that the roaring began. At first, neither of us paid much attention, as we are under the flight path of the helicopters that transport men and materials to the offshore oilrigs. The throbbing of the rotors is something we hear so often, it almost doesn’t register much of the time. This was our first thought, therefore.
Then I thought to myself, 'it’s 5 30. Not even the choppers get away that early, do they?’
I had little time to reflect on this, for the noise grew louder minute by minute. Again, I thought it might be the Air Force doing some early morning training; again, this was something not that uncommon. But this noise now was becoming different, a higher yet at the same time, deeper noise, a cross between a hum, a vibration and a high whine of a plane taking off. Then, to our mutual horror, the house began to shake, albeit gently.
My first thought was to give thanks we had a single storey place, or weren’t living in some condominium somewhere on the west coast. The shaking increased along with the noise, now coming in a pulse; the sky remained the same colour. I pulled my wife away from the window in case of the glass shattering, and we went near the doors to the two bedrooms. Looking in, the children weren’t being disturbed one iota. That was one good thing, I thought. The noise increased, and then without warning, there was a whooshing, rather like an overgrown firework having failed to ignite. I half expected to hear the theme music from ‘Dr Who’.
Then, there was total silence: no birds, dogs, cats, wind in the tree, nothing, just an empty, unmoving quiet.
Then there was a sudden quiet noise from the master bedroom. At first, I had no idea what it could be; I went to the rear, to find the alarm clock I keep by the bed peeping away. I pressed the top to stop the alarm, and looked at the time.
It showed 5.45. I felt my pulse racing, and my chest was tight. My wife came in and looked at me. I held up the alarm clock. She looked in amazement. I saw her trying to swallow.
‘How?’ was all she could manage.
‘I have no idea,’ I answered, half-breathing out, half-sighing in… in what, I don’t know.
A thought came to me. I walked back into the lounge and looked up at the clock. 5 45. I went across to the computer. 5 45. The second hand was moving again.
‘Check the TV,’ I asked her. She walked towards it, and bent forward.
‘Yes, 5 45,’ she said in surprise.
We went to the front window, and for the next few minutes, listened to the dogs barking again. On the fence, we could make out the shape, but not the colours of a bird, singing to itself or its mate. In the house opposite, a light went on.
‘Time to get the children up,’ I said.
A few minutes later, the two teenagers came for their breakfast, sitting half-awake around the grey circular table. They drank some water, had a banana and some bread. My wife was preparing the oats on the cooker. After stirring a couple of times, she put the hot oats into their bowls, and they tucked in. A couple of minutes later, they finished, drank water again, and then pushed their chairs back. Now it was their turn to use the shower, and then get dressed for school. This would take them about ten to fifteen minutes. Then, just after 7 o’clock, they would in the car and away.
But this morning was different. They both finished their water, and then there was a pause. They remained sitting in the chairs round the table.
The boy began, ‘I had a really strange dream last night. I was in a time warp…'
‘Me, too,’ the girl interrupted. ‘It was so real. I was dreaming of you and Mum in the lounge, when all the clocks in the house stopped. It was really funny.’
‘Yes,’ said the boy, ‘and Dad was by the computer clock, shaking with terror.’
They looked at each other and began to laugh.
‘Why are dreams so stupid?’ he asked me.
I swallowed, licked my very dry lips, and croaked,
‘I don’t know, I just don’t know.’
The two children got up from the table, pushed the chairs underneath, and went off to get themselves ready. In my head, I heard the noise of the humming, I saw the half-light of 5 30, and the unmoving clocks. The hairs on my neck and arms began to rise. My wife turned, and began to wash up the breakfast things. I walked over to her, and put my arms around her waist. She put her body against me. Both of us were quiet now in the morning air.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The man who flew away
The area where they were was not actually in the National Park, but it was very near. By car, it was less than ten minutes. But that was unimportant, because, to all intents and purposes, the land around the Park was virtually identical. The lower land was rich, green grass, and the hillsides were full of sheep. It was one of the few places in the world, he thought, that quite literally, wherever one looked anywhere, you’d see sheep. The number of sheep was higher than the population of the country. He seemed to recall that for every person, there were fourteen sheep. If one went into any small shop, or anywhere that sold postcards, you could guarantee that a full eighty percent of the postcards would have sheep on them. Other countries’ postcards had scenes of the beach, or jungle, or fruit, or fifteenth century buildings and so on. Here, it was the Beacons with sheep, the Black Mountains with sheep, the Wye valley with sheep. In one market town 40 kilometres away, in the central shopping area, there was a life size sculptor of a typical farmer - with a sheep. Just one of them this time, it was true; but still, there was a sheep. They were everywhere, and around here they could be heard morning, noon and night. It didn’t disturb people; if they found the noise too much, they could pack their bags, and sell their house. You had a certain type of person who would choose to buy a house in this area. They would like quiet, the slow way of life, the long country walks, the aroma of the rain on the trees, and of course, the sounds of the country, the sheep, birds, watching the Wye go under the old bridge that separated Breconshire from Radnorshire. The pleasure increased exponentially if one picked up a couple of cans of beer and a packet of crisps from Andrea’s shop, a minute’s walk away.
Their house was near the Wye, just where it doubled back on itself in the form of a large ox-bow. It ran over a shallow rocky bed, under the old and rather beautiful bridge. Further back and across the way, one could make out the ruins of the old railway bridge that had once brought the trains up to the centre of the country. As was the case with many things, they had disappeared, an irreplaceable part of both history and geography. The Wye here turned to the east; one could occasionally see a few people fishing. In the distance, the tops of the Black Mountains shone in the warm May light. At different times of the day and year, depending on the weather, they gleamed in white, purple, pink or orange. They were, most people would agree, quite beautiful; yes, even in the rain. That was quite fortunate, for here, the rain came for a sizeable chunk of the year.
In the garden, he could hear the birds singing. He walked to the window, and looked out.There they were, scrapping over the bread he had thrown out earlier in the morning. It was certainly a beautiful day, one of those rare days one gets in the summer, the kind that one sees on picture postcards. You felt good just looking at it. If it were like this even for four months of the year, it would be good here, he thought. He had listened to the weather forecast over breakfast, and much to his pleasure, it was set to continue for the next few days. Yesterday he had cut the lawn, something he loathed doing, but was a necessary chore. In May, the grass grew quickly. It was much easier now that he had the petrol mower; the old electric one, like mini-hovercraft, got the job done, but it would take an eternity. His wife was at work; she was teacher just up the road in Llanfair, and taught science. She was a committed environmental activist; in fact, that is where they had first met, at a protest meeting against some new buildings going up on the site of a ‘rare bird breeding ground’, but again, he had yet to hear of any bit of earth in the world that wasn’t a ‘rare breeding ground’ for one species or another. No one knew they were ‘rare breeding grounds’ until some unfortunate builder had bought the land, and was just about to sink the foundations of the project. Then the knowledgeable, intrepid environmentalists came out of their lecture halls and tutorial rooms, intoxicated with the prospect of the hashish or whatever of publicity.
‘You’re a callous capitalist,’ she had told him on many an occasion. ‘You think of money.’
‘I work for a bank, so that’s not surprising,’ he said in reply. ‘When you get your pay cheque, I’ll take it, okay?’
She would then keep quiet.He had met her when he was trying to get to work after lunch in a bistro patronised by many of the financial sector workers. It was like home from home; all you heard concerned money, accounts, shares, unit trusts, and pay. That was one reason he liked the place. The other was that it made him feel important. He felt a member of the money crowd. At that time, he was an assistant manager at a small branch of the bank in Swansea, and the protest, whilst not aimed at the bank, was taking place nearby. She handed him a leaflet, and then had screamed what he had thought an obscenity. When he swore back at her in remonstration, she answered back.
‘Why are you swearing at me, you prick?’
‘Because you swore at me first, that’s why.’
‘No I didn’t. I asked you if you wanted to help the ducks.’
He had thought she had said something else. She looked pretty, he thought.
‘If you buy me a drink this evening, I’ll forgive you,’ he answered.
‘Okay,’ and off she went. He shouted after her. ‘Where?’
She looked across the road, and caught sight of The Miners’ Arms.
‘There, 8 o’clock.’
He was taken aback at this for two reasons; firstly, that she had accepted so readily, without knowing anything about him. The thought crossed his mind she might be one of the street girls down by the ferry terminal. She didn’t seem that type; he didn’t think many would use their off hours early afternoon to walk around the city centre pleading for the world to take notice of two thousand birds nesting on the estuary of the Tawe or the Usk.The second thing that concerned him regarding their rendezvous was the place itself. Hardly a week went by when you didn’t read in the Echo of a fight, or arrest, or injury at the place; quite often, it was all three. It must have seemed like a second home to the local Police. He made a note to change the venue. He’d get there early, and they would find somewhere else.
That was many years ago; they’d gone out, got to be close with one another, got married, and settled into some kind of quiet yet pleasant marital routine. They still got on pretty well with each other after this time. Both she and the children were at school. The boy liked history and was quite studious; the girl was interested in piano, squash, and telephoning everyone and anyone. He had a couple of days off from work at the bank, and was planning a quiet, relaxing time.
‘What can I do?’ he said quietly. ‘The house is clean, the washing’s on the line, and the things are ready for dinner.’
He had taken the rack of lamb out of the freezer, and it was defrosting on the worktop. It won’t take that long, on a day like this, he thought. He had selected the vegetables for dinner and they too were on the top, waiting to be peeled and cut up; there were three large thick leeks, potatoes, two turnips, and a couple of onions. But that, he thought, I can do around five o’clock. I’m not going to miss the sun.He went into the entrance hall, and checked the front door. It was locked. There was little crime in this part of Powys, but he was just by nature a careful man. He checked the other rooms to make sure the small windows were open to get the fresh air, and then went out of the back door onto the stone patio. He went to the garage, paused, and then checked the garden door just around the corner. That was okay. It was wrought iron, and one needed a key to get in. He went back into the garage, and picked up a watering can. He went with this to the outside tap by the kitchen wall. He filled it up, and then poured the water over the patio floor, to make sure they were clean. He was planning to walk barefoot on them. On the patio were three wooden sun beds. He poured the water over one of them, washing away some dust and a cobweb. He put the watering can down, and went back into the kitchen to get a cloth. He wiped the sun bed. It was still a little wet in places.
‘That doesn’t matter. In this heat, it’ll dry in a few minutes.’
He went back into the house, and came out a minute later, barefoot, in a pair of shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, unbuttoned. He was carrying a towel and a jug of homemade fruit juice. Under one arm was a book. He placed the jug within arm’s reach, and did the same with the book. He draped the towel over the bed, checked to see that it was secure, and then lay down. He sighed in a happy way. That feels good, he thought. He looked around. To the east, the ridge of the hill was a bright green, broken in places with the sheep. On the top, the grass gave way to fern and bracken. To the south, he saw the tip of the mountains, a faint purple haze. The hill to the west was a Forestry Commission area, he assumed. It wasn’t natural growth. There, by the garden fence, a rich brown, against which were various flowering plants, some close to the ground, other growing a few feet high. In front of him lay the lawn, complete with ubiquitous daisies and marigolds. He looked at his watch. It was 10 30. He unbuckled it, and laid it on the patio. He automatically rubbed his wrist where the watch had left a faint imprint. The strap was actually a fraction too short, but he hadn’t thought the trouble of getting it changed worthwhile. He lay back on the sun bed, and picked up ‘Kolymsky Heights’. He opened the book, and began to read. He lost track of the time, being so engrossed in the book. The only time he stopped reading was to pour a glass of juice. It was about an hour later that he finally stopped, and put the book down. ‘That was good,’ he said to himself, ‘a fine read.’He yawned, and felt his skin. It was warm, but not burnt.
‘I’ll have bit of time on my front,’ he said dreaming, and turned over. In a matter of minutes, he was dozing. He felt the sun on his back, heard the song and movement of the birds. In the faint distance, there was the soft roar of occasional traffic. Even on a bad day, there were precious few vehicles. The main road wasn’t that ‘main’ on a national scale.He felt the wave of sleep coming over him. He wasn’t a day sleeper, but today was different. He couldn’t care less.
‘I’ll have a half hour, and then see about some lunch.’
It was a bird that woke him up. He blinked in the strong sunlight, and slowly turned over. A sparrow was pecked at the jug. It seemed unaware of his presence. A second sparrow came, and then a third. They were flitting around, almost as if they were taking turns. He raised himself slowly. The sparrows flew away. He got to his feet, and bent down to pick up the jug. A thought occurred to him.
‘Maybe they want something to drink,’ he said under his breath. ‘Yes, that may be it. I’ll get them some.’
With that, he put the jug under the tap, and filled it up. He walked a couple of metres to the potted plants. He found one with a large saucer. He lifted the pot, and picked up the saucer, moving it a short distance from the plant. Then he poured the water into the saucer. He walked back to the kitchen door, and turned. Within half a minute, a group of nine or ten birds were flocking around the water. He looked at them, and then went in. Compared to the garden, the house was chilly; He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly one pm.
‘That’s good timing,’ he said to himself. ‘It’s time for a bite to eat.’
He put the jug in to the sink, and rinsed it out. Then, he washed his hands, and picked up his
shirt from a stool. He put it on.
‘Right, what are we going to have?’
He opened the mini-fridge tucked under the worktop, and examined its contents. He picked up some salad things; on the top shelf, he found a tomato, an onion, half a lettuce, and the remains of a cucumber. He got a lime from the bottom of the fridge. He put them on the chopping board,and took a knife from the rack. He went to the window and looked out. It really was a glorious day, he thought. I need some herbs. He went back into the garden to the herb patch near the garage.
‘Mint,’ he thought. ‘It might be a bit too strong. I’ll take a leaf or two.’
Further in the small plot, he saw the oregano.
’That’s what I want,’ he thought. He walked across and picked a sprig of the herb. They would go well with the salad. He went back to the fridge and lifted a small plate with some cold chicken. He put it on the worktop, and went to the breadbasket. He picked up a loaf of granary, and put that by the chicken. He took a knife from the rack and cut three thick slices. He put the bread back. He returned to the chopping board, and using the same knife, prepared the vegetables. He put the chopped bits into a bowl, sprinkled the herb on the top, and added some oil and lemon juice. He gave them a mix with his hands.
‘That looks good,’ he said.He picked a little, and ate it. Yes, better than I thought. He went back to the fridge and got a small bottle of beer. He walked to the drawer and took out a bottle opener, lifted the cap off, replaced the opener, and poured the beer into a glass. He drank in the daytime on very rare occasions; in fact, off-hand, he couldn’t think of the last time. He turned to the food, put the glass on the worktop that had become the table, pulled up a stool, and settled down to eat. He switched on the radio.
‘Here now is the sports latest -‘
He switched channel. One of Bach’s (he assumed it was Bach) interminable harpsichord solos was in full swing. He resumed channel search.
‘Cynthia Monmouth-Hay made her name at the Isle of Wight Literature festival last year with her play ‘In the fullness of a winter’s moon’, likened by critics to a combination of -'
He switched off. The breeze in the trees and the sound of the birds were far better. He continued to eat, pausing now and again to take a sip of beer. When he had finished, he got up and went to the sink. He rinsed the glass, and washed the cutlery and both plates in warm, slightly soapy water. He rinsed them, and put them on the draining board. He raised his arms, and leaned back, stretching.
‘Ah,’ he said to himself, ‘that felt good. The food and drink too,’ he added as an afterthought.
He glanced at the clock again. It was 1 30. He decided to wait an hour before going out in the sun again, just as a precaution. The sun wasn’t that strong this far up; they were 52 degrees north. But again, neither were people used to fairly strong sunlight here. He went to the bathroom, and then thought he would continue with his reading. He went through the open backdoor, picked up the book, and came back in. He went into the lounge, and settled down in one of the comfortable armchairs. He began to read again. He laughed when the main character, after going through university, returned to his near Arctic village and beat up the uncle who had abused him as a child. His thoughts turned to the time. He went into the rear, and checked the clock. It was 2 30, time to get in the garden again. He poured a glass of water and drank it. Then, he filled the glass again, and went out and over to the sun bed, and again removed his shirt. He lay on his back, hands on his neck, and closed his eyes. The images of the north of Canada came into his mind. Then, he yawned and sleep came.
He awoke again to the sound of the birds. He looked at them, and noticed they were looking at him. They must have numbered between forty or fifty. He felt thirsty. He reached for the glass of water on the patio. It wasn’t there. He looked for the watch. He couldn’t find that, either. He began to sense that something was wrong. He opened his mouth to breathe in, and licked his lips. He was unable to. It felt peculiar. He looked around him. The garden had changed, but he couldn't work out why... or how. There were the apple trees, they seemed familiar, but looked different at the same time. The trees were taller and fuller, the foliage thicker. He noticed the garden seemed to have increased in size. He turned to the French window of the lounge. It was as if he was looking though it from a height, from an angle he had not seen before. The birds were watching him. He stood up, and peered into the lounge. A wave of near-terror went through him.
‘What on earth is happening to me?’ he asked in a voice, a voice he didn’t recognize. He went towards the kitchen door. It was shut. He tried to turn the handle. There was nothing. He went towards the garage. The sun was beginning to go down, and the orange brick walls of the house seemed to absorb the warmth of the evening air. He went back to the lounge window.
She was sitting on the sofa, the two children next to her. A tall man with a notebook was in front of her; another man, this one in uniform, was near the door. He listened. The police detective was talking.
‘Mrs Heron, people don’t ‘just’ disappear. They generally disappear for a reason. They might be kidnapped, they might be on the run from the law, they might want to run away; there are many possible scenarios. But it is most unusual for a man, or woman, to simply get up and go away. Have you had any arguments lately?’
‘No, we got on very well; you can ask the children.’
The two children nodded their agreement.
‘Did you husband have any money problems?’
‘No. We’re not that rich; that’s clear. But we’re quite comfortable. We own most of this place,and another one near the university. We rent that out. No, there’s no financial worry.’
‘What about enemies? Were there any threatening phone calls, or any untoward incidence in town, for example?’
‘No, there’s nothing. He’s only… I don’t mean this in a disparaging way…he’s a bank manager of a modest sized branch in a market town. He’s done very well for himself, and I’m proud of him, but the reality is, he’s earning a few thousand a month, not millions; nowhere near it. I don’t think people like him get any real enemies.’
He listened, and then looked around him. He couldn’t fathom out what was going on. Why didn’t they see him. Why didn’t they open the French windows and let him in. He had disappeared, they said. No, he hadn’t; he was right here. Why couldn’t they see that? A sparrow perched next to him.
‘How tame,’ was his first reaction. She spoke.
‘Hi, I’m looking for a mate. Would you be interested in me?’
He looked for a long time, in total chaos and astonishment. This was a dream, right. A very clear and real dream, but none the less, a dream; or was he hallucinating? Was it the beer he had drunk with lunch? It can’t be, he thought. It’s ... He trailed off. The sparrow was watching him.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if I’m not suitable for you, I’ll go.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he heard himself talking, ‘don’t go. I’m confused. You see, the woman in there, and the children, are my wife, my family.’
The sparrow laughed.
‘There’s always someone like you in any flock. The ones who think they are human.’
‘But I am human,' he retorted, ‘I’m a bank manager in a small town near here. I have worked there for nearly fifteen years.'‘
You’re a funny looking human,’ she answered. ‘Try looking at yourself in the window.’
He paused, and then turned towards the glass.
‘Oh, no,’ this cannot be; things don’t happen this way. It can’t be.’
In the reflection, he saw a small bird, a sparrow, just like the one next to him. She came closer, and he saw her too. Through the glass, he watched a the two policemen shook hands with his wife, and left the room.
‘Look up here,’ he shouted. ‘I’m here, up here.’
She didn’t respond. One of the children came towards the window. He heard her tell the others how tame some of the birds in the garden were.
‘I’m your father,’ he shouted through the window.’
The girl was laughing.
‘You noisy bird! Are you having fun up there?’
She turned and went out of the room. The other sparrow came closer.
‘They can’t hear you; at least, they can’t understand you. You can always come back and see them though, everyday if you wish.’
The terrible truth was beginning to take hold, and with a seeming ease of passing, he knew that she was right, and he couldn’t go back to his other life. But how could this happen? He found himself asking the question again and again, but then the whole thing seemed to pull away, and become less important. He turned to the other sparrow.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I don’t have a name…we don’t have names. There are too many of us, and names would be confusing.’
‘What can I call you?’ he asked, the initial despair and fear going away, much to his surprise.
‘At the moment, nothing. If you want to be my mate, then call me ‘my mate’, right?'.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. He opened his eyes again, and looked at her. She was very attractive; a nice beak, a gentle warble, and the feather colourings were artistic and pretty. She looked at him for what seemed a very long time.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’
He found himself in flight, next to her, as they flew over the garden and into the trees by the edge of the Wye.
‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘It’s second-hand, but in decent condition. We can tidy it up, and make it a nice place for our offspring.’
He looked around the place. Yes, he thought, it did have potential; there was water nearby, plenty of protection from the wind and sun, and high enough to be well away from any marauding enemy.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘It’s nice. Would you like me to remain here with you?’
Then, as an after thought, he added, ‘as your mate?’
She looked at him, came closer, and put her head on his shoulder.
‘Yes, mate,’ she murmured into the quiet breeze. They cuddled closer together in the nest, high up in the tree overlooking the Brecon Beacons, listening to the air and the water running over the rocks on the bed of the Wye.
A few months later, back in the house, the mother held the children. She sighed, and then said
‘I think your father must have run off with another woman. There’s no other explanation.’
The boy asked,
‘Are you sure?’
The mother answered,
‘Yes, we’ve checked family, acquaintances, bank staff; he hasn’t left the country because his passport is still here, there are no reports of any accident. He’s not a hill walker or rambler. The car is out the front. Someone must have come and collected him.’
The girl asked her mother.
‘Will we be alright if Dad doesn’t come back?’
There were tears in her eyes.
‘Yes, of course,’ answered her mother, holding her. ‘I’m working; this place is almost paid for as is the place in Pontypridd. We’re okay for money, don’t worry about that.’
'Will you be okay though, Mum?’ the boy asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she answered, ‘I’ll be alright… it’s your father I’m worried about. Even though I think he’s run away, I hope he’s alright.’
‘Are you angry with him, Mum?' the girl asked, on the sofa next to her mother.
'No, not really angry, because he did take good care of us for nearly twenty years. I suppose I’m a bit disappointed that he doesn’t want us now; but that perhaps isn’t fair. It might be that he just wants a break, or worse, is suffering from some kind of mental breakdown, and doesn’t really know what he’s doing. I just don’t know.’
The boy came in with a mug of tea.
‘Here you are Mum.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and began to sip the tea. The boy spread out on one of the armchairs whilst the mother curled her long legs under her. She put her arm round the girl, and pulled her close.
‘I just don’t know. We must get on with things; it’s no good sitting around and thinking or moping.’
There was knock on the front door.
‘Get that, will you?’ she asked the boy. He went out. The mother and the girl heard the door open, and then a startled exclamation.
‘Dad!’
They both got off the sofa as if a wasp had stung them. The lounge door opened, and the man came in. They stared at one another, before coming together and embracing. There was absolute silence. No one said anything. The broke apart and looked at each other. At last, the woman asked,
‘What on earth happened to you? Are you all right? Where did you get to?’
The man looked at her, and gently held her hand, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m just fine. I had to go away for a few months; I had no choice…’
‘But why didn’t you tell us, why didn’t you phone, why…?’
'I can’t explain it, at least not yet. But I have kept an eye on you, trust me.’
‘But Dad…’ the girl began.
The man put his arm round her, and then put his finger on his lips.
’Shhh, not now. I’m just happy to be back with the three of you.’
He turned towards the boy, and pulled him closer.
‘I do love you lot, I love you very much. Don’t ever forget that.’
He sighed. ‘I need a cup of tea.’
He looked out of the lounge rear window. On the lawn was a sparrow, with several of her young. They were watching the people in the house.
‘I must feed the birds. They are like my family, too.’
He turned, and holding the children and his wife, walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the garden, picked up a couple of slices of bread, and threw them towards the birds on the grass. He walked out into the garden. They began to peck. His wife looked at him.
‘That’s unusual.'
‘What?’
‘The birds didn’t fly away. When we feed them, they always fly away until we go indoors, and then they come to eat.’
‘You’re right,’ said her husband. ‘But these are different. They are just like my family.’
'I'll put the kettle on for tea'. She went back in.
The two children began to giggle. The birds on the lawn stopped eating, and turned to look.
‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘they won’t fly away again. No way.’
The sparrows turned back to the bread, and began pecking. The mother bird began to chirrup.
‘Yes, I know,’ said the man quietly, ‘I know you miss me, but you can come here everyday, can’t you?’
The mother birds spread her wings, and flew towards him. She perched on his arm.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I love you too.’
The bird flew off to a tree as the rear door opened, and his wife came back into the garden. She looked puzzled.
‘Are you talking to the birds? They must be very tame. I haven’t seen them like this before.’
Her husband looked her.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was just thinking how much I love you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I know.’
'Mum, Dad's talking to the birds,' said the girl.
'Yeah, he told them he loves them, too!' said the boy, trying to stop laughing.
'I knew you were nuts the first time I met you...but I love you too.'
She put one arm around him. They held each other, the two children coming together, too. in the quiet of affection.
The breeze rustled the apple trees, and the sun came out from behind a thin, high cloud. In the warm afternoon air, they heard the waters of the Wye. The sparrows looked at them for a long time, then turned back to the bread on the lawn, and again began to peck.
Their house was near the Wye, just where it doubled back on itself in the form of a large ox-bow. It ran over a shallow rocky bed, under the old and rather beautiful bridge. Further back and across the way, one could make out the ruins of the old railway bridge that had once brought the trains up to the centre of the country. As was the case with many things, they had disappeared, an irreplaceable part of both history and geography. The Wye here turned to the east; one could occasionally see a few people fishing. In the distance, the tops of the Black Mountains shone in the warm May light. At different times of the day and year, depending on the weather, they gleamed in white, purple, pink or orange. They were, most people would agree, quite beautiful; yes, even in the rain. That was quite fortunate, for here, the rain came for a sizeable chunk of the year.
In the garden, he could hear the birds singing. He walked to the window, and looked out.There they were, scrapping over the bread he had thrown out earlier in the morning. It was certainly a beautiful day, one of those rare days one gets in the summer, the kind that one sees on picture postcards. You felt good just looking at it. If it were like this even for four months of the year, it would be good here, he thought. He had listened to the weather forecast over breakfast, and much to his pleasure, it was set to continue for the next few days. Yesterday he had cut the lawn, something he loathed doing, but was a necessary chore. In May, the grass grew quickly. It was much easier now that he had the petrol mower; the old electric one, like mini-hovercraft, got the job done, but it would take an eternity. His wife was at work; she was teacher just up the road in Llanfair, and taught science. She was a committed environmental activist; in fact, that is where they had first met, at a protest meeting against some new buildings going up on the site of a ‘rare bird breeding ground’, but again, he had yet to hear of any bit of earth in the world that wasn’t a ‘rare breeding ground’ for one species or another. No one knew they were ‘rare breeding grounds’ until some unfortunate builder had bought the land, and was just about to sink the foundations of the project. Then the knowledgeable, intrepid environmentalists came out of their lecture halls and tutorial rooms, intoxicated with the prospect of the hashish or whatever of publicity.
‘You’re a callous capitalist,’ she had told him on many an occasion. ‘You think of money.’
‘I work for a bank, so that’s not surprising,’ he said in reply. ‘When you get your pay cheque, I’ll take it, okay?’
She would then keep quiet.He had met her when he was trying to get to work after lunch in a bistro patronised by many of the financial sector workers. It was like home from home; all you heard concerned money, accounts, shares, unit trusts, and pay. That was one reason he liked the place. The other was that it made him feel important. He felt a member of the money crowd. At that time, he was an assistant manager at a small branch of the bank in Swansea, and the protest, whilst not aimed at the bank, was taking place nearby. She handed him a leaflet, and then had screamed what he had thought an obscenity. When he swore back at her in remonstration, she answered back.
‘Why are you swearing at me, you prick?’
‘Because you swore at me first, that’s why.’
‘No I didn’t. I asked you if you wanted to help the ducks.’
He had thought she had said something else. She looked pretty, he thought.
‘If you buy me a drink this evening, I’ll forgive you,’ he answered.
‘Okay,’ and off she went. He shouted after her. ‘Where?’
She looked across the road, and caught sight of The Miners’ Arms.
‘There, 8 o’clock.’
He was taken aback at this for two reasons; firstly, that she had accepted so readily, without knowing anything about him. The thought crossed his mind she might be one of the street girls down by the ferry terminal. She didn’t seem that type; he didn’t think many would use their off hours early afternoon to walk around the city centre pleading for the world to take notice of two thousand birds nesting on the estuary of the Tawe or the Usk.The second thing that concerned him regarding their rendezvous was the place itself. Hardly a week went by when you didn’t read in the Echo of a fight, or arrest, or injury at the place; quite often, it was all three. It must have seemed like a second home to the local Police. He made a note to change the venue. He’d get there early, and they would find somewhere else.
That was many years ago; they’d gone out, got to be close with one another, got married, and settled into some kind of quiet yet pleasant marital routine. They still got on pretty well with each other after this time. Both she and the children were at school. The boy liked history and was quite studious; the girl was interested in piano, squash, and telephoning everyone and anyone. He had a couple of days off from work at the bank, and was planning a quiet, relaxing time.
‘What can I do?’ he said quietly. ‘The house is clean, the washing’s on the line, and the things are ready for dinner.’
He had taken the rack of lamb out of the freezer, and it was defrosting on the worktop. It won’t take that long, on a day like this, he thought. He had selected the vegetables for dinner and they too were on the top, waiting to be peeled and cut up; there were three large thick leeks, potatoes, two turnips, and a couple of onions. But that, he thought, I can do around five o’clock. I’m not going to miss the sun.He went into the entrance hall, and checked the front door. It was locked. There was little crime in this part of Powys, but he was just by nature a careful man. He checked the other rooms to make sure the small windows were open to get the fresh air, and then went out of the back door onto the stone patio. He went to the garage, paused, and then checked the garden door just around the corner. That was okay. It was wrought iron, and one needed a key to get in. He went back into the garage, and picked up a watering can. He went with this to the outside tap by the kitchen wall. He filled it up, and then poured the water over the patio floor, to make sure they were clean. He was planning to walk barefoot on them. On the patio were three wooden sun beds. He poured the water over one of them, washing away some dust and a cobweb. He put the watering can down, and went back into the kitchen to get a cloth. He wiped the sun bed. It was still a little wet in places.
‘That doesn’t matter. In this heat, it’ll dry in a few minutes.’
He went back into the house, and came out a minute later, barefoot, in a pair of shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, unbuttoned. He was carrying a towel and a jug of homemade fruit juice. Under one arm was a book. He placed the jug within arm’s reach, and did the same with the book. He draped the towel over the bed, checked to see that it was secure, and then lay down. He sighed in a happy way. That feels good, he thought. He looked around. To the east, the ridge of the hill was a bright green, broken in places with the sheep. On the top, the grass gave way to fern and bracken. To the south, he saw the tip of the mountains, a faint purple haze. The hill to the west was a Forestry Commission area, he assumed. It wasn’t natural growth. There, by the garden fence, a rich brown, against which were various flowering plants, some close to the ground, other growing a few feet high. In front of him lay the lawn, complete with ubiquitous daisies and marigolds. He looked at his watch. It was 10 30. He unbuckled it, and laid it on the patio. He automatically rubbed his wrist where the watch had left a faint imprint. The strap was actually a fraction too short, but he hadn’t thought the trouble of getting it changed worthwhile. He lay back on the sun bed, and picked up ‘Kolymsky Heights’. He opened the book, and began to read. He lost track of the time, being so engrossed in the book. The only time he stopped reading was to pour a glass of juice. It was about an hour later that he finally stopped, and put the book down. ‘That was good,’ he said to himself, ‘a fine read.’He yawned, and felt his skin. It was warm, but not burnt.
‘I’ll have bit of time on my front,’ he said dreaming, and turned over. In a matter of minutes, he was dozing. He felt the sun on his back, heard the song and movement of the birds. In the faint distance, there was the soft roar of occasional traffic. Even on a bad day, there were precious few vehicles. The main road wasn’t that ‘main’ on a national scale.He felt the wave of sleep coming over him. He wasn’t a day sleeper, but today was different. He couldn’t care less.
‘I’ll have a half hour, and then see about some lunch.’
It was a bird that woke him up. He blinked in the strong sunlight, and slowly turned over. A sparrow was pecked at the jug. It seemed unaware of his presence. A second sparrow came, and then a third. They were flitting around, almost as if they were taking turns. He raised himself slowly. The sparrows flew away. He got to his feet, and bent down to pick up the jug. A thought occurred to him.
‘Maybe they want something to drink,’ he said under his breath. ‘Yes, that may be it. I’ll get them some.’
With that, he put the jug under the tap, and filled it up. He walked a couple of metres to the potted plants. He found one with a large saucer. He lifted the pot, and picked up the saucer, moving it a short distance from the plant. Then he poured the water into the saucer. He walked back to the kitchen door, and turned. Within half a minute, a group of nine or ten birds were flocking around the water. He looked at them, and then went in. Compared to the garden, the house was chilly; He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly one pm.
‘That’s good timing,’ he said to himself. ‘It’s time for a bite to eat.’
He put the jug in to the sink, and rinsed it out. Then, he washed his hands, and picked up his
shirt from a stool. He put it on.
‘Right, what are we going to have?’
He opened the mini-fridge tucked under the worktop, and examined its contents. He picked up some salad things; on the top shelf, he found a tomato, an onion, half a lettuce, and the remains of a cucumber. He got a lime from the bottom of the fridge. He put them on the chopping board,and took a knife from the rack. He went to the window and looked out. It really was a glorious day, he thought. I need some herbs. He went back into the garden to the herb patch near the garage.
‘Mint,’ he thought. ‘It might be a bit too strong. I’ll take a leaf or two.’
Further in the small plot, he saw the oregano.
’That’s what I want,’ he thought. He walked across and picked a sprig of the herb. They would go well with the salad. He went back to the fridge and lifted a small plate with some cold chicken. He put it on the worktop, and went to the breadbasket. He picked up a loaf of granary, and put that by the chicken. He took a knife from the rack and cut three thick slices. He put the bread back. He returned to the chopping board, and using the same knife, prepared the vegetables. He put the chopped bits into a bowl, sprinkled the herb on the top, and added some oil and lemon juice. He gave them a mix with his hands.
‘That looks good,’ he said.He picked a little, and ate it. Yes, better than I thought. He went back to the fridge and got a small bottle of beer. He walked to the drawer and took out a bottle opener, lifted the cap off, replaced the opener, and poured the beer into a glass. He drank in the daytime on very rare occasions; in fact, off-hand, he couldn’t think of the last time. He turned to the food, put the glass on the worktop that had become the table, pulled up a stool, and settled down to eat. He switched on the radio.
‘Here now is the sports latest -‘
He switched channel. One of Bach’s (he assumed it was Bach) interminable harpsichord solos was in full swing. He resumed channel search.
‘Cynthia Monmouth-Hay made her name at the Isle of Wight Literature festival last year with her play ‘In the fullness of a winter’s moon’, likened by critics to a combination of -'
He switched off. The breeze in the trees and the sound of the birds were far better. He continued to eat, pausing now and again to take a sip of beer. When he had finished, he got up and went to the sink. He rinsed the glass, and washed the cutlery and both plates in warm, slightly soapy water. He rinsed them, and put them on the draining board. He raised his arms, and leaned back, stretching.
‘Ah,’ he said to himself, ‘that felt good. The food and drink too,’ he added as an afterthought.
He glanced at the clock again. It was 1 30. He decided to wait an hour before going out in the sun again, just as a precaution. The sun wasn’t that strong this far up; they were 52 degrees north. But again, neither were people used to fairly strong sunlight here. He went to the bathroom, and then thought he would continue with his reading. He went through the open backdoor, picked up the book, and came back in. He went into the lounge, and settled down in one of the comfortable armchairs. He began to read again. He laughed when the main character, after going through university, returned to his near Arctic village and beat up the uncle who had abused him as a child. His thoughts turned to the time. He went into the rear, and checked the clock. It was 2 30, time to get in the garden again. He poured a glass of water and drank it. Then, he filled the glass again, and went out and over to the sun bed, and again removed his shirt. He lay on his back, hands on his neck, and closed his eyes. The images of the north of Canada came into his mind. Then, he yawned and sleep came.
He awoke again to the sound of the birds. He looked at them, and noticed they were looking at him. They must have numbered between forty or fifty. He felt thirsty. He reached for the glass of water on the patio. It wasn’t there. He looked for the watch. He couldn’t find that, either. He began to sense that something was wrong. He opened his mouth to breathe in, and licked his lips. He was unable to. It felt peculiar. He looked around him. The garden had changed, but he couldn't work out why... or how. There were the apple trees, they seemed familiar, but looked different at the same time. The trees were taller and fuller, the foliage thicker. He noticed the garden seemed to have increased in size. He turned to the French window of the lounge. It was as if he was looking though it from a height, from an angle he had not seen before. The birds were watching him. He stood up, and peered into the lounge. A wave of near-terror went through him.
‘What on earth is happening to me?’ he asked in a voice, a voice he didn’t recognize. He went towards the kitchen door. It was shut. He tried to turn the handle. There was nothing. He went towards the garage. The sun was beginning to go down, and the orange brick walls of the house seemed to absorb the warmth of the evening air. He went back to the lounge window.
She was sitting on the sofa, the two children next to her. A tall man with a notebook was in front of her; another man, this one in uniform, was near the door. He listened. The police detective was talking.
‘Mrs Heron, people don’t ‘just’ disappear. They generally disappear for a reason. They might be kidnapped, they might be on the run from the law, they might want to run away; there are many possible scenarios. But it is most unusual for a man, or woman, to simply get up and go away. Have you had any arguments lately?’
‘No, we got on very well; you can ask the children.’
The two children nodded their agreement.
‘Did you husband have any money problems?’
‘No. We’re not that rich; that’s clear. But we’re quite comfortable. We own most of this place,and another one near the university. We rent that out. No, there’s no financial worry.’
‘What about enemies? Were there any threatening phone calls, or any untoward incidence in town, for example?’
‘No, there’s nothing. He’s only… I don’t mean this in a disparaging way…he’s a bank manager of a modest sized branch in a market town. He’s done very well for himself, and I’m proud of him, but the reality is, he’s earning a few thousand a month, not millions; nowhere near it. I don’t think people like him get any real enemies.’
He listened, and then looked around him. He couldn’t fathom out what was going on. Why didn’t they see him. Why didn’t they open the French windows and let him in. He had disappeared, they said. No, he hadn’t; he was right here. Why couldn’t they see that? A sparrow perched next to him.
‘How tame,’ was his first reaction. She spoke.
‘Hi, I’m looking for a mate. Would you be interested in me?’
He looked for a long time, in total chaos and astonishment. This was a dream, right. A very clear and real dream, but none the less, a dream; or was he hallucinating? Was it the beer he had drunk with lunch? It can’t be, he thought. It’s ... He trailed off. The sparrow was watching him.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if I’m not suitable for you, I’ll go.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he heard himself talking, ‘don’t go. I’m confused. You see, the woman in there, and the children, are my wife, my family.’
The sparrow laughed.
‘There’s always someone like you in any flock. The ones who think they are human.’
‘But I am human,' he retorted, ‘I’m a bank manager in a small town near here. I have worked there for nearly fifteen years.'‘
You’re a funny looking human,’ she answered. ‘Try looking at yourself in the window.’
He paused, and then turned towards the glass.
‘Oh, no,’ this cannot be; things don’t happen this way. It can’t be.’
In the reflection, he saw a small bird, a sparrow, just like the one next to him. She came closer, and he saw her too. Through the glass, he watched a the two policemen shook hands with his wife, and left the room.
‘Look up here,’ he shouted. ‘I’m here, up here.’
She didn’t respond. One of the children came towards the window. He heard her tell the others how tame some of the birds in the garden were.
‘I’m your father,’ he shouted through the window.’
The girl was laughing.
‘You noisy bird! Are you having fun up there?’
She turned and went out of the room. The other sparrow came closer.
‘They can’t hear you; at least, they can’t understand you. You can always come back and see them though, everyday if you wish.’
The terrible truth was beginning to take hold, and with a seeming ease of passing, he knew that she was right, and he couldn’t go back to his other life. But how could this happen? He found himself asking the question again and again, but then the whole thing seemed to pull away, and become less important. He turned to the other sparrow.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I don’t have a name…we don’t have names. There are too many of us, and names would be confusing.’
‘What can I call you?’ he asked, the initial despair and fear going away, much to his surprise.
‘At the moment, nothing. If you want to be my mate, then call me ‘my mate’, right?'.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. He opened his eyes again, and looked at her. She was very attractive; a nice beak, a gentle warble, and the feather colourings were artistic and pretty. She looked at him for what seemed a very long time.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’
He found himself in flight, next to her, as they flew over the garden and into the trees by the edge of the Wye.
‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘It’s second-hand, but in decent condition. We can tidy it up, and make it a nice place for our offspring.’
He looked around the place. Yes, he thought, it did have potential; there was water nearby, plenty of protection from the wind and sun, and high enough to be well away from any marauding enemy.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘It’s nice. Would you like me to remain here with you?’
Then, as an after thought, he added, ‘as your mate?’
She looked at him, came closer, and put her head on his shoulder.
‘Yes, mate,’ she murmured into the quiet breeze. They cuddled closer together in the nest, high up in the tree overlooking the Brecon Beacons, listening to the air and the water running over the rocks on the bed of the Wye.
A few months later, back in the house, the mother held the children. She sighed, and then said
‘I think your father must have run off with another woman. There’s no other explanation.’
The boy asked,
‘Are you sure?’
The mother answered,
‘Yes, we’ve checked family, acquaintances, bank staff; he hasn’t left the country because his passport is still here, there are no reports of any accident. He’s not a hill walker or rambler. The car is out the front. Someone must have come and collected him.’
The girl asked her mother.
‘Will we be alright if Dad doesn’t come back?’
There were tears in her eyes.
‘Yes, of course,’ answered her mother, holding her. ‘I’m working; this place is almost paid for as is the place in Pontypridd. We’re okay for money, don’t worry about that.’
'Will you be okay though, Mum?’ the boy asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she answered, ‘I’ll be alright… it’s your father I’m worried about. Even though I think he’s run away, I hope he’s alright.’
‘Are you angry with him, Mum?' the girl asked, on the sofa next to her mother.
'No, not really angry, because he did take good care of us for nearly twenty years. I suppose I’m a bit disappointed that he doesn’t want us now; but that perhaps isn’t fair. It might be that he just wants a break, or worse, is suffering from some kind of mental breakdown, and doesn’t really know what he’s doing. I just don’t know.’
The boy came in with a mug of tea.
‘Here you are Mum.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and began to sip the tea. The boy spread out on one of the armchairs whilst the mother curled her long legs under her. She put her arm round the girl, and pulled her close.
‘I just don’t know. We must get on with things; it’s no good sitting around and thinking or moping.’
There was knock on the front door.
‘Get that, will you?’ she asked the boy. He went out. The mother and the girl heard the door open, and then a startled exclamation.
‘Dad!’
They both got off the sofa as if a wasp had stung them. The lounge door opened, and the man came in. They stared at one another, before coming together and embracing. There was absolute silence. No one said anything. The broke apart and looked at each other. At last, the woman asked,
‘What on earth happened to you? Are you all right? Where did you get to?’
The man looked at her, and gently held her hand, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m just fine. I had to go away for a few months; I had no choice…’
‘But why didn’t you tell us, why didn’t you phone, why…?’
'I can’t explain it, at least not yet. But I have kept an eye on you, trust me.’
‘But Dad…’ the girl began.
The man put his arm round her, and then put his finger on his lips.
’Shhh, not now. I’m just happy to be back with the three of you.’
He turned towards the boy, and pulled him closer.
‘I do love you lot, I love you very much. Don’t ever forget that.’
He sighed. ‘I need a cup of tea.’
He looked out of the lounge rear window. On the lawn was a sparrow, with several of her young. They were watching the people in the house.
‘I must feed the birds. They are like my family, too.’
He turned, and holding the children and his wife, walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the garden, picked up a couple of slices of bread, and threw them towards the birds on the grass. He walked out into the garden. They began to peck. His wife looked at him.
‘That’s unusual.'
‘What?’
‘The birds didn’t fly away. When we feed them, they always fly away until we go indoors, and then they come to eat.’
‘You’re right,’ said her husband. ‘But these are different. They are just like my family.’
'I'll put the kettle on for tea'. She went back in.
The two children began to giggle. The birds on the lawn stopped eating, and turned to look.
‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘they won’t fly away again. No way.’
The sparrows turned back to the bread, and began pecking. The mother bird began to chirrup.
‘Yes, I know,’ said the man quietly, ‘I know you miss me, but you can come here everyday, can’t you?’
The mother birds spread her wings, and flew towards him. She perched on his arm.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I love you too.’
The bird flew off to a tree as the rear door opened, and his wife came back into the garden. She looked puzzled.
‘Are you talking to the birds? They must be very tame. I haven’t seen them like this before.’
Her husband looked her.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was just thinking how much I love you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I know.’
'Mum, Dad's talking to the birds,' said the girl.
'Yeah, he told them he loves them, too!' said the boy, trying to stop laughing.
'I knew you were nuts the first time I met you...but I love you too.'
She put one arm around him. They held each other, the two children coming together, too. in the quiet of affection.
The breeze rustled the apple trees, and the sun came out from behind a thin, high cloud. In the warm afternoon air, they heard the waters of the Wye. The sparrows looked at them for a long time, then turned back to the bread on the lawn, and again began to peck.
Interrogating
It began one morning, in a quiet way.
It then went haywire in no time. I work a lot from home, kind of free-lancing, in the art business, drawing etc.There was a telephone call about ten thirty from the office; could I go to the airport to collect a package, some important legal documents, then bring them in to work the following morning. Yes, that was no problem; the house was just ten minutes away if there wasn’t too much traffic. Even at what passed for rush hour, it might take fifteen minutes, so the office asked me from time to time if I would mind collecting on their behalf. The office of course, was in the opposite direction; it made sense for me to get things, plus it gave me a bit of a break from work in the house. I often got a free lunch for my trouble too; company perk. I checked that the house lights were off, picked up a big duty free bag that I had acquired on some trip a few months ago, grabbed the car keys, and went out. I got into the car, put the seat belt on, and jammed the bag between it and my thigh. Ten minutes later, I parked the car and went into the one terminal, a grand name for a small building. The airport had about twenty commercial flights per day, including a couple of international ones, so it wasn’t that overworked. Most of the aircraft were small, Fokker, that type of thing. It was used for the most part in the week by the local businessmen - okay, and women, and government people; at the weekend, by a small but consistent number of tourists. There was always a good amount of activity going on, but without the horrible congestion one might get in a major airport. The size meant it was quite a profitable business, with a regular turnover of passengers, cargo, in the main for the farming community, and of course, being out here, the running costs were a fraction of those of a big airport.But regardless of size, as you know these days, security is rife and strict. Going through one area to collect the package, I had to pass the sniffer dog. This fellow was on a long leash tethered to a carnivorous looking character, one of the local Customs Officers. People had to walk past very close to the animal, thereby giving it a chance to sniff you. There were occasions when some ignorant tourist would try to pat or touch the dog, only to be told to keep away by a growl from the owner.The dog had singled me out, and had begun barking. The dog had smelt something. In minutes, there were Police, airline security and airport staff round me. In fact, it would have made an excellent opportunity to get a free trip, as everyone except the pilots seemed be poking their noses in, trying to find out what was going on.
They asked me to accompany them to the police office, a few minutes walk away. Here, I was searched by two police officers, who rather unsurprisingly found nothing. They seemed as puzzled by the whole business as me. They began to ask questions.
‘Do you have a gun?’‘No.’
‘Are you a licensed gun holder?’
‘No.’
‘Have you touched a gun recently?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know anyone with a gun?’
‘No.’
‘Is any member of your family in the army?’
‘No.’
The nearest experience that I had of explosives was driving past the local quarry. I was interrogated, and asked to surrender my passport. I carry this with me when I go to collect anything, nothing unusual in that. I had no real objection; I assumed I would get it back in a day or to when the matter was cleared up. They asked me for the bag, as it was this that had aroused the interest of the dog.
‘You want my bag? What on earth for?’
‘We need to get the lab to analyse it. The dog thinks there’s something about it that’s not quite right.’
I looked at the two of them. I expected them to laugh. I was wrong. They were serious.
‘You want a lab technician to examine an empty duty free shop bag because of a dog?’ ‘That’s right.’
I waited, looking at them. They looked back, quiet. As Customer Relations people, they would have made abject failures, both of them.
‘I have to collect the package.’
‘Not now; we’ll take care of that.’
‘They are confidential documents belonging to –‘
‘I said not now. Do you know simple English? Not now.’
I didn’t know what to do. There seemed to be nothing.
‘You may go. We’ll get in touch with you in a day or two.’
That was it. No ‘thank you’, no ‘sir’, no ‘goodbye’. I turned and walked back to the car. I could feel their eyes on my back.
The next day, a quartet arrived at the house in the early morning, before I went to work. My wife and the children had already left, they to the school nearby, and she to work. There was loud knock on the front door, and I opened it. Three of them were Police, I guessed. None wore a uniform. The were big men, with the look and physique that made Charlton Heston and Sylvester Stallone look like flower power people. The fourth, a young skinny character of pale office complexion, I thought might be one of the technical people from the lab. I thought wrong. He turned out to be some government lackey. On reflection, he looked too thick to be a lab man or scientist. In fact, he looked too stupid to be anything.
'May we come in?' said the eldest, making his way into the hall as if I didn't exist. The others followed. They went into the lounge; the eldest helped himself to an armchair, the two heavy ones followed, the skinny one was lounging against the door. They wasted no time. The eldest one did the talking, punctuated by an agreement from the two big men. They seemed to know everything about me, a worrying amount of personal information. I denied all knowledge of being part of a terror group cell, and said there was some mistake.
‘Who called you a terrorist? Why do you use the word terrorist? Why do you think that we might think you are a terrorist?’
‘Well,’ I began, ‘you have taken an empty bag for lab analysis, you have taken my passport, you went through confidential legal documents meant for my company, you are here in my house now, and the dog didn’t like me. That suggests to me that you think I might be a danger to people.'
‘Terrorists can and do strike anywhere, anytime. We take the threat seriously, any threat, any possible threat, any threat, any threat we look into, any threat. They can strike morning, noon, night, at any time.’
It was the skinny young fellow. He spoke with the irritating whine of a government official, a human equivalent of a slightly malfunctioning electric motor. It grated on me.
‘I always thought terrorists worked 9 to 5, Monday to Friday –'
I was pushed hard against the wall. One of the big ones was holding me in a very firm grip.
‘That suggests to me that you’re an idiot. You try being funny with me, boyo, and I break you. Got that?’
I got it clear there and then. He let go of me, and air and blood resumed their circulation. I looked at them with mounting anger, but I was trying not to show it, trying to keep cool and alert.
‘When do I get my passport back?’
‘You get it back when I think the time is right for you to have it back.’
It was the eldest of the four. The way the others looked when he spoke, I guessed he was the one in charge.
‘I want the dogs to search in here. We can do it the quick and agreeable way, or the long, difficult and most disagreeable way. That is, to make it very clear, quick and agreeable for me, and long, difficult and most disagreeable for you. Your move.’
I sighed.
‘Okay, go ahead. You have authority to do this, I assume?’
‘You assume correct.’
He showed me an official looking paper.
‘That authorises you to search –'
'It authorises me to do what I want, including taking this place apart, and detaining you for many, many hours and interrogating you as long as I wish. There is also the matter of your wife and children…’
He went quiet. The message was very clear.
‘I get the point,’ I said, ‘please carry on.’
‘Good boy. People end up seeing it my way.’
The other two policemen grunted in agreement; the older man nodded at one of them who then began to wander round the house. He then told the other one to bring in the dog, and turned to the skinny man, who was lounging against the front door.
‘Bring in your team now. You have an hour.’
Three men in white coats came in, each carrying a box. They each went to a different part of the house. The first officer came back with the dog. They began to walk around, the dog eager. One of the white coat men was checking the food cupboards; another had gone into the small rear garden. The house too wasn’t a big place. Even if, as Boss had threatened to do, they were to take the place apart, it wouldn’t take them that long. Watching them, it was clear they had done this before, many times before. I wasn’t watching an amateur show; that was very clear. The Boss was in the lounge, looking at my small library. From time to time, he pulled a book half out of the shelf to check the title.
‘These are yours?’
He motioned towards the books. I nodded, although some belonged in theory to my wife, meaning she had bought them. We didn’t think in terms of ownership, though.
'You’re an educated man. Postgraduate?’
I nodded again.
‘Me, too,’ he went on. ‘Problem is, the educated ones are the ones who make the problem. That’s what I think. Experience tells me, too.’
Much to my surprise, they were through in under an hour, maybe just thirty or so minutes, not that I was complaining. I would be glad to see the back of them. No one likes people traipsing through their house, but at least they didn’t make a mess; they didn’t take anything away with the exception of the three or four remaining tomatoes. They put these into a sealed transparent sack. I couldn’t help thinking that, if they were dangerous, I would have gone down with something long ago. We had bought them…when? Four days ago at least, and everyone had eaten a few.
‘What’s wrong with the tomatoes?’ I asked them, as they went out of the house.
‘We don’t know,’ said one of the technicians, ‘but we think that they might be contaminated tomatoes.’
He went out.
‘Contaminated tomatoes? With what?’
‘That’s what we want to find out,’ said the boss.
‘We don’t use drugs here,’ I answered. The four of them looked at each other.
'I thought you are here because of Doggy at the airport, you know, sniffing for drugs...'
The senior figure said,
‘Drugs? Oh, no, we’re not looking for drugs. The dog that was sniffing your bag, no, he doesn’t do drugs. He’s the explosives dog. He sniffs out things that go bang. He sniffs out traces of them.’
'Get this clear. I tell you what I want to tell you '
I waited. They looked long and hard, I assume waiting for me to continue.
'Right,' said the Boss, 'let's go.'
They went out. I shut the front door behind them. I was puzzled by this; no, not puzzled. I was totally baffled. There was no way I had gone near anything even vaguely explosive. I worked in business; I had no reason, and even less desire to have anything to do with things that went bang. My wife was a language teacher. She didn’t even go into the science lab. How could traces of an explosive get into a bag that, apart from spending its early life in some overseas Duty Free zone, was kept in our house here? It made no sense. I had used the bag, it was true, on a couple of trips to the shop to pick up some beer, or milk and a loaf of bread, but that was it.
There was something not right. Then a horrible thought entered my mind; what if I were being set up? But by whom, and why? I wasn’t a member of any political party, I hadn’t crossed anyone, and I led a quiet life here. You’re getting paranoid, I thought to myself; too many films with too much conspiracy. But the banging against the wall was real enough. I thought back to the time we had gone shopping, and then come home. We had stopped at the garden centre for half an hour, but the food was in the car, of course. We hadn’t bought anything in the centre that could have infected the food, just a few things for the garden; most of the time we had spent just looking. No one had broken into the car, and why would they do that anyway. It didn’t make sense; it didn’t add up. Maybe it would turn out to be some horrible mistake, although the visit of these characters seemed to make that an implausible scenario. Here I was, left alone in the narrow hallway, not knowing what to think, indeed, maybe not even thinking. My brain seemed to have gone. It didn’t work.
How long I waited there I have no recollection...that’s not the whole truth. The phone rang around 10am. It was the office. Where was I? Was I going to grace them with my presence this morning? I sighed, and told them I’d be in by 11. My line of work in art meant I had a certain amount flexible contact time with the office, and I did in fact do much work at home. It was quiet; the office at times could border on mayhem. My work was good enough that they were keen to keep me, and we had a flexible arrangement. It suited us both. It didn't suit many of my colleagues who thought I was getting a better contract than they had. My argument was that most of them worked office hours; I often worked much of the weekend too, not that I minded. Creating art work for clients is something I enjoy; my work is almost a hobby, although I get paid a decent rate for it too. I got into the car and went to the office. There were, of course, a few questions to answer; people remarked on how tired I was looking. Their main concern was the documents I had tried to collect from the airport, or rather, to be honest, the main concern was the lack of the documents I had tried to collect from the airport. I had to explain everything. They exchanged wary looks when I mentioned what had happened that morning, and things just got worse. There was muted half laughing when I told them of being pinned against the wall by ape-man.
One of my colleagues, with an ‘I don’t think you are being truthful’ look, left the room, turning as he exited with, ‘How’s your brother keeping?’ as he walked out.
I should explain that my brother is part-owner, a large part, and one of the company Vice Presidents. I knew I was good at my work, but there are always those who think you get a job because of family connections. I didn’t; I got the job on merit. But it was clear what he, and the others, were thinking. There were many in the firm who resented me; that I knew. I had seen this kind of thing many a time in films, but I hadn’t thought it would, or could, happen to me. It is not a pleasant experience when people with whom you have worked for a number of years begin to think you are a liar, maybe a lazy cheat. In retrospect, I should have told them I had forgotten to go to the airport, and that I was drinking, or had just overslept, had an argument with my wife, anything but the truth. I could see them whispering to one another. It was, I conceded, a peculiar reason for not having done something and for turning up late for work. I got through the rest of the day somehow, how, though, I don’t know. I got back home to find my wife and children eating dinner. I was glad this time they hadn’t waited for me. I had little appetite. I put on a show; just a bit tired from work etc. The children went to bed, at long last it seemed to me, and then I told my wife what had happened that morning. It was nice to talk to someone who knew I wasn’t lying, or making things up. We went over everything we did in the preceding week, thought of everyone we had met, in the house, out of the house, where we went in the car, everything. It was no use. Nothing seemed right. I went to bed late; my wife had gone up a couple of hours before me. I looked in on her, at for the firt time that day, had a sense of some pleasure. She was fast asleep, regular breathing, her body relaxing under the bedsheets. I didn't want the business to get to her too much. There was enough worry for her regarding work. I lay in bed until three or four in the morning, unable to sleep. I got up a few times to make a warm drink. I didn't know what to do or what to think. When sleep came to my body, it didn't bother to try to touch my brain. If anything, things were worse.
I woke up the next morning just afer sunrise. It looked as if it would be a day; fine in the sense of the weather. But at once, the nightmare of yesterday came back. I got up, went to the bathroom, and then got the breakfast things ready for my wife and children. I had zero appetite.They came down, had their cereal, toast and tea.
'What are your plans?' my wife asked me.
'I have none. I'm not going in to work today. I want to try to work here; I have plenty to do, but whether I get anything done, I don't know.'
'Try to relax,' she said, kissing me before she and the children went out.
It was ten am when the trouble began yet again. There was a firm knock on the door. I was so geared up to the continuing nightmare that I didn't bother to to even look at them. I just opened the door and walked back into the lounge. This time, there were just the three policemen.
'We need to ask you some additional questions,' the chief said in a blunt way.
'Go. I'm waiting,' I answered, trying to sound somewhat cooperative.
'Not here. We need you to come with us.' 'Where?' I heard the alarm when I spoke.
'A house in the country. very quiet, very peaceful. You'll like it.' A quiet, peaceful house in the country might be fine for a holiday, or as one's second weekend retreat. It didn't have that appeal right now to me.
'What's wrong with the local police -'
'We're not police, that's what's wrong.'
'Who are you then?'
'Government.'
'Government what?' I asked, in a mixture of confusion, incomprehension and growing unease.
'It's not important,' the Boss answered.
'It's important to me. You can't just drag me off like this. There is a law, I have rights. I am a citizen of this country.'
I knew I sounded weak and frightened. I knew full well that rights, citizenship, law etc means nothing if you were in the wrong group.
'You're correct.'
'What do you mean?'
'You said you have rights, there is the law, you are a citizen. You are correct. It is just at the moment, that counts for zero, in particular, with me.' I didn't know what to think.
'In that case, why are you taking me to this wonderful place in the country?'
We were sitting down in the lounge; the Boss was on one armchair, the two goons were on the sofa. They looked like twins. They were both big, with short hair, wore the same type and colour suit, the same tie, and had the same look of ruthless authority on them. Once again, I got the impression that they had done this many times before. I was sitting opposite them.I looked across to the Boss.
'Do you have a name?'
'Yes.'
I waited. I waited a long time. He wasn't going to tell me, that was clear.
'May I know your name, please,' I said, trying copy the front desk politeness of a quality hotel receptionist.
'You don't need to know my name, or their names, either. They're not important.'
'Well, what do I call you?'
'Call us anything you like. I am sure you already have.'
His shoulders shook slightly. It might be his way of the laughing. The two others on the sofa were a bit louder in their effort. They looked across to their boss.
'What would you like to call us?' he asked me. 'What are your favorite names? Do you have a favorite name?'
I was beginning to find this going from incomprehension and fear, to the bizarre.
'I'm just thinking that...'
I stopped talking. It was no use.There was a long silence. After what seemed like an eternity, the boss nodded at one of the others. He stood up and told me to go upstairs and pack a small bag. I told him the last time I had taken a bag out of the house I had got into trouble. He told that this time if I didn't take a bag out of the house, I would be in even bigger trouble. I got the impression 'bigger trouble' might mean anything from a longer break at the country house to being thrown down the staircase. We went up, and he watched me pack. Back in the lounge, the boss looked at me.
'You may call me Captain. He's the Sergeant, and he' - he glanced at the one who had accompanied me upstairs just now - ' he is the Corporal.'
He looked at me. The three of them looked at me.
'Right, thank you.'
'You're welcome,' the Captain answered. He seemed to have mellowed a bit. We went out of the house and got into a waiting car, or a cross between a car and a mini-bus. Behing the wheel, a big, young woman in military uniform was reading a newspaper. She put it away on seeing us. When I tell you she was big, I don't mean in an offensive way. I mean big, in a big, tough way. It was clear she was a woman who was serious about her body and its condition. She looked at me as if I were a tramp who had spent a night or two in the municipal dump. I wasn't sure if she would make a good mother. There were three rows of seats. The Corporal got into the rear. They motioned to me to get into the centre. The Captain got in the front, the Sergeant next to me. The Corporal was now behind me, rather like an assassin one sees in films of the Mafia, where the victim is then garroted in a matter of a minute. I licked my lips. I half-turned towards the Corporal. The Captain laughed.
'You watch too many films,' he said, as if reading my thoughts to a tee. 'If we were going to 'dispose' of you, we would have done it long ago.'
There was a slight pause and accent on the word 'dispose'. Once again, I got the impression that he had used the word before. We went off, and the country went past, woods, cattle, a few small market towns. It dawned on me that I forgotten to phone my wife. It sounds a bit odd but that was the case.
'I need to phone my wife to let her know where I am,' I told the Captain.
'Where are you? he asked me.
'I don't know.'
'In that case, you're going to sound an idiot on the phone, aren't you?'
I sighed, and wiped my eyes. There weren't any tears; it was like a reaction to being tired, to being lost in one's own inability. The Captain was looking at me. He told me to tell her I'd be away for a day or two on business, that I was fine, nothing to worry about etc. Again I was reminded of the parallel type of scenario in films. In another time, it would have made a perfect day out, The sun was shining, the sky clear, and the rural scenery as pleasant as one could wish for. It was only then I realised we were using very quiet minor roads. The fear began to come back. The Captain looked back at me.
'Relax,' he said 'enjoy the trip. Even if we find you guilty, you'll get just nine or ten years.'
'I thought a judge in a court of law decides what one gets.'
'Of course they do. We just tell them the length of time we want you away.'
He spoke in a way that suggested a slight surprise on his behalf, as if it were common knowledge. I asked him if he were serious, or joking. I was told that I was quite ignorant. He gave the impression that rigging a court was part of Citizenship class, something that every schoolboy and girl should be taught in Form two. I had no recollection of dozing off.
'Wake up, we're here.'
I opened my eyes and blinked in the warm afternoon sunlight. In front of me were the steps to a large country house. The grounds seemed quite extensive, with plenty of mature trees, birds and even some deer. Even now, in my position, I found the place very pretty.
'It's very pretty here, isn't it?' the Captain asked me, as we went in.
The Corporal led the way through a series of corridors, to a large room. Much to my surprise, there was modern furnishing, the lighting, table, chair, bookcase etc. It didn't, however, look much out of place. The Captain motioned me towards a chair in front of a large mahogany table. The military woman brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. She poured out three cups, one for the Captain, one for me, and one for the Sergeant, who was sitting on a small sofa by the wall to my right. This augered well. I assumed they weren't going to beat me up if they had gone to the trouble to make tea. Then I recalled that chat in the car about the judge and the time one might be put away. Maybe anything could happen. The Captain opened a thin folder on the table, looked at it, then he spoke. He went through name, address, place of work etc, the whole gamut of opening questions. Why, I don't know; he must have known this already.
‘Right, let’s get this clear. You were caught by the sniffer dog at the airport whilst carrying an empty bag. Why were you carrying an empty bag at an airport?'
They looked at me as if I had done something terrible.
'Since when is it an offence anywhere in the world to carry an empty bag in an airport?'
'To quote, I assume, a film of World War Two, 'we ask the questions here.' Is that clear. We can do it the quick and agreeable way or -'
I put up my arms in the surrender way.
'Right, I know, I know, I know. '
I was told I was a good boy. The questioning resumed. After some time, the Sergeant began to ask questions, questions I had already told them the answer to. Out in the park, the light was growing dimmer. I looked at my watch. 9 30pm. I yawned.
'Right, we will finish here.'
He picked up the phone, spoke, and a minute later the corporal came in. They put me in a sparse room, ie cell, with a bed and small table and chair. There was a door leading to a small bathroom. It was tiny, far too small for a place like the house we were in. I mentioned this to the corporal. I was told it was one of the store rooms, converted, no doubt by taxpayers' expense into a 'holding area'.
‘You’ll get something to eat later.’
He went out and closed the door. I listened for the noise of the turning of the key, but there wasn't one. I went across to the door; to my surprise, it opened. I closed it again. There was no where to run to, and no point. I felt terrible. I thought back to the day before. All I had done was to squeeze a cherry tomato; a tiny amount had gone on my shirt and trousers, but inadvertently, I had boxed myself into a corner. A mere twenty-four hours later, I was being held and interrogated by the Army...? on suspicion of having the ingredients of a bomb. I was, in their eyes, a ruthless terrorist. I had to think of some way to explain the 'traces of explosive' on the bag. The military woman came in with the meal, and put it on the table. Much to my surprised, she knocked on the door, then wished me 'bon appetit'. Things were getting better, I thought. I ate, and then lay down on the bed. I fell asleep.
I was awoken by the sound of scampering. It was a rat. I watched it for some moments. It ran here and there, and then seemingly disappeared. I peered under the bed, but could see nothing. I wish I could disappear like that rat, I thought. I then thought of Mr Jingles in 'The Green Mile'. But he was a mouse. I thought, too, a split second later of what happened to Mr Jingles' owner in the electric chair. I thought I would stop thinking about a rat, or a mouse. I fell asleep, and began to dream. This quite often happened if I woke up early, and then went back to sleep. There were times when the dreams were quite clear. They were also frequently very foolish, too. I found myself wandering around a port; where, I am not sure. In the port, there is a large nuclear-powered submarine on what they call a ‘courtesy’ visit to foreign powers, usually a Third World place. I have always thought them to be a ‘look what we got, you watch your step’ visit. I walked past the vessel, along the quay. A woman wearing a pair of shorts and a brief, colourful blouse came up to me.
‘Would you like to go around the ship?’
I answered that I would, but I didn’t have a pass, and I wasn’t going to wait in a queue for three hours, much I would like to see the interior.
‘That’s okay, I’m the Captain.’
The fact that this didn’t bother or surprise me tells you something about my dreams, I suppose. We went along the gangplank and into the submarine. It was very cold, so she put on a fur coat, with the three stripes of a Commander. Then, she painted her nails.
'Right, let’s look at the torpedo room.'
We went forward; none of the crew seemed to be around.I asked her
‘What does this button do?’
‘That fires the torpedo. Would you like try?’
‘Yes, very much.’
I was just about to push the button when a sailor came in.
‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ he asked me.
‘No, but I would like some now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, saluted, and went out.
I was just going to press the button when the Captain said, ’please kiss me,’ and threw her arms around my neck. We continued like this for a few minutes. I was worried in case the breakfast came. We stopped, and she said, ‘hit the button. Fire one.’ I did, and the whole place blew up.
I woke up to find the corporal at the door of the room.
‘Good morning, I said do you want any breakfast?’
‘Yes, please.'
He went out of the door and I heard him move away. I came back a few minutes later, to find a tray with a mug of tea, some toast, and a small plate of scrambled eggs. It tasted quite good. I had a shower, then lay back on the bed, and thought of what to do next. Half an hour later, I heard footsteps in the corridor, and the sergeant came in.
‘The Captain wants to see you again.’
We went out, down a series of long, expensive corridors, and into the 'interrogation' room. The captain was sitting behind the desk, and the corporal and the woman were there too.
‘Did you sleep well?’ the captain asked me.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Right, I want to get this cleared up, so we can charge you and get you locked away.’
I told him I appreciated his honesty. He cleared his throat.
'I am joking.' He didn't suggest that to me.
' We have a slight problem.'
My heart began beating rather quicker than a minute before, it seemed to me.
'The lab report came back. It found no traces of anything dangerous or illegal in your bag. What we did find however, were minute bits of biscuit, and a small smear of chocolate. We were puzzled by this.'
I thought for a postgraduate to be puzzled by biscuit crumbs or bits of chocolate in a bag used for shopping said something about their course of study. I kept my thoughts to myself. I didn't want the sergeant to begin to 'let's play Chuck Norris' with me again.
He continued, 'There is one other thing. The dog that was aroused by your bag, how can I put it, was the wrong dog. By that, I mean, there were some crossed wires. The dog, so it seems, was not trained to sniff explosives. It wasn't trained for anything. It is a new recruit, and the handler was allocated it by mistake. It just reacted in the way that any pet dog might.'
The others laughed. I didn't.
'You're free to go. The car will be ready in a few minutes. Pack your bag. Oh, and on behalf of the government, I apologise for any inconvenience. Goodbye.'
He got up, came across and patted me a couple of time on the arm.
'I'm sorry about that. I didn't think you were the type, to be honest.'
I mumbled something, and turned to go. I think I felt humiliated rather than angry. He seemed to sense my mood.
'Think of the nice trip you had here, a couple of meals, a good night's sleep etc.'
I walked out, went to the room, got my bag, and left the house. It was yet another beautiful day. The woman was in the front seat.The others walked over to the car. The shoes crunched on the grit on the parking area. I noticed for the first time that it, I assume built at the time of horse and carriage, was very much bigger than my house and garden. The captain leaned by the open car window.
'I take it you'll be going to the airport at some future time?'
I answered that I thought that would be a sure thing.'
In about three months from now, you might see your pal there.'
'What pal?'
Right now, I didn't know what he was talking about.
'The dog. He would have finished his training by then, a qualified Working Dog. He has a name now We thought 'Richard' would suit him. You seem to share the same passion for biscuits and chocolate. Bye bye.'
The car purred and we left. In the mirror, I could see the three of them in front of the house; they turned, and went in.The journey home passed in complete silence, except for the occasional swearing at some errant motorist. I didn't care less. I just wanted to get back. We got home a couple of hours later. The woman spoke for the first time.
'Bye. I suggest you don't do anything stupid, like talk to people, or the press, or your brother. Think about it.'
The car went off. In the evening, we had a pleasant meal together, my wife and the children. After the three of them had gone to bed, I lay on the sofa, just thinking. The phone rang. I picked it up. There was no greeting or introduction.
'Your bank account was credited this afternoon with two thousand pounds. I suggest you keep this to yourself. I am sure you wouldn't want the tax authorities to begin asking questions, would you?'
I thought for a moment.
'What account?'
'You know full well what account.'
He proceeded to tell me the account number, the balance, when I had last taken money out or put it in, the manager's name, the names of the three cashiers, the last meeting I had had with the manager, etc. There was a pause. 'That account, okay?' I thought for a moment.
'Right, I get it.'
'The woman told you something before she left, right? I suggest you tuck that away in your brain, Richard, okay. Goodnight.'
I put the phone down. It was very quiet now. The night came to me.
It then went haywire in no time. I work a lot from home, kind of free-lancing, in the art business, drawing etc.There was a telephone call about ten thirty from the office; could I go to the airport to collect a package, some important legal documents, then bring them in to work the following morning. Yes, that was no problem; the house was just ten minutes away if there wasn’t too much traffic. Even at what passed for rush hour, it might take fifteen minutes, so the office asked me from time to time if I would mind collecting on their behalf. The office of course, was in the opposite direction; it made sense for me to get things, plus it gave me a bit of a break from work in the house. I often got a free lunch for my trouble too; company perk. I checked that the house lights were off, picked up a big duty free bag that I had acquired on some trip a few months ago, grabbed the car keys, and went out. I got into the car, put the seat belt on, and jammed the bag between it and my thigh. Ten minutes later, I parked the car and went into the one terminal, a grand name for a small building. The airport had about twenty commercial flights per day, including a couple of international ones, so it wasn’t that overworked. Most of the aircraft were small, Fokker, that type of thing. It was used for the most part in the week by the local businessmen - okay, and women, and government people; at the weekend, by a small but consistent number of tourists. There was always a good amount of activity going on, but without the horrible congestion one might get in a major airport. The size meant it was quite a profitable business, with a regular turnover of passengers, cargo, in the main for the farming community, and of course, being out here, the running costs were a fraction of those of a big airport.But regardless of size, as you know these days, security is rife and strict. Going through one area to collect the package, I had to pass the sniffer dog. This fellow was on a long leash tethered to a carnivorous looking character, one of the local Customs Officers. People had to walk past very close to the animal, thereby giving it a chance to sniff you. There were occasions when some ignorant tourist would try to pat or touch the dog, only to be told to keep away by a growl from the owner.The dog had singled me out, and had begun barking. The dog had smelt something. In minutes, there were Police, airline security and airport staff round me. In fact, it would have made an excellent opportunity to get a free trip, as everyone except the pilots seemed be poking their noses in, trying to find out what was going on.
They asked me to accompany them to the police office, a few minutes walk away. Here, I was searched by two police officers, who rather unsurprisingly found nothing. They seemed as puzzled by the whole business as me. They began to ask questions.
‘Do you have a gun?’‘No.’
‘Are you a licensed gun holder?’
‘No.’
‘Have you touched a gun recently?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know anyone with a gun?’
‘No.’
‘Is any member of your family in the army?’
‘No.’
The nearest experience that I had of explosives was driving past the local quarry. I was interrogated, and asked to surrender my passport. I carry this with me when I go to collect anything, nothing unusual in that. I had no real objection; I assumed I would get it back in a day or to when the matter was cleared up. They asked me for the bag, as it was this that had aroused the interest of the dog.
‘You want my bag? What on earth for?’
‘We need to get the lab to analyse it. The dog thinks there’s something about it that’s not quite right.’
I looked at the two of them. I expected them to laugh. I was wrong. They were serious.
‘You want a lab technician to examine an empty duty free shop bag because of a dog?’ ‘That’s right.’
I waited, looking at them. They looked back, quiet. As Customer Relations people, they would have made abject failures, both of them.
‘I have to collect the package.’
‘Not now; we’ll take care of that.’
‘They are confidential documents belonging to –‘
‘I said not now. Do you know simple English? Not now.’
I didn’t know what to do. There seemed to be nothing.
‘You may go. We’ll get in touch with you in a day or two.’
That was it. No ‘thank you’, no ‘sir’, no ‘goodbye’. I turned and walked back to the car. I could feel their eyes on my back.
The next day, a quartet arrived at the house in the early morning, before I went to work. My wife and the children had already left, they to the school nearby, and she to work. There was loud knock on the front door, and I opened it. Three of them were Police, I guessed. None wore a uniform. The were big men, with the look and physique that made Charlton Heston and Sylvester Stallone look like flower power people. The fourth, a young skinny character of pale office complexion, I thought might be one of the technical people from the lab. I thought wrong. He turned out to be some government lackey. On reflection, he looked too thick to be a lab man or scientist. In fact, he looked too stupid to be anything.
'May we come in?' said the eldest, making his way into the hall as if I didn't exist. The others followed. They went into the lounge; the eldest helped himself to an armchair, the two heavy ones followed, the skinny one was lounging against the door. They wasted no time. The eldest one did the talking, punctuated by an agreement from the two big men. They seemed to know everything about me, a worrying amount of personal information. I denied all knowledge of being part of a terror group cell, and said there was some mistake.
‘Who called you a terrorist? Why do you use the word terrorist? Why do you think that we might think you are a terrorist?’
‘Well,’ I began, ‘you have taken an empty bag for lab analysis, you have taken my passport, you went through confidential legal documents meant for my company, you are here in my house now, and the dog didn’t like me. That suggests to me that you think I might be a danger to people.'
‘Terrorists can and do strike anywhere, anytime. We take the threat seriously, any threat, any possible threat, any threat, any threat we look into, any threat. They can strike morning, noon, night, at any time.’
It was the skinny young fellow. He spoke with the irritating whine of a government official, a human equivalent of a slightly malfunctioning electric motor. It grated on me.
‘I always thought terrorists worked 9 to 5, Monday to Friday –'
I was pushed hard against the wall. One of the big ones was holding me in a very firm grip.
‘That suggests to me that you’re an idiot. You try being funny with me, boyo, and I break you. Got that?’
I got it clear there and then. He let go of me, and air and blood resumed their circulation. I looked at them with mounting anger, but I was trying not to show it, trying to keep cool and alert.
‘When do I get my passport back?’
‘You get it back when I think the time is right for you to have it back.’
It was the eldest of the four. The way the others looked when he spoke, I guessed he was the one in charge.
‘I want the dogs to search in here. We can do it the quick and agreeable way, or the long, difficult and most disagreeable way. That is, to make it very clear, quick and agreeable for me, and long, difficult and most disagreeable for you. Your move.’
I sighed.
‘Okay, go ahead. You have authority to do this, I assume?’
‘You assume correct.’
He showed me an official looking paper.
‘That authorises you to search –'
'It authorises me to do what I want, including taking this place apart, and detaining you for many, many hours and interrogating you as long as I wish. There is also the matter of your wife and children…’
He went quiet. The message was very clear.
‘I get the point,’ I said, ‘please carry on.’
‘Good boy. People end up seeing it my way.’
The other two policemen grunted in agreement; the older man nodded at one of them who then began to wander round the house. He then told the other one to bring in the dog, and turned to the skinny man, who was lounging against the front door.
‘Bring in your team now. You have an hour.’
Three men in white coats came in, each carrying a box. They each went to a different part of the house. The first officer came back with the dog. They began to walk around, the dog eager. One of the white coat men was checking the food cupboards; another had gone into the small rear garden. The house too wasn’t a big place. Even if, as Boss had threatened to do, they were to take the place apart, it wouldn’t take them that long. Watching them, it was clear they had done this before, many times before. I wasn’t watching an amateur show; that was very clear. The Boss was in the lounge, looking at my small library. From time to time, he pulled a book half out of the shelf to check the title.
‘These are yours?’
He motioned towards the books. I nodded, although some belonged in theory to my wife, meaning she had bought them. We didn’t think in terms of ownership, though.
'You’re an educated man. Postgraduate?’
I nodded again.
‘Me, too,’ he went on. ‘Problem is, the educated ones are the ones who make the problem. That’s what I think. Experience tells me, too.’
Much to my surprise, they were through in under an hour, maybe just thirty or so minutes, not that I was complaining. I would be glad to see the back of them. No one likes people traipsing through their house, but at least they didn’t make a mess; they didn’t take anything away with the exception of the three or four remaining tomatoes. They put these into a sealed transparent sack. I couldn’t help thinking that, if they were dangerous, I would have gone down with something long ago. We had bought them…when? Four days ago at least, and everyone had eaten a few.
‘What’s wrong with the tomatoes?’ I asked them, as they went out of the house.
‘We don’t know,’ said one of the technicians, ‘but we think that they might be contaminated tomatoes.’
He went out.
‘Contaminated tomatoes? With what?’
‘That’s what we want to find out,’ said the boss.
‘We don’t use drugs here,’ I answered. The four of them looked at each other.
'I thought you are here because of Doggy at the airport, you know, sniffing for drugs...'
The senior figure said,
‘Drugs? Oh, no, we’re not looking for drugs. The dog that was sniffing your bag, no, he doesn’t do drugs. He’s the explosives dog. He sniffs out things that go bang. He sniffs out traces of them.’
'Get this clear. I tell you what I want to tell you '
I waited. They looked long and hard, I assume waiting for me to continue.
'Right,' said the Boss, 'let's go.'
They went out. I shut the front door behind them. I was puzzled by this; no, not puzzled. I was totally baffled. There was no way I had gone near anything even vaguely explosive. I worked in business; I had no reason, and even less desire to have anything to do with things that went bang. My wife was a language teacher. She didn’t even go into the science lab. How could traces of an explosive get into a bag that, apart from spending its early life in some overseas Duty Free zone, was kept in our house here? It made no sense. I had used the bag, it was true, on a couple of trips to the shop to pick up some beer, or milk and a loaf of bread, but that was it.
There was something not right. Then a horrible thought entered my mind; what if I were being set up? But by whom, and why? I wasn’t a member of any political party, I hadn’t crossed anyone, and I led a quiet life here. You’re getting paranoid, I thought to myself; too many films with too much conspiracy. But the banging against the wall was real enough. I thought back to the time we had gone shopping, and then come home. We had stopped at the garden centre for half an hour, but the food was in the car, of course. We hadn’t bought anything in the centre that could have infected the food, just a few things for the garden; most of the time we had spent just looking. No one had broken into the car, and why would they do that anyway. It didn’t make sense; it didn’t add up. Maybe it would turn out to be some horrible mistake, although the visit of these characters seemed to make that an implausible scenario. Here I was, left alone in the narrow hallway, not knowing what to think, indeed, maybe not even thinking. My brain seemed to have gone. It didn’t work.
How long I waited there I have no recollection...that’s not the whole truth. The phone rang around 10am. It was the office. Where was I? Was I going to grace them with my presence this morning? I sighed, and told them I’d be in by 11. My line of work in art meant I had a certain amount flexible contact time with the office, and I did in fact do much work at home. It was quiet; the office at times could border on mayhem. My work was good enough that they were keen to keep me, and we had a flexible arrangement. It suited us both. It didn't suit many of my colleagues who thought I was getting a better contract than they had. My argument was that most of them worked office hours; I often worked much of the weekend too, not that I minded. Creating art work for clients is something I enjoy; my work is almost a hobby, although I get paid a decent rate for it too. I got into the car and went to the office. There were, of course, a few questions to answer; people remarked on how tired I was looking. Their main concern was the documents I had tried to collect from the airport, or rather, to be honest, the main concern was the lack of the documents I had tried to collect from the airport. I had to explain everything. They exchanged wary looks when I mentioned what had happened that morning, and things just got worse. There was muted half laughing when I told them of being pinned against the wall by ape-man.
One of my colleagues, with an ‘I don’t think you are being truthful’ look, left the room, turning as he exited with, ‘How’s your brother keeping?’ as he walked out.
I should explain that my brother is part-owner, a large part, and one of the company Vice Presidents. I knew I was good at my work, but there are always those who think you get a job because of family connections. I didn’t; I got the job on merit. But it was clear what he, and the others, were thinking. There were many in the firm who resented me; that I knew. I had seen this kind of thing many a time in films, but I hadn’t thought it would, or could, happen to me. It is not a pleasant experience when people with whom you have worked for a number of years begin to think you are a liar, maybe a lazy cheat. In retrospect, I should have told them I had forgotten to go to the airport, and that I was drinking, or had just overslept, had an argument with my wife, anything but the truth. I could see them whispering to one another. It was, I conceded, a peculiar reason for not having done something and for turning up late for work. I got through the rest of the day somehow, how, though, I don’t know. I got back home to find my wife and children eating dinner. I was glad this time they hadn’t waited for me. I had little appetite. I put on a show; just a bit tired from work etc. The children went to bed, at long last it seemed to me, and then I told my wife what had happened that morning. It was nice to talk to someone who knew I wasn’t lying, or making things up. We went over everything we did in the preceding week, thought of everyone we had met, in the house, out of the house, where we went in the car, everything. It was no use. Nothing seemed right. I went to bed late; my wife had gone up a couple of hours before me. I looked in on her, at for the firt time that day, had a sense of some pleasure. She was fast asleep, regular breathing, her body relaxing under the bedsheets. I didn't want the business to get to her too much. There was enough worry for her regarding work. I lay in bed until three or four in the morning, unable to sleep. I got up a few times to make a warm drink. I didn't know what to do or what to think. When sleep came to my body, it didn't bother to try to touch my brain. If anything, things were worse.
I woke up the next morning just afer sunrise. It looked as if it would be a day; fine in the sense of the weather. But at once, the nightmare of yesterday came back. I got up, went to the bathroom, and then got the breakfast things ready for my wife and children. I had zero appetite.They came down, had their cereal, toast and tea.
'What are your plans?' my wife asked me.
'I have none. I'm not going in to work today. I want to try to work here; I have plenty to do, but whether I get anything done, I don't know.'
'Try to relax,' she said, kissing me before she and the children went out.
It was ten am when the trouble began yet again. There was a firm knock on the door. I was so geared up to the continuing nightmare that I didn't bother to to even look at them. I just opened the door and walked back into the lounge. This time, there were just the three policemen.
'We need to ask you some additional questions,' the chief said in a blunt way.
'Go. I'm waiting,' I answered, trying to sound somewhat cooperative.
'Not here. We need you to come with us.' 'Where?' I heard the alarm when I spoke.
'A house in the country. very quiet, very peaceful. You'll like it.' A quiet, peaceful house in the country might be fine for a holiday, or as one's second weekend retreat. It didn't have that appeal right now to me.
'What's wrong with the local police -'
'We're not police, that's what's wrong.'
'Who are you then?'
'Government.'
'Government what?' I asked, in a mixture of confusion, incomprehension and growing unease.
'It's not important,' the Boss answered.
'It's important to me. You can't just drag me off like this. There is a law, I have rights. I am a citizen of this country.'
I knew I sounded weak and frightened. I knew full well that rights, citizenship, law etc means nothing if you were in the wrong group.
'You're correct.'
'What do you mean?'
'You said you have rights, there is the law, you are a citizen. You are correct. It is just at the moment, that counts for zero, in particular, with me.' I didn't know what to think.
'In that case, why are you taking me to this wonderful place in the country?'
We were sitting down in the lounge; the Boss was on one armchair, the two goons were on the sofa. They looked like twins. They were both big, with short hair, wore the same type and colour suit, the same tie, and had the same look of ruthless authority on them. Once again, I got the impression that they had done this many times before. I was sitting opposite them.I looked across to the Boss.
'Do you have a name?'
'Yes.'
I waited. I waited a long time. He wasn't going to tell me, that was clear.
'May I know your name, please,' I said, trying copy the front desk politeness of a quality hotel receptionist.
'You don't need to know my name, or their names, either. They're not important.'
'Well, what do I call you?'
'Call us anything you like. I am sure you already have.'
His shoulders shook slightly. It might be his way of the laughing. The two others on the sofa were a bit louder in their effort. They looked across to their boss.
'What would you like to call us?' he asked me. 'What are your favorite names? Do you have a favorite name?'
I was beginning to find this going from incomprehension and fear, to the bizarre.
'I'm just thinking that...'
I stopped talking. It was no use.There was a long silence. After what seemed like an eternity, the boss nodded at one of the others. He stood up and told me to go upstairs and pack a small bag. I told him the last time I had taken a bag out of the house I had got into trouble. He told that this time if I didn't take a bag out of the house, I would be in even bigger trouble. I got the impression 'bigger trouble' might mean anything from a longer break at the country house to being thrown down the staircase. We went up, and he watched me pack. Back in the lounge, the boss looked at me.
'You may call me Captain. He's the Sergeant, and he' - he glanced at the one who had accompanied me upstairs just now - ' he is the Corporal.'
He looked at me. The three of them looked at me.
'Right, thank you.'
'You're welcome,' the Captain answered. He seemed to have mellowed a bit. We went out of the house and got into a waiting car, or a cross between a car and a mini-bus. Behing the wheel, a big, young woman in military uniform was reading a newspaper. She put it away on seeing us. When I tell you she was big, I don't mean in an offensive way. I mean big, in a big, tough way. It was clear she was a woman who was serious about her body and its condition. She looked at me as if I were a tramp who had spent a night or two in the municipal dump. I wasn't sure if she would make a good mother. There were three rows of seats. The Corporal got into the rear. They motioned to me to get into the centre. The Captain got in the front, the Sergeant next to me. The Corporal was now behind me, rather like an assassin one sees in films of the Mafia, where the victim is then garroted in a matter of a minute. I licked my lips. I half-turned towards the Corporal. The Captain laughed.
'You watch too many films,' he said, as if reading my thoughts to a tee. 'If we were going to 'dispose' of you, we would have done it long ago.'
There was a slight pause and accent on the word 'dispose'. Once again, I got the impression that he had used the word before. We went off, and the country went past, woods, cattle, a few small market towns. It dawned on me that I forgotten to phone my wife. It sounds a bit odd but that was the case.
'I need to phone my wife to let her know where I am,' I told the Captain.
'Where are you? he asked me.
'I don't know.'
'In that case, you're going to sound an idiot on the phone, aren't you?'
I sighed, and wiped my eyes. There weren't any tears; it was like a reaction to being tired, to being lost in one's own inability. The Captain was looking at me. He told me to tell her I'd be away for a day or two on business, that I was fine, nothing to worry about etc. Again I was reminded of the parallel type of scenario in films. In another time, it would have made a perfect day out, The sun was shining, the sky clear, and the rural scenery as pleasant as one could wish for. It was only then I realised we were using very quiet minor roads. The fear began to come back. The Captain looked back at me.
'Relax,' he said 'enjoy the trip. Even if we find you guilty, you'll get just nine or ten years.'
'I thought a judge in a court of law decides what one gets.'
'Of course they do. We just tell them the length of time we want you away.'
He spoke in a way that suggested a slight surprise on his behalf, as if it were common knowledge. I asked him if he were serious, or joking. I was told that I was quite ignorant. He gave the impression that rigging a court was part of Citizenship class, something that every schoolboy and girl should be taught in Form two. I had no recollection of dozing off.
'Wake up, we're here.'
I opened my eyes and blinked in the warm afternoon sunlight. In front of me were the steps to a large country house. The grounds seemed quite extensive, with plenty of mature trees, birds and even some deer. Even now, in my position, I found the place very pretty.
'It's very pretty here, isn't it?' the Captain asked me, as we went in.
The Corporal led the way through a series of corridors, to a large room. Much to my surprise, there was modern furnishing, the lighting, table, chair, bookcase etc. It didn't, however, look much out of place. The Captain motioned me towards a chair in front of a large mahogany table. The military woman brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. She poured out three cups, one for the Captain, one for me, and one for the Sergeant, who was sitting on a small sofa by the wall to my right. This augered well. I assumed they weren't going to beat me up if they had gone to the trouble to make tea. Then I recalled that chat in the car about the judge and the time one might be put away. Maybe anything could happen. The Captain opened a thin folder on the table, looked at it, then he spoke. He went through name, address, place of work etc, the whole gamut of opening questions. Why, I don't know; he must have known this already.
‘Right, let’s get this clear. You were caught by the sniffer dog at the airport whilst carrying an empty bag. Why were you carrying an empty bag at an airport?'
They looked at me as if I had done something terrible.
'Since when is it an offence anywhere in the world to carry an empty bag in an airport?'
'To quote, I assume, a film of World War Two, 'we ask the questions here.' Is that clear. We can do it the quick and agreeable way or -'
I put up my arms in the surrender way.
'Right, I know, I know, I know. '
I was told I was a good boy. The questioning resumed. After some time, the Sergeant began to ask questions, questions I had already told them the answer to. Out in the park, the light was growing dimmer. I looked at my watch. 9 30pm. I yawned.
'Right, we will finish here.'
He picked up the phone, spoke, and a minute later the corporal came in. They put me in a sparse room, ie cell, with a bed and small table and chair. There was a door leading to a small bathroom. It was tiny, far too small for a place like the house we were in. I mentioned this to the corporal. I was told it was one of the store rooms, converted, no doubt by taxpayers' expense into a 'holding area'.
‘You’ll get something to eat later.’
He went out and closed the door. I listened for the noise of the turning of the key, but there wasn't one. I went across to the door; to my surprise, it opened. I closed it again. There was no where to run to, and no point. I felt terrible. I thought back to the day before. All I had done was to squeeze a cherry tomato; a tiny amount had gone on my shirt and trousers, but inadvertently, I had boxed myself into a corner. A mere twenty-four hours later, I was being held and interrogated by the Army...? on suspicion of having the ingredients of a bomb. I was, in their eyes, a ruthless terrorist. I had to think of some way to explain the 'traces of explosive' on the bag. The military woman came in with the meal, and put it on the table. Much to my surprised, she knocked on the door, then wished me 'bon appetit'. Things were getting better, I thought. I ate, and then lay down on the bed. I fell asleep.
I was awoken by the sound of scampering. It was a rat. I watched it for some moments. It ran here and there, and then seemingly disappeared. I peered under the bed, but could see nothing. I wish I could disappear like that rat, I thought. I then thought of Mr Jingles in 'The Green Mile'. But he was a mouse. I thought, too, a split second later of what happened to Mr Jingles' owner in the electric chair. I thought I would stop thinking about a rat, or a mouse. I fell asleep, and began to dream. This quite often happened if I woke up early, and then went back to sleep. There were times when the dreams were quite clear. They were also frequently very foolish, too. I found myself wandering around a port; where, I am not sure. In the port, there is a large nuclear-powered submarine on what they call a ‘courtesy’ visit to foreign powers, usually a Third World place. I have always thought them to be a ‘look what we got, you watch your step’ visit. I walked past the vessel, along the quay. A woman wearing a pair of shorts and a brief, colourful blouse came up to me.
‘Would you like to go around the ship?’
I answered that I would, but I didn’t have a pass, and I wasn’t going to wait in a queue for three hours, much I would like to see the interior.
‘That’s okay, I’m the Captain.’
The fact that this didn’t bother or surprise me tells you something about my dreams, I suppose. We went along the gangplank and into the submarine. It was very cold, so she put on a fur coat, with the three stripes of a Commander. Then, she painted her nails.
'Right, let’s look at the torpedo room.'
We went forward; none of the crew seemed to be around.I asked her
‘What does this button do?’
‘That fires the torpedo. Would you like try?’
‘Yes, very much.’
I was just about to push the button when a sailor came in.
‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ he asked me.
‘No, but I would like some now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, saluted, and went out.
I was just going to press the button when the Captain said, ’please kiss me,’ and threw her arms around my neck. We continued like this for a few minutes. I was worried in case the breakfast came. We stopped, and she said, ‘hit the button. Fire one.’ I did, and the whole place blew up.
I woke up to find the corporal at the door of the room.
‘Good morning, I said do you want any breakfast?’
‘Yes, please.'
He went out of the door and I heard him move away. I came back a few minutes later, to find a tray with a mug of tea, some toast, and a small plate of scrambled eggs. It tasted quite good. I had a shower, then lay back on the bed, and thought of what to do next. Half an hour later, I heard footsteps in the corridor, and the sergeant came in.
‘The Captain wants to see you again.’
We went out, down a series of long, expensive corridors, and into the 'interrogation' room. The captain was sitting behind the desk, and the corporal and the woman were there too.
‘Did you sleep well?’ the captain asked me.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Right, I want to get this cleared up, so we can charge you and get you locked away.’
I told him I appreciated his honesty. He cleared his throat.
'I am joking.' He didn't suggest that to me.
' We have a slight problem.'
My heart began beating rather quicker than a minute before, it seemed to me.
'The lab report came back. It found no traces of anything dangerous or illegal in your bag. What we did find however, were minute bits of biscuit, and a small smear of chocolate. We were puzzled by this.'
I thought for a postgraduate to be puzzled by biscuit crumbs or bits of chocolate in a bag used for shopping said something about their course of study. I kept my thoughts to myself. I didn't want the sergeant to begin to 'let's play Chuck Norris' with me again.
He continued, 'There is one other thing. The dog that was aroused by your bag, how can I put it, was the wrong dog. By that, I mean, there were some crossed wires. The dog, so it seems, was not trained to sniff explosives. It wasn't trained for anything. It is a new recruit, and the handler was allocated it by mistake. It just reacted in the way that any pet dog might.'
The others laughed. I didn't.
'You're free to go. The car will be ready in a few minutes. Pack your bag. Oh, and on behalf of the government, I apologise for any inconvenience. Goodbye.'
He got up, came across and patted me a couple of time on the arm.
'I'm sorry about that. I didn't think you were the type, to be honest.'
I mumbled something, and turned to go. I think I felt humiliated rather than angry. He seemed to sense my mood.
'Think of the nice trip you had here, a couple of meals, a good night's sleep etc.'
I walked out, went to the room, got my bag, and left the house. It was yet another beautiful day. The woman was in the front seat.The others walked over to the car. The shoes crunched on the grit on the parking area. I noticed for the first time that it, I assume built at the time of horse and carriage, was very much bigger than my house and garden. The captain leaned by the open car window.
'I take it you'll be going to the airport at some future time?'
I answered that I thought that would be a sure thing.'
In about three months from now, you might see your pal there.'
'What pal?'
Right now, I didn't know what he was talking about.
'The dog. He would have finished his training by then, a qualified Working Dog. He has a name now We thought 'Richard' would suit him. You seem to share the same passion for biscuits and chocolate. Bye bye.'
The car purred and we left. In the mirror, I could see the three of them in front of the house; they turned, and went in.The journey home passed in complete silence, except for the occasional swearing at some errant motorist. I didn't care less. I just wanted to get back. We got home a couple of hours later. The woman spoke for the first time.
'Bye. I suggest you don't do anything stupid, like talk to people, or the press, or your brother. Think about it.'
The car went off. In the evening, we had a pleasant meal together, my wife and the children. After the three of them had gone to bed, I lay on the sofa, just thinking. The phone rang. I picked it up. There was no greeting or introduction.
'Your bank account was credited this afternoon with two thousand pounds. I suggest you keep this to yourself. I am sure you wouldn't want the tax authorities to begin asking questions, would you?'
I thought for a moment.
'What account?'
'You know full well what account.'
He proceeded to tell me the account number, the balance, when I had last taken money out or put it in, the manager's name, the names of the three cashiers, the last meeting I had had with the manager, etc. There was a pause. 'That account, okay?' I thought for a moment.
'Right, I get it.'
'The woman told you something before she left, right? I suggest you tuck that away in your brain, Richard, okay. Goodnight.'
I put the phone down. It was very quiet now. The night came to me.
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