Johnsie’s “Short Stories”.

Welcome to my world of short stories. I always seem to have one or two of them running around in my head which I have to write down in order to make room for other things. Sometimes I see something or someone just crying out to have a tale told about it or them. Other times I wake up in the middle of the night with a thought which I transpose into a story while I’m half asleep, and then if I don’t get up and put it down on paper immediately, I’ll lose it forever. However, I suppose the most popular form of inspiration for me comes from the simple question of, “what if?” It’s amazing what the connotations can be if you apply this to a variety of subjects.

In the past I also spent a lot of time in airports, and I found the passengers in the waiting areas an infinite source of material. My wife and I often played a game of “pick an interesting passenger and make up a story about them.” Apart from a fun way to kill time, this invariably gave me loads of character ideas for my writing, and I still often refer to my hastily scribbled notes for a kick start when I have a “blank” moment.

- Johnsie.

Keep on visiting this page – I change my “Shorts” every now and then.

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This section is normally reserved for short stories only. But I’m making an executive decision today, and dropping in a chapter from MULE, another suspense novel which I should have had completed mid 2009. (Yup - I know, it’s been a long time coming. Bringing up two little boys has a habit of throwing deadlines out the window).

T.J. Pearce is the fictitious author of the Jake Barton series of novels, and MULE is about his very own personal adventure. It’s one of the chapters without action scenes. I wanted to give you a taste of the novels other ingredients - personal demons, grief and responsibility. I’ve posted it warts and all - unedited. Let me know what you think.

Johnsie.

Chapter 10

Friday, the day of Phil’s funeral, was as bleak and sombre as the occasion. Wind-lashed rain flew in from all directions at the small crowd gathered around his coffin. The squalls appeared as suddenly as they left, and umbrellas were hastily slanted in the direction of new assaults. It was as if Phil were admonishing us for even daring to be at his graveside on such a terrible day. That would be just like him, I thought. Chastising us for coming out in the rain. He probably would have preferred us to stay at home, warm and dry.

I shook the thoughts from my head, and staggered sideways into Hanson. She’d been inconsolable since being told of Phil’s death. I’d managed to convince Lydia it should be she that told her, and overcome by shock she had agreed. That had been four alcoholic oblivious days ago. Hanson had appeared on my doorstep the same day Lydia broke the news, and hadn’t left my side since–much to Alice’s chagrin.

Alice stood at my left, her right arm linked through mine, as if asserting ownership. The night in the passage had been a mistake, but I couldn’t have stopped myself if I wanted to. We had moved to my bedroom afterwards, and strangely, I’d slept deeply, waking the following morning to find her still cuddled into my side. Hanson’s tearful arrival later that morning had prevented us from any discussion of what had occurred, and that was fine by me. However, Alice obviously had other ideas about our new relationship. I’d have to think of a way to disentangle myself from her proprietary clutches before long.

I felt the cold whisky flask in my coat pocket, and wished I could slip away for some liquid reinforcement. Both Hanson and Alice had been united in their concern at my sudden upsurge in drinking, and had been nagging me to slow up on my intake, but I’d still managed to keep myself on a drunken plateau.

I’d called my editor, Prudy, and forestalled her visit the day Phil’s death was announced–I even managed to get a two-month extension from her. The interview and arrangements for Phil’s burial with Andrew Morton had been dreamlike. I consulted, ordered, advised and selected everything from a dispassionate, removed point of view. I had to–I couldn’t have done it any other way. There had been no viewing. In fact today was the first time I’d even sighted the coffin I’d chosen for my only brother.

Earlier, at the service in the adjacent parlour, a simple sermon by a minister who didn’t even know Phil had been conducted. There were no hymns, no readings–which was just the way Phil would have wanted it. As an after-thought, I’d arranged for Tina Turner’s, Let’s stay together, to be played as we filed out behind his coffin. It was a snap decision at the time, but it summed up my feelings. It was my own, parting wish for the two of us.

I listened as the bespectacled minister attempted to keep his robes gathered in the gusting winds, and tried not to lose his place in the verse he was reading. Phil’s coffin had started its final descent. I glanced to my right. Lydia and Robbie were sharing an umbrella on the other side of Hanson. Robbie looked uncomfortable at being there, and I hoped the fat prick really was. Lydia dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and I was surprised to see what appeared to be genuine grief on her face. It had never occurred to me that she might be fond of Phil. Under the umbrella I was holding, tears were also rolling down Hanson’s face. She sobbed silently, arms linked through Lydia’s and my own, making no attempt to stem the flow.

Opposite, Baz stood solemnly, hands pushed deep into his coat pockets, water cascading off his uncharacteristically bare head, flowing onto his shoulders. We hadn’t spoken since that night, and he didn’t seem to be able to meet my gaze today. I knew he felt for me, however. I knew he would be waiting to give me a cheerful reception when I felt like facing the world again.

Phil’s coffin disappeared from sight, only the unwinding bands indicating it hadn’t reached the last of his travel destinations. I felt the flask in my pocket again, feeling an increasing need for the soothing warmth of the contents, then peered across at the two men standing behind Baz. I had no idea who they were, although their stance suggested a regimental bearing. They only had eyes for the muddy hole containing the coffin, and hadn’t spoken to any one since appearing. I assumed they were cops, but the reason for their presence was lost on me. The minister snapped his book shut–a last, strong gust tried to invert umbrellas, and people started moving off. I stood there until Hanson’s gentle tugging on my arm signalled it was time to leave Phil for good. I felt no need for tears; in fact I hadn’t since falling apart in front of Alice that first night. My grief was absent, hidden. Locked deep inside me–anaesthetised by alcohol–paralysed by a desire not to feel. I felt like granite–uncaring and emotionless–and it was just how I wanted to be.

In the courtesy car on the way back to Ripon Street, I sat in the rear with Hanson and Alice on either side. Silent animosity between them had reared its head, and I reached for my flask, wondering how to diffuse it. I knew Hanson saw Alice as a potential new woman in my life, and she wasn’t happy about it. Just as Alice was jealous of Hanson’s closeness to me. Alice had to be invited to leave, but I was reluctant to hurt her feelings. I needed time alone with Hanson. It was important to her, and important to me. Whilst I couldn’t grieve, I knew Hanson would for goodness knows how long. I had to be strong for her, and I took a stiff slug of whisky as if in preparation.

A sniff of disapproval from Alice’s direction reinforced my decision, and I turned to her with what I hoped was a caring smile. “Thanks for being such a good neighbour, Alice.”

She flashed me a supporting grin and squeezed my arm. “Don’t be silly, T.J. You know I’ll always be there for you. This has all been quite a shock for everyone. Both you and Hanson will take ages to get over it. I’ll be there to comfort you when ever you need me.”

She gave an almost imperceptible smirk toward Hanson as if saying, “See, I have a firm reason to be involved in your dad’s life, kiddo.”

I closed my eyes, wished I were somewhere else, then searched for the right words. “I think this should be a time for family, Alice. You’re right. Hanson and I will take a long time to get over this, and we need to have some private time together. I mean, you will still be welcome to pop over occasionally,” I hastily added. “But initially, I think we need to be left alone.”

I noticed Hanson listening intently, but she was staring out the window so I couldn’t see her face. I felt sure it would have a triumphant look on it.

For her part, Alice took the news well. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, but she maintained her composure, with only the erectness of her posture to indicate she had stiffened in disappointment, and perhaps hurt feelings.

“Very well, T.J. I understand blood is thicker than water, and the last thing I would want is to be in the way.” She peered at me. One solitary tear traced its way through the make-up on her right cheek. “You will remember that I care about you though, won’t you? I mean, we are a lot closer now than we used to be.”

I nodded and resumed staring out the front of the car. It hadn’t been as bad as I thought it would be.

Alice leapt out into the rain and disappeared into her home without a word when the car pulled up. Hanson and I paused at the front door of my terrace house, both of us staring at the still splintered doorframe. I didn’t particularly feel like stepping through into the memories, and I could tell Hanson was of a like mind. I took a deep breath, thought of Dr. Glen-Livet, and unlocked the door. Hanson silently followed me in.

 We busied ourselves with mundane tasks that really didn’t need doing, and I managed to continue topping up my glass without comment from Hanson. Towards evening, we stood together at the kitchen bench and sliced up peppers, onions and mushrooms for a pasta sauce. I wanted her to talk, but I knew I couldn’t push it. Instead, I acted the goat, and tried to summon a smile from her. I failed miserably, gave up, and concentrated on drinking.

The more I drank, the more distant Hanson became. When we finally sat down to dinner, it tasted like wet cardboard, and we both pushed it aside. We cleared the table and washed the dishes in silence. Afterward, Hanson propped herself in front of the television and pretended to watch, The Price Is Right, while I had an after-dinner drink and pretended to watch with her.

I was pondering the possibility of trying to talk to her and sound sober, when she announced she was going to bed.

“But it’s only seven o’clock,” I slurred in amazement, after glancing at the blurred hands on the clock above the heater.

She shrugged, and her chin grew. “I know, but I’m not going to have another night of sitting here watching you make a mess of yourself.” She glared at me, her eyes flashing and sparkling with tears. “Don’t you ever have enough, T.J.? Uncle Phil is gone. Can’t you at least get off that stuff long enough to feel sad about him? I hate it when you’re like this. You’re an uncaring bastard.”

She stormed into her room and slammed the door. The windows in the living room rattled, and I felt deep despair. She’d called me dad. She only did that when she was extremely angry or happy with me. I sighed, and focused on my glass. I wanted to be a strong shoulder for her, someone to lean on. A father who could make the hurt go away. Instead, I was just another reason for her to feel upset.

I upended the glass and drained it in one long swallow, then rose and moved across for a refill. I could no more stop myself at the moment than I could have the other night with Alice. I thought about calling her, but she was also disappointed with me. What a prick I was turning out to be. At least the drink had chased away Phil’s ghost. I glanced across at the closed door to his room, then with a surge of courage walked across and opened it.

His bag sat in the centre of his bed–exactly where I’d left it. I wondered what I should do with his camera equipment, then raised my eyebrows as the thought it may not even be in there presented itself. Someone may have helped themselves to it, I thought. The realisation that I was curious–that I wanted to look inside, sent a shiver down my back. I felt like a ghoul, but plucked at some more spirit-fuelled courage, then sat down on his bed and opened the bag.

Phil’s Canon, two clip-on lenses, and several packets of unused film were still inside. So were four, clean but wrinkled shirts. Two pairs of beige nylon shorts, one well-worn pair of jeans, and five pair of boxer briefs came out for my inspection. I peered at the assortment of clothing lying on the bed beside me. His shaving gear was missing I noticed, and dragged the bag closer for another poke around into its depths.

His hard-covered journal was lying flat in the very bottom. I took it into the living room and sat down in front of the heater. I gazed at the dark blue cover, pock-marked with numerous scratches and cuts which surrounded the heading, BELIZE, drawn with a felt tipped marker pen. I took a deep breath, then opened it. Phil’s neat handwriting filled the pages, along with frequent small drawings in the margins.

I flicked through page after page, skimming his notes about the small, independently ruled British country until I reached the last entry. I wanted to see what had been on his mind during his last few days on earth. Maybe it would help me understand. I realised the police would’ve read it, in fact I doubted I would even be in possession of it had they found anything in relation to his death. What I did read ripped my chest open and pushed my heart high into my throat.

• April-19. Sunday – Macaw River Lodge.
• T.J., and in fact anyone who knows me, would have a fit if they knew what I was about to do. Unfortunately I have no choice. Lisa is depending on me.
• It reminds me of a time when T.J. and I were kids, sneaking a cigarette in the crawl space under Uncle Jake’s ramshackle old kitchen. We huddled up against the fireplace foundations, trying to keep warm. One day Uncle Jake saw smoke rising from the floorboards. He assumed an ember had fallen from the open fire, so he pulled the kettle off the hob and threw the contents across the floor. I can laugh about it now, but at the time we thought we had third degree burns.

This was a message from the grave–something only Phil and I could’ve known about. Something he wouldn’t have written unless he intended me to see it.

The only problem was, I didn’t know what in the Hell he meant, but nothing was going to stop me from finding out.