Mulled Vine

Do you sometimes wonder about dying? What it’s like? Whether all the ideas about heaven or hell or recycled existence are true, or whether death is just a pure extinction of all that we are?

Well, without trying to appear erudite, I can tell you that the last theory is probably not true, at least not yet. I know this, because this morning, as far as I can tell, I died.

I awoke to a dark existence which no longer included my meagre bedsit or my worn, scrawny 71 year old body. Perhaps it is a coma, and not death, and extinction is still a possibility, but for now I’m assuming I’m dead. I just feel it. You don’t have to believe it, nor do you have to read this.

It’s a strangely familiar state, like floating underwater with your eyes closed, yet completely without sensation, just thoughts and feelings, and utterly dark, not the darkness of a starlight night – more like that of being locked in a broom cupboard: oppressive. But I am curious rather than alarmed, and believe it or not, relieved that it’s over. My life, that is, which apart from a few highlights, was in my opinion pointless and overrated. And the endless ache in my tired old joints has finally gone!

So here I am, somewhere, nowhere, alive, yet not, and feeling every so slightly puzzled.

What now?

~

There really is nothing here, at least in terms of space that is, because time does appear to continue in a linear fashion, or at least my perception of it. My thoughts do not all crowd together in an instant but queue up politely for my attention, like an orderly film reel of my life, splashes of silent, vibrant colour in my darkness. I watch without interrupting, sometimes happily, sometimes with sadness, often with regret. Then the film ends, and the closing scene of me washing up a lonely plate and turning off the light for bedtime fades like a sigh.

I let the darkness close in, banishing all thought, and wait.

~

“Hi!”

A young woman’s voice, sudden, bright and tinkling like crystal. “Don’t panic,” the voice continues. “Just talk to me in your thoughts.”
“Who are you?” I reply.
“Amy. I’m like you. Dead, passed on, whatever.”
“Where are we?”
She laughs. “We are nowhere, yet everywhere.”
“How do you know?” I reply.
“Because I’ve been here longer than you have, and there are others like us who told me.”
“Others? Why can I only hear you?”
“You have to tune in.”
“But I don’t sense any others.”
She laughed kindly. “That will come. Just be patient. I’ll show you.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s not like I’ve got much else on the go.”

To be continued…

Hernadez De La Cuenta Lopez was a man of many talents, but murder was not one of them. Well to be fair, it was not the murder that was the problem, but the evading of the law. And to be even more fair, calling it evasion is misleading, for when the police knocked on his door, enquiring after a missing cat, he quite simply broke down in tears and confessed to all, including the theft of a Twinky bar at age 12 and the more recent killing, dismembering and cooking of his mother. The police promptly arrested him (for the killing) and took away the gently simmering pot of stew for evidence, noting that the paprika and bay leaf were a nice touch.

The white muslin curtain billowed gently in the unseen breeze. Outside a child squealed momentarily with delight, and then all was silent, except for the ticking of a clock on the mantel piece. The room was cool despite the heat of the day and I sat thankfully in an arm chair looking at the baking Nevada landscape.
A flying saucer whizzed by.
Another take away.

The door bell chime clanged through my reverie.

“Damn!” I cursed under my breath and, turning off the stove, went to open the door.

A neatly dressed young man with an ear ring, a badge and a clip board stood before me.

“How’s it going?” he chirped happily.

I scowled and waited.

Undeterred, he continued. “Now this is not what you think…”

“No?”

“No, we’re surveying the neighbourhood to make sure everyone has availed themselves of the current government loft insulation grants before they expire.”

“I don’t need loft insulation.”

“Now, sir,” he continued, “loft insulation could save you up to…”

“I don’t have a loft,” I replied with a smirk.

“You … er don’t?” I had clearly knocked him off stride.

“No, I bricked it up after the last chap. Would you like to come and see?”

“That’s OK, sir,” he replied. “I can see you’re busy.”

I closed the door slowly in his face.

The last lap, the final furlong, my home until I kick the bucket. Bar stewards. “It’ll be good for you, Dad, you’ll see, and you will be well looked after.” Yes, well looked after by some paid psychopathic underachiever of a male nurse rather than your children to whom you devoted most of your life.

Sunset Villas is the name of the residential centre, and appears to be full of decrepit old people sitting in chairs, staring vacantly into the distance whilst drooling uncontrollably. I however, still feel at the prime of my life. My body, however, appears to be feeling substantially older and getting around has started being a problem. My son, Tom, bless him, bought me a top of the range Zimmer 2000, but I declined it – rather ungraciously I might add – by picking it up and throwing it at him, missing him by inches, and smashing Angela’s prize coffee table. That was the last straw I think. “The old grump has got to go!” I heard her shouting that evening. Grump? Me? How dare she!

So Tom arranged it all, efficient chap that he is, and dropped me off this morning. Angela had something else to do, and the kids were at school, so it was just the two of us. I could see he felt bad, but wasn’t going to let him off lightly.
“So, this is it?” I said.
“What?” he replied, as he picked up my bags.
“The last time we’ll see each other?”
“Dad! Stop it. You know we’ll see each other often.”
“Hmmmm. Tell that to all these abandoned relics over here.”

The conversation was thankfully saved by the arrival of Jemima St Claire, the unlikely director of the centre. She looked she belonged in the City instead of these backwaters, and I didn’t give her long. Still, she looked very fit in her tight business suit and one of those bosom enhancing push-up bras that beckoned beneath a silky white blouse. We all shook hands and made meaningless small talk, then on a cue given by the very assured and congenial Ms St Claire, Tom scarpered off with a hurried “See you soon, Dad.” She then guided me expertly by the elbow while a large thug dressed in white took my things to my room.

I was given the guided tour, and I’ll tell you all about it when I’m in a better mood. Suffice it to say, thing have come along way from the times of Dickens, and my room, modest though it is, is nicely decorated in soothing pastels and has all a man at my age needs: a bed, a television, room service, and a bathroom within staggering distance.

(Previously …)

Claire pushed open the door of Ye Olde Quaintways tea rooms and looked around. Bert was seated at a corner table, wearing the same clothes as the day before. He stood up and waved when he saw her. All the other tables were empty, which was not surprising, Claire thought, given the lateness of the season. Winter was just around the corner.

“Hello,” she said.
“Hi!” he beamed back, and they shook hands. Claire noticed again the pleasant feel of his hands. They sat down and Bert handed her a small menu.
“It’s basically scones and tea/coffee, but I’m sure they could rustle up a sandwich if you’re hungry?”
She put the menu down. “Coffee and scones would be fine, with clotted cream and strawberry jam.”
“A fine choice,” he replied smiling.
Clair smiled back shyly and looked away.
“Oh, the owner is around here somewhere,” said Bert misinterpreting her gaze.
Claire regained her composure. “No rush. This is a nice place.”
Bert nodded, “Yeah, I’ve been here loads of times.”
“Really? How long have you been staying here?”
“At Caerau? Oh, this must be my 4th week. I’m doing my PhD in Geology.”
“Ah, the tin mines,” Claire replied. “You told me the other day.”
“Don’t remind me. I felt really bad about it all.”
“It’s OK. I wasn’t really at my best either.”
An awkward silence hung between them until mercifully the owner wandered in beaming, rubbing his hands together. “Bert! My one customer of the day! How nice. Oh, and a lady friend today I see?”
Bert looked suddenly very embarrassed. “Erm, no, er yes, this is Claire. She’s staying at Molly’s too.”
The owner looked down at the embarrassed pair and roared with laughter. “Halloo to both of you. Claire, I’m Harry and welcome to my little empire.” He beckoned around the room with an expansive wave of his large, hairy arm.
“Hello,” mumbled Claire, furious at her complete absence of social ability of late.
“So, what’ll it be? Steak and chips for both of you?” said Harry.
Bert looked up, perplexed.
Harry laughed, “I’m jus’ messing with you. Scones and tea?”
“Coffee please” replied Bert.
“Righty-ho, two scone and coffee; be back in a jiffy,” replied Harry, and left.

Claire looked at Bert and said, “He’s quite a character, isn’t he?”
Bert smiled. “Yes, he certainly is, but I imagine him better in a pub. He’s almost too large for this place, like a bull in teashop.”
Claire giggled at the picture.

“So,” continued Bert, “what brings you to this place?”

Claire stopped typing and sighed. Clump, clump, clump … familiar heavy footsteps up the stairs, the pause at the door, the gentle creak, the footsteps from one side of the ceiling to the other, the creak of presumably the bedsprings, the pause, the interminable pause, how unbearable the wait, then … THUD! … the first boot … then THUD! the second boot. The same routine every single f*cking day since she had arrived and it was driving her nuts!

She had considered handing in her notice and forfeiting the 6 week lease, but she couldn’t afford it. She had come here to rest and to write. She would have to sort this out.

She pushed the laptop away and got up, walked to the door of her room, out onto the landing where a narrow set of carpeted stairs led upstairs into a gloomy attic. The guest house was quiet, almost too quiet. The stairs creaked as she ascended, tentatively at first, wondering if this was a good idea, but then full of grim determination she climbed to the top where she paused, listening. She could hear movement inside, and a distinctly male clearing of a throat and gentle humming. She knocked and waited. The humming stopped and she heard footsteps approaching the door. Then the door opened suddenly to reveal a tall, lean bearded man wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

“Oh!” they both cried simultenously, then the man slammed the door shut.
“Sorry! I thought you were the landlord! Give me a minute.”

A few moments later the door opened again and he stood, dressed in a pair of dark corduroy trousers and a green turtleneck jersey, and smiled at her.

“Really sorry.”

She smiled back tentatively. “That’s OK. Uhm, I needed to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she hesitated, ”see, its about your boots.”

“My boots?”

“Yes – at least I presume they are your boots – when you come home in the afternoon I can hear every step on the wooden floor. It makes quite a racket.”

“I see,” he replied, with a scarcely disguised smirk on his face. Claire flushed red.

“But that’s not the worst of it” she continued, raising her voice.

“No?”

“No, it’s when you take them off and throw them to the ground. It makes me jump every time.”

The man was now grinning openly, and Claire felt a familiar sense of stressful anxiety returning. Shaking she clenched her fists and controlled her breathing as she had been taught by her therapist.

He stopped smiling. “Are you OK?”

She nodded but avoided eye contact.

“Look, I’m really sorry about the noise,” he continued. “The boots are hobnailed because I walk in the old mines. I’ll try to keep it down in future, OK?”

Claire smiled shyly, mumbled thanks and turned to go.

“Bye” he said, and watched as she walked off down the stairs, before closing the door, almost too quietly she thought.

*
The next day went well, she thought, starting with a long hike through the sundrenched verdant hills around the mining town of Caerau, a light pub lunch, and then a solid afternoon of writing. Claire had almost finished her chapter when she heard the familiar trudge pass her room and ascend the stairs. She sighed, stopped typing, and waited, listening. The heavy steps continued up the stairs, paused as the door was opened, then thumped over her head across the floor to the other side, before stopping. She heard the creak of springs then … CLUMP! … the first boot. Claire felt the tension rising like a column of lava from her stomach. She tried breathing deeply to calm herself and waited for the inevitable second boot, and waited, and waited. But it didn’t come.

Claire waited a full 5 minutes before leaping out of her chair and up the stairs. She banged furiously on the door until it was opened by the man from the day before.

“Look,” she began with scarcely restrained agitation, but he held up his hand.

“I’m really sorry. I had a long day and completely forgot about the boots, until after the first boot that is. I took the second boot off quietly.”

Claire burst out laughing. “You must think I’m completely neurotic.”

He smiled, and held out his hand. “Bert.”

She shook his hand. “Claire.” She noticed that his grip was strong and rough to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. A wave of shyness suddenly flowed over her.

“Say, “ continued Bert, “how about I make up for all my noise, and buy you a coffee? There’s a decent tea room up the road.”

Claire hesitated. It was too soon.

“It’s only coffee. I promise I won’t bite,” said Bert.

Claire smiled tenatively. “Ok.”

(To be continued…)

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My wife wanted the house down the street. “It’s just so perfect,” she would say.
To me it looked just the same as ours, but she would snort when I made that comment, adding some derisory comment about men and the finer things in life. I shrugged, as I have become in the habit of doing lately. Why go into battle when there is a much smoother alternative, that is, to run and hide while the storm rages? The storm did pass, and Fiona did not mention the house down the street for a few days, but then it came.

“Henry?”
“Hmmm?” (I was reading my newspaper, and hoping that whatever she wanted, it might go away with a bit of disinterested attention)
“Henry!”
I put the paper down and sighed.
“What is it, love?”
“That house down the street. Number 32. I want you to go and talk to them.”
“Me? What about?”
“You know very well what about. Find out if they would sell.”
“But surely,” I protested, “if they wanted to sell, then it would be up for sale.”
“Henry, you never know. Maybe they would like a change and don’t even know it.”
I considered returning to my paper, but realised that I was too entangled in this conversation to get out easily.
“Alright.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Alright what?”
“I’ll go and speak to them.”
I returned to my newspaper, more in desperation than anything else, but I sensed that she was not done.
“Henry.”
“Yes dear?”
“Now please.”

So I went and spoke to them, a lovely couple our age, and as I expected they were not planning on moving. But I thought I detected a sudden glint in the woman’s eye, and I definitely noticed that her husband had noticed, so on the way out I pulled him to one side and explained my desperate situation. He nodded sympathetically and said that he would see what he could do. Which was a miracle, because we ended up swapping houses, at minimal financial loss to both parties. I could not believe my good fortune.

And there it ended.

Until one fateful morning, not long after, when my wife noticed how prettily they had done up our old house.

She looked up at me, her hazel eyes glinting in the torch light. “Please don’t go Suetonus.”
I pulled her to me tightly, trying to smile, but my heart shared her fears. “I must go, my love,” I replied, “He will die if I don’t go.”
“But Suetonus, listen, we must all die some day, and he has had a good life. You are young, and the father of my baby. Will you leave us?”
I kissed her gently on the forehead. “He is my father, and they will not find me, I promise you – the Lord will be with me.”
She snorted and pulled away from me. “Tell that to our brothers and sisters who light up the Via Appia with their flames.”
“Ares, my love, you still do not understand His ways. If He wills for me to die tonight, then I will have served His purposes. You know our treasures are not in this world. Come here.”
I drew her to me again and we kissed tenderly, and I felt our baby move in her womb. But then I turned with a troubled heart and headed towards Nero’s palace.
I did see here again, but just the once. She held up my son for me to see. My tears burned in the smoke.