Check out my lunar dialogue at The Bijou

“It just happened!” I cried, tears of frustration welling up inside me.
She looked at me with longsuffering bemusement. “You mean to say that heap of dirty clothing at the bottom of your cupboard just appeared, from nowhere?”
I nodded vigorously.
“Nothing to do with you?” she continued, peering intently into my eyes.
I met her gaze unflinchingly. “Nope.”
“Are you sure you are telling me the truth, Robbie?” I could hear the growing sternness in her voice but nodded again.
She sighed and took my hand gently, leading me to the window from which could see across the valley to the blue mountains shimmering in the distance.
“Those mountains,” she said, pointing. “How do you think they came about?”
I looked at her earnestly, years of Sunday School training clamouring for attention, and replied, “By accident.”
She looked at me aghast, but then regained her composure. “That’s just silly and you know it. Now tidy up those clothes and stop talking nonsense! I’ll wash your mouth out with soap if you lie to me again.”
“But, Mum!” I protested.
“Now!”

Check out my story ‘Lunar Landing’ published at Gloom Cupboard.

I walked up to the bar and sat down on the empty stool.

“You don’t want to sit there,” said the bartender.

“Oh? Why not?” I replied.

“It’s haunted.”

I laughed, but then stopped when I saw he was not laughing with me.

“You’re serious?”

He nodded.

“Well get me a drink and tell me more.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“What’ll you have?”

“Pint of Guinness, and pour yourself one too.”

He thanked me and I watched as he pulled two draughts. He was a large, portly, red-faced man – standard bartender stock. His large meaty hands dwarfed the glass as he placed it in front of me. I took my first sip and looked at him expectantly. He leaned forward earnestly.

“I’ve been the landlord of this here pub for nigh on ten years. We don’t get very many visitors, not since they built the bypass, you see. In fact, you’re the first stranger we’ve had in months.”

“I’m not a stranger – I grew up here,” I protested.

“I know, Joe, but then you moved to Dublin and got educated and all, and you know how that puts you in the minds of the people around here. Anyhow, let me finish. When I first started we had a fella by the name of Henry Mallone what used to come in here, every night, always sitting on that stool. I don’t recall him ever missing a night. Then, one night, just for a laugh, one of the other punters, a fella called Toby, Toby McGuire, sits in Henry’s place. Henry comes in, sees Toby on his stool and tells him to move, on account of how its his seat. Toby was a young fella like, and didn’t take kindly to Henry’s tone. I think he’d had a few too many too. So, he tells Henry to feck off, and Henry goes ballistic. I tell you, I never seen anything like it. He was such a quiet man normally, but that night he were like a crazed beast, effing and blinding, and then he starts to lay into Toby. I tried to stop things, but they fought like animals, breaking up the place, until suddenly Toby lands a lucky punch and decks old Henry. Henry fell like a stone but knocked his head on a table and died there in then. It was a terrible thing to be sure.”

He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow and took a long drink.

“There were an inquisition and all, but the tribunal decided it were accidental death and nothing further happened. But Toby was a heartless bastard. He showed no remorse, and fool that he was, he decided he’d take Henry’s seat for his own. I remember telling him off but he didn’t listen to me. I’m just an old fool, right? The thing is, a few weeks later he disappears. He’d been living with this gal, Mair, a pretty young thing, complete waste on the likes of him. She came in here asking after him, but we’d not seen anything. The polis came later, but he were never found.”

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

He raised his hand. “Not long after, there was this other fella, also a young ‘un, Jerry was his name, arrogant as they come. He started to come to the pub and made himself right at home in old Henry’s seat. No respect for the dead these youngsters. Two weeks later he’s missing too. But they found him, mind you, not two miles from here, in the moors, dead as they come.”

I nodded, “Yes, those moors can be pretty dangerous if you’re not careful. Suck you right under.”

“Indeed,” continued the old man, a queer look in his eyes, “except that he weren’t drowned. They found him sitting next to the dead willow tree, hugging it with all his might, his face full of dread, like he died of fright.”

I smiled to myself. Superstitious old codger.

“So what do you reckon scared him like that? Henry’s ghost?”

He looked at me.

“You may sneer, young man, but that’s two deaths unexplained. I tell you it’s old Henry being possessive about that stool you’re sitting on.”

I snorted, but will confess to being a little less cocky. However I stood my ground.

“Pah! Ghosts. No such thing.”

“That what they teach you in Dublin?” he asked before shrugging and returning to his duties. “Suit yourself.”

I had another few pints and chatted to a few of the locals, before finally calling it a day. I bade them all good night, and was about to leave when the bartender called me over. He had a queer look in his eyes.

“Watch yerself out there, lad. Its a grim night for believers and unbelievers alike.”

I smiled, thanked him for the story, and left.

It was a chilly, moonlit night, and I was not looking forward to the half mile walk back to the B&B along the old Clairin road. A fine mist rose from the moors on either side of the road, swirling around my feet as I walked. I was thankful for the intermittent moonlight because apart from the twinkling lights of the village far ahead the road was dark. I walked briskly, the warm glow of alcohol buzzing pleasantly in my head while I mulled over the evening’s strange, implausible story.

Suddenly behind me I heard the sound of gravel being trodden under foot. I spun around to look but the road was empty.

“Who’s there?” I called, but the night was deathly silent, pausing it seemed to watch the scene unfold. I could see my breath clouding before me, the air suddenly feeling very icy. Then I smiled at myself – these moors had an eerie effect on locals and visitors alike it would seem – and resumed my journey home.

Then I heard the sound again, but this time right behind me. I froze in my tracks and turned around slowly. My spine tingled with anticipation and I felt every muscle in my body tense with the primal desire to flee. A shadow, large and looming stood before me, the moon glinting off dark, hollow eyes.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The shape didn’t speak at first, then approached, slowly, reaching out large, familiar, meaty hands, a large amorphous shape in one them, and I braced myself, wanting to scream, but somehow unable to.

He spoke.

“You forgot your coat.”

Dear John,

I don’t love you anymore. In fact, I don’t think I ever loved you – what we had was sexual, not love, an incoherent moment of madness. I remember first seeing you in the furniture store, striding down the aisle with the cutest pair of buns I ever saw. I thought to myself, Those belong in my tender lap. Fate was kind to us, and we met, and you brought me home. At first you treated me well, with tenderness and decency, all that a lady deserves and wants, but then familiarity bred contempt and you started wearing nothing but your filthy underpants and spilling beer and popcorn all over my immaculate suede.

A sofa has some self respect, so I am saying good-bye, and as I write am being carted off by a very hunky removal guy called Tom who has promised to take good care of me.

Enjoy sitting on the carpet, although I’ve heard he doesn’t like your stinking ass any more either.

Rosalinda

The old man sat hunched over an empty glass in the corner of the pub. It seemed as if he had been there forever, amidst the dust motes, for he did not move. I noticed that every now and then he would sigh and shift his gaze to the window where through the grime I could make out the object of his focus: a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. I wondered at his story, whether perhaps he had lost a child or loved one, or perhaps something more sinister, a regret at some deed long committed. So I sauntered over, with all the unthinking assurance of a local tourist taking in the sights, and stood by his table. He looked up, slightly puzzled.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” I asked.

He shrugged and waved vaguely at the seat opposite. I sat down and smiled but he just looked away.
“I hope you don’t mind my being forward,” I hesitated, “but I saw you sitting here and wondered why you sighed.”

The old man did not speak, at least not for a while, but then turned to me. “Eh? Now why would you be wondering that?”

It was a good question, one that I couldn’t really answer, and I was beginning to regret my venture, yet I felt a strange empathy for this man, a sense that our meeting was fated in some way. “I’m sorry, no reason really. I should go.”

He looked at me quizzically, a hint of a smile on his lips. “How strange,” he smirked, “but who better to unburden to than a stranger with excessive curiosity and a spare pint.”

I grinned, took the hint and soon returned with two pints. He took a long deep draft and sighed with obvious pleasure, “Aah, that is good. Many thanks.”

I watched him as he wiped the froth from his lip with a great, big gnarled hand, rough and worn with hard work, so different from my milky, white hands. His face was lined with deep crevices surrounding two strikingly intelligent, dark eyes. He took in a deep breath. “My story is long, so make yourself comfortable.”

“It were long ago, he began, when I were nowt but a young lad, many years before the likes of you was born. I grew up just half a mile from here and used to come down to the shore whenever I could. I didna ha any siblings, and not many a friend; I preferred me own company and many was the day when night would come and me da would have to come looking for me. At first he thrashed me black and blue with his belt, but then gradually he came to see that it were nowt but the harmless dreaming of a young fool and he let me be. My favourite place was yonder rock, what they call Cairn Kenidjack (he pointed through the window at the outcrop I’d seen earlier.) From the top of it you could see across the whole bay, and underneath an old smuggler’s cove where if the tide were out one could spend many an hour exploring the nooks and crannies.
It must have been my 16th year when I happened to be down by the rocks looking through the pools for crabs when I noticed nearby a girl around my age swimming in the water near me. I were surprised as heck because the currents in that cove is treacherous. I called out to her and told her she were mad to be in the water, but she just laughed. I tell thee I were bedazzled by her beauty, her long golden locks, her pale, sun-freckled skin with the faintest tinge of red on her soft cheeks. I never saw such like in me life and I reckon I were in love, for I wanted to dive then and there into the water after her. But I were afraid.

She looked at me. Are you coming in, she asked me, but I shook me head, never before so disconsolate.

Why not, she asks me, insistent like, don’t you want to?

I says I do but that it were dangerous, however she just laughs again. Her laugh made my heart do somersaults for it were like the tinkle of bells in a spring breeze. I felt a fool, and no man, young or old, likes to feel a fool, particularly in front of a woman, so I cast caution and clothing to the wind, keeping me johns on for modesty sake, and dove in after her. The currents were strong but she swam effortlessly towards me, and I noticed for the first time that she were starky naked. I blushed and did not know where to look for I’d not seen a woman’s form in such plain splendour before, but she were so natural about it I soon forgot about it and we frolicked and talked like old friends amidst the rocks. I asked her name and she told me, but for the life of me I couldn’t get it – it sounded like the rushing of a brook, not like any name I’d heard before. I asked her where she was from and where her clothes were but again she just laughed – oh, that laugh, I cannot describe how it made me feel, fool that I was.

Soon however, the day was done and the sun began to settle on the horizon. She said she had to leave but I grabbed hold of her hand and would not let her go. Don’t, says I, but she says she must and pulls her hand away. I asked her when I’d see her again, but for the first time she looked sad and replied, it cannot be. My heart wrenched. What do you mean, I asked, I must see you again! We are not the same, says she, and when the sun is down I must return to my kind, forever. I did not understand and told her so, and in my anguish again tried to take her hand, but she would not have it. Instead she glided away, looking at me all the time with deep sorrowful eyes, and then with a twist and a splash she was gone as suddenly as she had come. I were heart broken I tell thee, and returned the next day, and the next, and many more after that, hoping to see her, but I never did.”

He stopped talking and looked wistfully out the window, his old eyes full of tears. I prompted him to continue but he would not, so eventually I rose, thanked him for his time, bought him another pint and left. As I walked up the hill to my hotel it occurred to me how mythical his tale sounded and wondered if the old fool had not imagined the whole thing, or even worse was having me on – the locals do like nothing more than to rag on a visitor.

It was many years later that I returned to that little sea port, and I went into the same pub, hoping perhaps to see the old man again. He was however not there, and when I enquired after him it turned out he had passed away, drowned, they said, in the cove below Cairn Kenidjack.

They curious thing is that they never found his body, just his clothes folded in a tidy heap next to the water.

He reached out a large, meaty hand. “Hello, name’s Riaan.”

He had a thick Afrikaans accent, a giant of a man with long, curly, somehow inappropriate hair atop his bulky frame. I took his hand reluctantly and introduced myself.

“Adam.”

“Can I buy you a beer?” he asked.

I shrugged non-committally, pointing at my half-full pint, hoping to discourage further interaction from this stranger.

“Look,” he said. “I know I’m being forward, but this is important. Let me buy you a beer, dammit.”

I did not want to anger this hulk of a man so I assented.

“You see,” he continued as our drinks arrived. “the thing is … I know you.”

I looked at him, startled, and spluttered, “Look, I think you must have me confused with…”

“Ja, I know it must seem odd, but I do know you, from my dreams.”

Right, I thought. Time to make an exit. I stood up and was about to leave when he put his hand gently on my arm.

“Please,” he said. “I am not mad. Hear me out. What have you got to lose? And the beer here is very good, as you know.”

I looked at him for a moment, observed his eager, intelligent eyes and warm smile, and sat down smiling. “I’ll listen as long as there is a beer in front of me.”

He guffawed, “Good man!” and slapped me heavily on my back, rattling my bones to the core.

“Every night I have this dream,” he began. “I walk up this street and am stopped at the door of this pub by a man dressed in white. He has an unnatural glow about him so I think he must be an angel. He tells me to go inside the pub and give a man a very important message. I protest but he insists, so we go in together and he points you out. Then he leaves and I wake up.”

He paused, reflective.

“I know what you are thinking, but I am not mad. I never dream, well hardly ever that I can remember, and when I do they are incoherent collections of strange scenes, nothing like this. I believe God has given me a message for you.”

I looked at him.

“Look I know you mean well, and I appreciate the beers and all, but I don’t believe there is a God, and even if there was, he certainly would not care enough about me to send me a message.

The big man smiled. “I know it’s from God.”

“How you know?” I asked.

He stared at me intently. “Do you have a wife?”

I nodded.

“She loves you right?”

“Yes.”

“Well how do you know that?”

I frowned. I could see where this was headed. “By the many things she does and says to prove it.”

“Well,” he replied, “it is the same with God.”

“I think that’s debatable. There is a difference between a wife you can see and touch and a God who hides behind probabilities.”

He laughed. “I was once like you. I had to see and touch everything. But at the end of the day you can’t see and touch everything you know is true. We life our lives by faith in the simplest things. The universe for me just makes more sense with God than without Him.”

I shrugged, “Well that’s where we differ.”

“So do you want to hear what the message is?”

“May as well,” I replied.

He looked serious and leaned forward intently, looking about warily.

“You have left your car lights on.”

“Beer, please.”

The bartender nodded, placed a mat in front of me, and soon after a tall glass of ice cold lager. I watched as the sides grew moist with condensation. It had been a long trip. London to Jo’burg, 4 hour wait, Jo’burg to Blantyre. Close to twenty long hours, many of which were unnecessary given that I almost flew over Malawi on the way down to South Africa. I hated business trips, especially when more time was spent travelling than doing business.

I picked up my glass and took a long satisfying drink. Aah, that was good. Nectar of the gods. I was still fuming about the incident at the airport. It was all so unnecessary, and had turned a bit ugly, but I was tired, and when that fat African dressed in Armani and excessive bling tried to force the queue I just lost it and told him to get in line like the rest of us. The bastard just looked at me coldly, and then at the immigration officials who were watching. He spoke to them, in Chichewa I guess, and they laughed, and just let him through! I was livid, but there was nothing to do – this was Africa and the veneer of civilisation does not run deep.

*

I heard the sultry swish of silk at my side before I saw her: a tall, slender beauty with dark chocolate skin and sensual curves. She turned to look at me and flashed me a smile. I smiled back but returned to my drink – I had been on enough business trips to recognise the local honey trap. She ordered a Martini but did not chat me up as expected. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a large cluster of diamonds on her wedding finger. Perhaps I had misjudged her.

“It’s been a beautiful day, hasn’t it?” I ventured.

She turned her lovely eyes to me, deep pools of enigmatic emerald that one could fall into forever. I thought about my wife and girls waiting for me back home, and the intense loneliness of such trips, and took the first step along journey I was later to regret.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

*

I woke feeling refreshed. The fan spun lazily overhead, creating a pleasing gentle breeze. I could still smell her perfume in my nostrils and my mind was instantly filled with memories of silken caresses, deep sighs and forbidden pleasures. But there was something else, something faintly metallic that jarred my senses. I turned to look at her but was met with the cold stare of death. Her throat had been cut, covering the bed and me with sickly blood, while next to my hand lay a bloodied razor. I cried out and leapt out of bed, staring at the brutal nightmare before me. Someone had come in to the room during the night and done this terrible thing. I had had a lot to drink, but I knew I had not done this. Yet a sickening wave of uncertainty hit my stomach.

*

The heat was sweltering in the little interview room. The police inspector looked at me.

“Mr Morden, if you are innocent, then why are your finger prints on the murder weapon?”

I started at him, incredulous, and shouted, “But that’s impossible. I didn’t do it! How many times do I have to tell you!”

He shrugged his shoulders and pressed the buzzer on the table.

“We hear that all the time.”

Two men came in.

“No, please,” I begged. “You have to listen to me. I want my phone call.”
He looked at me coldly.

“You will be appointed a lawyer. There will be no need for phone calls.”

*

Judge Isaiah Moloko looked at me sternly. “You will find that we do not take kindly to the abuse and murder of our women.”

I began to speak.

“Silence!” he commanded. “I have heard all the evidence and your defence. The time for words has now ended.” He paused and placed a black cloth on his head. “Andre Morden. You have been found guilty of 1st degree murder and are hereby sentenced to death by lethal injection.”

I had no more strength to protest and broke down weeping. Five thousand miles away two little girls were getting ready for bed and wondering when Daddy would be coming home.”

*

The guards escorted me from my cell along a filthy corridor to the execution room. Inside was a single chair with leather straps, and a steel trolley on which lay assorted vials and instruments. They tied me tightly to the chair.
In front of me was a large window, behind which I could see several rows of chairs, mostly occupied. One of the guards returned with a black cloth hood which he raised to place over my head. I waited, but nothing. I turned to look at him. He returned my gaze, smiling, then looked at the window. I followed his gaze and saw a familiar, fat African man pushing his way to the front row. He heaved himself into a seat, the sweat pouring from his forehead, then raised his eyes languidly to look at me and winked.

The room went dark and the last thing I heard was the clatter of instruments on the trolley and the soft wheezing, approaching breath of my executioner.

It is very weird finding yourself in the middle of a hay stack. I suppose it could have been worse: the middle of a mountain, or perhaps mid air, hundreds of feet above the ground, but I had deliberately picked a very stable location in geophysical terms. I am not stupid after all.

But what I had not counted on was the season, and the high likelihood that at harvest time I might land in something other than open air.

If only I had booked a shorter time travel trip. This could get very dull.

Six months the house had been on the market, and not even one viewer, but today that was going to change. We scrubbed the place top to bottom – even the kids got involved, though as usual they tended to get more in the way than be of any real use. Fiona and I even managed to argue no more than once: I thought baking bread was excessive, she didn’t, and in hindsight I must admit that it did smell pretty good.

The agent from Peers Homes came at around 2pm with a family: Mr and Mrs Jerry Perkins and their two children Tom and Amy, similar ages to ours. She wore a sharp London suit and inappropriate high heels that click-clacked on our mahogany wooden floors, leaving a trail of fine indentations. Fiona glared at me, but I just shrugged. She was the best, this Tamara Fairfax-Blythe, coming highly recommended. Dents in our beloved floor were a small price to pay for a sale.

She wafted through the house, pointing out its various delightful features and opportunities to the obviously impressed Perkins family who followed her like a flock of dumb sheep bleating appreciatively at the required moments. My Perkins tried to ask a few pertinent questions but after some deft parries from the razor sharp Ms Fairfax-Blythe, settled down and enjoyed the show. And what a performance it was. I think we would have bought the house if we didn’t already live in it.

So it was without much further ado that the sale went through and the Perkins family moved in 1 month later.

Little Jo asked if she could play with Amy, but I said no, explaining that it would never work.

We were, after all, dead.