Museum of old beliefs

1

As the artificial-wood house door slubbed shut behind him, he closed his eyes in anticipation. Peter would have shaken his head, but his neck hurt, and not being into masochism there was no point, so he didn’t. He knew what was coming though …definitely not for the first time, oh no no no!

“That you, Dad?” A pleasantly ample Amy tucked her chin around the kitchen door, rubber-gloved hands clutching scouring cloths either side of her head in a rather poor imitation of Chad.
Instantly, she morphed into whinging fat Amy. “Oh, Dad, what happened?”

“Don’t fuss, it’s only beans.”

“Dad, what happened? You've been spilling food again?”
“Don’t talk to me like a child, Amy, it’s the stupid woman at the café near the bus station.”

“Oh Dad, what happened?” Amy’s newly acquired O.C.D. had spread to her language. She crossed the hallway just in time to miss a bean dropping onto the hall carpet. She started circularly sponging his coat as best as she could with scouring pads.

“Stop it.” He shooed her away, with a similar movement he saved for next-door’s dog, only difference, Amy wasn’t trying to hump his leg. “Stupid old…” he bit back the expletive; the hallway seemed to be succeeding in invoking a super-ego effect today. “Stopped for a cup of tea before I caught the bus back, asked her if she’d had her hair done, and wham, half a catering can of baked beans over the head, thinking about it, could have been more than half.”

A concerned look crossed Amy’s face. “The police weren’t involved again?” She really had perfected her agains, and it was with some skill, she faded the again into the question.

“They should be, she attacked me.”

“You sure? After last time.”

His stare would have done Methuselah proud.

“Sorry Dad, it’s just your memory, it’s… well it’s…well it’s you know… oh just forget it.”

He nearly said, ‘what is it I’ve to forget again,’ but he’d found irony was totally wasted when Amy was in a clucking condition.

Amy nearly had a panic attack as he took off his hat dripping two more rogue baked beans onto the hall carpet. “Stop it, Dad, you’re going to have to get undressed outside. No, no wait, not after your last exposure to the neighbours. Just wait there, I’ll get some newspaper.”

As Amy turned it was with an accident rationale he pressed the three baked beans carefully into the carpet with the toe of his right shoe.

Amy returned along with the start of another series of diminishing, “Oh Dad’s.” She scraped up the severely squashed pulses with her fingernails before laying down, only just in time, yesterday’s Times.

Hanging up the fox walking stick and his coat, no matter how he tried, he could only manage to drip seven out of twenty-three cold beans onto the hall wall.

“Oh, Dad.” Echoed.

As Amy bundled the coat up, he stood on the newspaper, and managed to create a satisfying sound of crunching and ripping before dropping his tomato-juice laden jacket onto the carpet.

“Oh, Dad!”

She got to the waistcoat and shirt before they made the floor. Undoing shoelaces, he managed to flick the shoes down the hall. As Amy’s attention attended to the shoes, he quickly took off his trousers and placed them on the telephone table, causing maximum bean damage.
Amy turned. “Oh, Dad.”
Mimicking of his best pal Tom, Peter, gave the side of his right testicle a scratch, with beans about; Peter knew Amy dared not look away. He felt the back of his hair with his left hand and squeezed a few beans out; being a kind of gentleman he’d taken his hat off as he entered the cafe. “Need a bath,” he called, he couldn’t help a chuckle as he managed to leave at least four steps worth of tomato handprints on the handrail and walls. “Should give me a peaceful bath,” he mumbled dropping his boxer shorts on the penultimate step. Suddenly he felt the balance in his ears lurch, everything went black, and Peter found himself falling. “Damned drugs.”


2

Amy’s oh-Dadding downstairs was soon overlaid by images and thoughts of the day. He lay back, warmth taking him into profound reflection. The image of the girl he met earlier came to mind, he shifted his weight, warmth tickled his groin, he gave himself a hopeful rub, there appeared to be a little interest, however not enough for a long endeavour.
He hadn’t had sex for some time, it had all gone down hill when the penile blood started wildcat strike action around seventy, all that hard, hard work for even less pay unavoidably led to a total all out strike at seventy-two. He still thought of sex though, only he thought about sex well… about… mmm… forty-eight and a half percent less time, then he did when he was twenty-two. That made it about forty-eight and a half percent of the time now he was seventy-two, or at least it felt that way, funny how scarcity grows things large in the mind.

He relaxed, deeper, reminiscing away the day…

It had started as a good day. His head was fairly clear from the effect of the damned drugs. He had got up early, and he was going out, not coming out, not that he was against anything like that, he had a maxim; you should always try something twice (except Brussel sprouts), he’d just never met a man who he fancied. No, he was definitely going out for his daily grind… ho no-no no, not that type of grind, although he did wish. And the daily grind wasn’t his walk, no not the walk; he enjoyed the walk, although he often wondered why his feet hadn’t rubbed the ruts of routine into the pavement that he had pulverised for the last few years. What he was referring to was his joints… it was as if seventy-two plus-ish years of bending, along with over a repetitive sixty-nine pages of unusual Karma Sutra contortion motions, appeared to have sucked sap from the centre of his skeleton, leaving joints taut, tendons tight and bones insightfully sensitive to the years of use. In fact they’d become so insightfully sensitive they had created the need for a walking stick, not that that mattered, not at all, the silver fox-head handle of the cane added to the general bearing, plus, it had been said by more then a few, his performance. He turned his mind to how the day’s matinee had begun.

His eyes were glistening; they were hungry eyes, warm as breakfast brown toast, flecked with mischief, framed with life’s lustre. His hair lived its own existence in a total topiary nightmare, salted with years, peppered with pleasure, curled with confusion. He’d served his servitude to the pressed collar, cuff and neatly tied tie and it was his time, his me time, his here and now time. He stopped and checked himself in the mirror, not a day over forty. The clarity had brought about one of the better tone down days. The perfectly straight creases in his lime green flared seventies trousers followed the slight curve of bowing legs nicely, the twice adjusted, professionally put pop-star bulge was in the right place, and his shoes that would have one point been so highly polished they were like mirrors, useful for looking up ladies skirts, weren’t any longer. The sex union’s intervention had had many by-products, including carefully chosen odd coloured socks. He tugged down his black-watch tartan waistcoat with its professionally undone bottom button, brushed at the open double-breasted dinner jacket, thought about a red cravat and smiled. Eccentric? Oh no, the supposed effect of drugs and dotage allowed him to create his own unique conventions that others couldn’t always get their heads around. And now was the time for today’s chuckle, time to go and challenge some ridged squares with a few odd oval holes. He started for the door carefully. Would have been on tiptoes if it hadn’t been for an arthritic metatarsal. He moved quietly and slowly, with sloth like stealth, predictably it was the right-hand Quisling shoe that creakily gave him away. He stopped, listening, watching, waiting, and it came…

“Going out, Dad?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, what’s happening tomorrow?”

Quietly, so not to catch her out for at least the fifty-sixth time in thirty-seven hours, he whispered. “Tomorrow I’ll be even more handsome than today,” Amy’s lack of retort was becoming boring, so slightly louder he added, “no, I’m out today.” Waiting, he groaned in his head, it was as if the ritual he and Maureen had gone through with their then teenage daughter had developed revenge reciprocity. He loved his Amy, and was grateful for her insisting he lived with her, things had definitely been slipping at the old family home since Maureen had gone. But her behaviour was beginning to confine his behaviour, restricting his need for ridiculous, definitely beginning to grate. Five seconds from now there would be the caution of caring.

“Be careful.”

Three seconds to a spectre of sensibility.

“Watch out, you don’t know who’s about.”

If he didn’t answer, it brought to what was supposed to be humour.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

He shook his head to the incredulous repetition. Unfortunately words sprang forth before consequential thought kicked in. “But mummy that leaves me,” he nipped the start of the expletive, ‘ck all’… to do.”

“What was that, Dad?” Sing-songed out of newly acquired compulsive cleaning.

“That’s funny,” he covered. “Love to all… of you.” with this he grabbed his Crombie with the silk lapels from behind the doorway and opened the groaning gate of Casa Alcatraz.
“Dad, have you...?” He deliberately closed the door to the budding question, enjoying the knowledge that it would over stimulate Amy’s afternoon worry quota, and entered the external world of supposedly free subservient Stepford suburbia.

In his mind’s – eye he skipped to the bus stop, in reality, well... not quite. Through twisted ‘tache ‘o’ formed lips he whistled; well he kind of whistled his favourite song. ‘Money for nothing and your chicks for free’. “If only,” broke the whistling into a smile, it always did, ‘if only’ his ex-colleagues at the bank had really known him. Leaning heavily on the fox he tried to lever himself up to creakily click his heels together by his side, something his knees instantly and rather irritably regretted; yet their complaining was soon lost to the massive joy quotient of his life.

Rain shadowed the bus to the stop and he just beat both of them. The Chaplin spinning of the fox and the now daily (since they complained) rattling of the railings at number eight hadn’t speeded things up, but it felt good and the giant daisy for his lapel, one of many he’d permanently borrowed from number fourteen, enhanced the feeling. He reverted to age as he climbed on board, just in case there were no seats left.
The bus was grey and depressing; it had a lanoline smell of damp humanity. People were huddled in hoods and hats, heads bowed in deferred defiance to the rain, drops dripped off noses and brims into puddle patches on gloves, shoulders and knees. He was contemplating what psychological testing masterpiece to create to liven the journey up and was preparing himself for a reverberating rectum ripple when there, through all this drab undulating mass, he was drawn, drawn to a beckoning beacon, a very, very… nice wavy blond beckoning beacon. Clean short white plastic coat and knee-high boots delicately illuminated the dark surround. She looked up… a perfect face flashed a perfect smile… a wrecker’s smile… a smile of a mistress.

“May I?”

“Please.” Her voice was made for movies.

“Thank you.”

He listened to the rumble of the bus setting off, then he brought his awareness to the near mumble of the undulating and finally into thoughts of how to introduce himself. He could sense tension between them, a tension that tightened the body, a tension of sitting too close but yet, just… not… quite… close enough, long elapsed adrenaline and endorphins began to surge.

“Isn’t it funny, you want to say something, but you don’t know how to start?” Blood stopped for one and nine-seventeenths of a second from a double lurched heartbeat.

“Yes, yes I suppose it is m’dear,” he answered automatically, slightly shocked at the telepathy.

“I like travelling by bus, you never know who you are going to meet...?” She raised two thin lines of eyebrow, wrinkled her perfectly unlined forehead and opened a palm.

“Peter, everyone calls me…”

“Pete - Pete, Sabine.”

He raised himself slightly to shake her hand. As he returned to his seating position and as he started to pull his hand away, he was sure she deliberately scratched her fingernails lightly across his palm. For some reason and for only the second time in his adult life, he felt uncertainty in the presence of a woman.

“What do you do, Pete?”

“I’m, I’m retired. I worked in the town’s city Bank.”

“Too young to be retired.”

He peacocked deep inside, all thoughts of testing her flexibility gone. “No, No I’m retired.”

Her tonality dropped. “Were you a really good banker Pete?”

Instantaneously he checked her face, his meddling detector had flashed, he’d heard all the banker jokes before, but iridescent grey eyes showed no mirth and her smile was congruent.

“I had a good reputation.”

“Mmm.”

He sat in a stirringly uneasy attraction.

Sabine pointed quickly, but elegantly to a middle-aged man sitting across from them. “What do you think he does, Pete?” Tonality dropped with the question.

Leaning forward to get a better look for some reason fluster flourished on his lips. “I’m, I’m n-n-not sure m’dear.” He glimpsed her furrowed brow and tight lips. “Sabine,” he counted, her face changed back to that of a siren. “Could be a teacher - an office worker?”

Sabine tenderly placed her delicate hand on his forearm, His grip on the fox tightened.

“No Pete,” he could almost hear her purring in his ear. “I mean at night when he’s all alone, what do you think he does in undomesticated dreams, in the light of his darkest desires?” his heart stopped for a second time, the fox clattered to the floor, people turned to look at them. Their heads lightly touched as they both leant forward to pick up the cane. He could feel dauphiness hair brush his face; her breath smelt of the cherry and menthol sweets he coveted so much as a kid, he quickly recoiled.

“Yours I think.”

He felt an involuntary quiver, shiver down his arm and spine as he accepted the returned fox. He sat back to calm himself, this woman was effecting him beyond any of his experiences and for some reason, she was uncomfortably well outside the protection of his beliefs around how women act.

“Do you think he becomes a sex god?”

Sabine’s earlier telepathy stopped his thoughts.

“What do you do m’de – Sabine?”

She smiled and rolled her shoulders like a cat. “When Pete, what do you mean?”

An involuntary sigh released part of the trapped tension.

She smiled, a smile of mock innocence. “Only teasing m’dear, you do like being teased don’t you m’dear, you’re not a controlling type person are you… Pete?”

“No”

“No Pete? No to what Pete? Sure… Pete?” She was quick, that quick she didn’t give him time to answer. “I’m the curator at a museum in town.”

“Which one?”

“The one on Leopold Street.”

“I go past everyday, I haven’t seen a museum.”

“Have you been looking?”

Back in his comfort zone, he pushed to take control of the encounter, be more masculine, more manlike. “You don’t look like a curator.”

“What do I look like, Pete?”

He almost resisted a look down her cleavage and chased a healthy unhelpful thought from his mind. “A model, someone in the beauty trade,” he said with a slight shaking of his head, a shrug of scapulas emphasised he didn’t know.

She laughed, not an unkind laugh. “Give me a stereotypical curator.”

“Don’t know, long black skirt, white blouse, glasses, hair tied up, that sort of thing.”

“Funny how we put people in boxes just to stabilise our beliefs, Pete.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s my job.” She passed him a small business card. “I work in the museum of old beliefs.”

“Museum of old beliefs?” Muscle tensions in his face emphasised the question a lot more then the tonality of his voice.

“Man,” she stopped briefly to lower her voice, “and womankind have always held limiting beliefs that are not true. The earth is flat, the implementation of the 1865 Locomotion on highways act when cars had to have three drivers, not exceed 4mph on open roads, 2 mph in towns and had to be preceded by a man on foot waving a red flag. Physiologists believed it dangerous to a man’s health if they ran quicker than a four-minute mile. All old untrue beliefs, 6th May 1954 Dr Roger Banister broke the four minute mile belief, within a month John Landy also broke the four-minute mile, within thirty-six months sixteen others had run lower then four-minute miles.”

He thought about yawning. “And you run a museum about these types of old beliefs?”

“Not only about the limiting beliefs of society, the museum gives you an opportunity to explore your own personal beliefs.”

He was intrigued, yet wary. “Like what?”

Sabine’s voice lost its business-like character and became gravel again. “Think about it, visualise a past belief you used to have,” she deepened the next bit, “like…did you ever believe you would never be found out…Pete?”

The question flashed him back in time, then flushed him, he didn’t answer.

“I have to get off here,” she said standing. As she made to brush past she stopped and put her hand on his shoulder. “It would be good to see you at the museum, Pete.”

“Yes, yes of course I’ll come m’dear.”

She smiled softly down to him. “Do you really believe that Pete?”

One thing he was absolutely sure about was he did know the answer and she was gone before he could corral his thoughts, leaving behind a dilemma and the small business card, a card with vermilion italic lettering that read ‘Sabine Trudeau – Curator - Museum of old beliefs.’

He exited the bus at the town’s terminus, a prism of refracted sun foot-lighted him as clouds parted, their occupation done for the day. As he ambled he couldn’t understand why Sabine was on his mind so much or even why his mind should be on Sabine, but she was and it was. Sabine had disturbed him so much so that he missed the life-size cut out in the travel agents shop window, of the girl with the rather rounded mound wearing the bikini, promising in his mind a rather Freudian paraprax message of ‘erotic not exotic experiences’.

The flirty banter usually started by Jessie’s question, ‘tea and a bit on the side?’ The bit on the side referred to a current bread cake sensuously lubricated with liberal amounts of butter, didn’t start. Today’s it was vanquished with a simple grunt of agreement. He knew Jessie fancied him, she’d told him, and he glimpsed the flounce of the French maid’s pinafore, and heard the humph of rejection, however he was well into a list of broken beliefs, to take any real notice. He was finding it easy to name the ones that had shaped society, the earth was flat, man can’t fly, but what he was wrestling with was the tug at his conscious around the hard edged reality of lost personal beliefs, some he sensed he’d deliberately misplaced in the murk of his mind’s life, especially the ones around the death of his parents so early in his life and what happened with Maureen. He pressed the opening door of his mind closed on the thoughts the best he could, as resolve hardened deep inside.

He didn’t even look up; as Jessie slammed down the side plate and the pot of tea in front of him, he was with Sabine. He’d made his mind up to see her; he felt he had something to prove, only this time on his terms!

He’d marched, (as much as his knees would let him) out of the café with the teacake in his pocket and made for his customary afternoon tryst in the park. Someone had stolen his favourite seat at the bench by the ducks. He sat down next to the thief and started loudly mumbling about Sabine, it had no visible effect. Craftily, he reached for the little manufactured bottle of man-made mucus he kept in his coat pocket for these occasions, and with a well-crafted capability, created a large snot slide, complete with drip down over his moustache. The now uneasy young mum turned slightly to protect her genderless attired infant sat in the pushchair beside her. Even if he’d been asleep it wouldn’t have distract him from noticing the girls short dress had become even shorter as she twisted away from him. And the girl had noticed of his gaze.

“Dirty old man!”

“Not sure about the old bit m’dear, mature yes, like an excellent wine, improves with age, well worth laying down, don’t you think? He waited for a few seconds before adding, “fancy a tipple?”
The girl just ‘huffed,’ then covered her nylon thong split blooming moon, swung a baby bag over the pushchair handles and set off. He had smiled as he slid over to where she’d been sat, why did women so selectively choose whether or not to ‘blow it’ when they ‘show it’? Must be something to do with the right people noticing, or not. Like, like, like what about the time when he was younger and a woman accused him of staring at her extremely low cut dress, Ok guilty as charged, you don’t find shopkeepers putting things in shop windows not to look at. Then the next week a girl he was dating complained about him not looking at her and how she was dressed, what…huh? Then, yes, then there were the open questions. ‘What’s this look like? How does this fit? Where have you been? When was that?’ No chance of getting the right answer with a man’s single grunt, he concluded men weren’t meant to think around women, simpler… hiding to nothing otherwise. But then again Jessie in the café didn’t mind, she thrived on knowing looks and innuendo-laden repartee. He’d smiled inside at the next consideration, ‘perhaps it was those who couldn’t even spell repartee that didn’t like it’. The internal manifestation of the café stimulated him to take out the teacake and started attracting the local birds, it wasn’t long before starling and tits came looking for an easy meal.
The fed birds fled, not wanting to be caught at what they were doing, the slightly scruffy less fussy ones hung around as a rather rotund man, whose puce face was partially covered by a Father Christmas type facial hair sat beside him, neither looked or acknowledged each other for a moment.

“Tom.”

“Pete.”

He’d accepted the hip flask.

“Amy still got you signed up for the temperance movement?”

He, “Umm’d,” as he nodded, the flask still in his mouth; malt was much more effective then the damned pills.

“Still think she has designs on putting you into a home?”

“Amy and some damned female doctor have been having regular coven meetings to see about me going into hospital for more tests and treatment.”

“Slippery road mate.”

“More needles, prodding’s and potions.” He took another swig.

Tom’s habit of reaching round his high-waist trouser clad belly bulge and scratching down the side of his groin when talking had not diminished, he nodded. “Still having to pay to attract chicks?”

“A teacake’s cheaper then Thailand.”

“At least mine don’t go cheep.”

“You’re right they marry you, take your money then bugger off back.”

Tom’s gruffor was in keeping with his character; he started the ritual of lighting the tobacco in his old knarred briar.

He reluctantly offered the flask back. “Thanks.”

“Got it for you.”

“Edradour?”

“Eighty-three.”

“Eighty-three, Cheapskate!”

Tom playfully punched him on the arm with the hand that held the lighter, knocking him over sideways way beyond where the girl had sat.

“Talking of birds, I got accosted by a beauty on the bus.” He creakily managed to sit back up.

Nonchalantly, Tom continued scratching his groin. “Sexually?”

“I wish,” he hesitated for some reason he needed to recoup some of the face he lost with Sabine, even in front of his friend who didn’t even know her. “However she was coming on to me, wanting to know my wildest dreams and such.”

“Thought the doctor said you have to stop the Sildenafil Citrate?”

“Wouldn’t need it with this one old pal.”

“Yuh Sure…”

He reached into his pocket. “Her card you disbeliever.”

There was a quizzical look on Tom’s face, somehow he thought he knew what Tom was thinking, ‘drugs and whisky mixing?’

“No, you don’t stop the whiskey, it’s the only vice I have.” He took the card back and put it in his pocket.

“I bet the bird on the bus was juicy Jessie from the terminal café.”

“Terminus café, no her names Sabine, Sabine Trudeau, didn’t you see it on the card, oaf?”

He went to pass Tom the card again. Tom held his hand up, the puzzled look returned to his face.

“Anyway I’ve decide I’m going to see her at the Museum, I’ve got business with that young lady!”

“Museum?”

“Yes, museum.”

Tom’s laugh seemed to echo away with, “tomorrow.” He couldn’t remember Tom leaving but he had taken the whiskey with him, the tight git.

The walk to Leopold Street was lost to the days haze. As he arrived, for some reason he dare not enter the street, instead he stood at the corner and leant forward on the fox, peering down the street. It was exactly as he remembered it, nothing new. There was the lingerie shop where he lingered longer then he ought, what had been Woollies, the butcher, the bakers and the interior lighting shop, but no museum. With a somewhat slight relief mixed with a slight disappointment he dared the threshold and began to walk down the street. He stopped as usual outside the lingerie shop window, partly through repeated habit and partly to look for Sabine’s card to see if there was a hint of an address. As he fumbled about in his trouser pocket, he looked into the shop. The pretty girl with the bright red hair was shaking her head at something, the made up manager pointed towards him, then checked her watch. Unusually, there were no middle-aged matrons looking to change their curves with corsets. The fumbling search only revealed his bus pass, his keys and wallet, no card, it disturbed him, he had an aching feeling he might have dreamt the meeting with Sabine. A lot of things were disturbing lately, he had increasingly found dreams had become very real, and some of reality had become almost dream-like. He damned the doctors drugs Amy kept feeding him. He stopped searching, Tom must have taken it. He waved to the girls in the shop, the redhead cheerily waved back, the man-age-r gave him the finger, he put his hands back in his pockets and gave her a special rummage, everything was normal, he wasn’t dreaming.

It was with some despondency he walked the rest of Leopold Street, looking for a sign of hope and hope looking for a sign. All there was, were Victorian coal-smoked buildings with sedate façades and new glass, nothing he knew was new, not even a new old museum. Before he turned into Carlota Lane he stopped for one final shufti, it was then he saw a little sign, a little sign on ornate black railings he’d never noticed before, directly opposite his lingering stop. He hesitated for a moment. Suddenly the concrete of the pavement turned into a mire of mud, stopping him moving back down the street. He waited, willing movement back into his feet. Determination set him off, slowly at first, his feet shackled by apprehension, then anticipation managing momentum. He moved slightly quicker, trepidation grew expediential as he approached the dark, highly polished wood sign; expectancy swelled, stopping his body, leaving it tight and taut and breathless as he read on the small wooden plaque in the same italic writing he’d seen on Sabine’s card, Museum of old beliefs.

He shuddered time and movement back into his muscles. Looking down the twelve dark cellar type steps, he saw a broad medieval style metal studded door. Four times he put his right foot down onto the first step. Four times, for some reason, he pulled it back onto the street. He waited, wanting to move down the steps, every sense electrified, but he couldn’t, something deep inside held him, stopped him, froze him from moving forward. He turned, immensely disappointed with himself, frustrated, crestfallen, upset. He shuffled down the street with cognitive reasoning there was tomorrow. The further he moved away, the more he brightened, today would just make him look too keen, too interested. He looked at his watch to take his mind off the reaction of disappointment, he’d just have time to spend with Jessie before going home, she would take away the feeling of failure, she was funny, and she always cheered him up…

The water had cooled, shifting his mind to now and why he didn’t go down the steps to the museum. He couldn’t understand, Sabine was gorgeous, and sexy, in fact she would be his perfect dream woman, should there be such a thing. However, even now well away from the steps there was the feeling that if he had gone down to meet her there would have been change, a change there would be no coming back from. On the other hand; would that be hardship with his life how it was presently. Then again there was Amy, but then again, that in itself could be a good enough reason to spend time with Sabine. He was tired; he’d make a decision in the morning. He give todge one final rodge, still no real response, better really, he’d need the toilet before sleep.

3

“Oh Dad!” dragged him away from the needles inserted into his brain and the massive pipe about to be swaged into his urethra.

“It’s you Amy, thought it was that damned nurse again.”

“Look at your bed Dad.”

He had an uncomfortable feeling sitting, not only did his pillow look like it had been a major player at the La Tomatina in Bunyol, there was an unpleasant coolness at the back of his thighs that could only mean one thing.

“It’s them damned drugs you keep feeding me, they are making it so I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

Amy started stripping the pillowcases. “Don’t know if I can look after you any more Dad.” Then realised she had spoken out loud, she quickly changed the conversation. “You still having the dreams about being in hospital?

“You better do the whole bed.” He answered getting out. “Yes, at times I don’t know which is real, the hospital or this! I’m going for a bath.”

“Shower ’d be quicker.”

“Going for a bath.”

“Throw your night things out so I can wash them. No don’t take, oh Dad!”

As he lay in the bath he had a realisation that he hadn’t eaten for a while, but even so he wasn’t hungry. Also he had a weird sensation that someone was fitting a cannula into his arm but as he looked down there was nothing to be seen, with a shrug he got out of the bath and dried himself. Amy had put his clothes out on his naked mattress.

There was a plastic bag and suitcase close to the door, a quick search inside revelled most of his clothes, Amy must be taking them to the cleaners, unless? As he set off downstairs to confront Amy what was going on he had another odd sensation in his arm, a cold numbing feeling. He could hear Amy calling him from somewhere, but as he reached the bottom step the house and furniture had become ethereal, Amy’s calling sounded to echo away into the distance. Damned drugs, damned daughter, no matter what they said, he was coming off them. He’d prefer that his condition quicken then spend the rest of his life in this half-state or in a home.

He had no explanation why, but as he passed the telephone in the hall there was an irresistible urge to pick it up. He stood watching, waiting, listening to see who was about, before picking it up.

“Amy we will do what ever we can to make your dad comfortable.” He knew the female voice.

“I know Doctor, I know it sounds pathetic, but I don’t know what I can do to help.”

“At this late stage there is nothing you can do, just be there, if you can, talking helps, but we can’t tell how much is registering.”

“Dr Livingston I assume.” The echoing depth of his voice shocked him.

“Hi Pete, decided to join us?”

“Dad?”

Peter could visualise them both talking. “Deciding what to do with me.”

“We didn’t know you were with us Pete.”

“Hi Dad.”

“Dr Livingston I need to come off the drugs.”

“No Dad.”

“One thing at a time Amy, how you feeling Pete?”

“Bit groggy, bit surreal really.” He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t resist adding, “and incredibly randy!”

“Daaaaad!”

“It’ll be the drugs Pete, they sometimes have that effect.”

For some reason he was on a roll. “No doctor it’s you, I know when you wear your white coat, you are only wearing silk stockings and suspenders underneath, or is it just those hold ups you wear, I prefer the suspenders they’re like a frame for your...”

“DAD!”

“I stopped wearing a white coat a long time ago.”

“But not the stockings?”

“That’s between me and my partner Mr Thomas.”

“Partner? Male or female?”

“Dad.”

“I know doctor let’s have telephone sex.”

“Telephone…?”

“You know I tell you what I’m doing and you tell me what you’re doing.

“Dad!!”

“I really don’t think this…”

“I know; I know it’s a bit kinky, but things are only kinky the first time you try them.”

“No Dad!”

“Listen.” Things went quiet for a short time, then a faint slapping could be heard. “That’s my todge against the mouth piece.”

“This is inappropriate Mr Thomas.”

“Talking of inappropriate what are you touching now doctor? Are you having a little rub, a little play?”

He could just make out Amy sobbing through a series of sorrys, served her right, if she wanted to put him in a hospital or a home she should have discussed it with him first.

“We need to address your medication Pete.”

Doctor Livingston was back calling him Pete. “No we shouldn’t be looking at addressing, we should be looking into un-dressing doctor, not hospitals and medication. Bet you wear those really, really brief Frenchie knickers, not like the mega-pants on the extension, don’t you doctor, you can tell me, go on doctor, tell me, tell me!”
Everything went quiet. “Hello, any depraved doctors out there, any un-dutiful daughters, hello, HELLO.” Nothing, just a dial tone. A slightly confused he went to put his todge back in his pants, but he hadn’t got it out. His thoughts moved to Amy wondering what she might say or probably not, still they unquestionably had things to discuss, just needed to get the todge thing out of the way first though.


The house had turned into a ghost abode; the spectre of Amy was nowhere to be seen. What was that the extension telephone had no telltale damp fingerprints or the smell of bleach or the sent of Amy’s perfume, either Amy was getting quicker with the cleaning or there was something else going on. He sat at the kitchen table, with a slightly amused embarrassment at what he’d just said. The thought of a cup of tea acted as a distracter, but he wasn’t thirsty or hungry, he was going to have to come off the damned doctors drugs.

As thoughts expanded tenacity tightened, if plans were a foot to put him in an institution then the buggers were definitely not getting his money. He went in search of his daughter; there were things that needed to be thrashed out… in a metaphorical meaning. Amy was hiding somewhere, he could sense she was near, but she was keeping out of his way, either through the embarrassment of the telephone conversation, or she couldn’t face telling him what she was thinking, or even telling him she had made arrangements with the hospital. He made a quick telephone call to his old bank and found a new envelope.


Peter was incredibly weary on the bus going into town, thank goodness it was fairly quiet, there was no drunken nutter to mutter meaningless diatribe at anyone who made eye contact. He thought of remedying that, too tired. Settling back into a surf of sound created by groups of passengers who couldn’t stand the void of silence, the thought of Sabine brought about a Pavlov type of response, making him shuffle in his seat. He planned to first see Jessie, give her the envelope, then sort out the bank, go and see Tom, then he was going to spend some time with that little, well not so little lady Sabine, probably his last chance, who knows what would happen to him when he got the chemical straightjackets of hospital surging through his veins.

Stopping outside the travel agent, there was a feeling of sadness that this might be the last time he saw the girl in the bikini, he stood for half a minute or so admiring her curves, forty or so years ago and well… well he… he stopped himself and smiled, he’d probably be attempting a date with her mother. Some unknown force carried him inside the shop. Taken aback for a second, there, sat at a desk was the real live girl who’d modelled the cutout in the window.

“May I?”

“Please, how can I help you?”

“You look different..?”

“I know, with my clothes on.” The girl’s smile didn’t match the words.

“No, no it’s your eyes, they haven’t caught the light in your eyes on the poster.” He shocked himself, he couldn’t remember looking at her eyes.

“Thank you, you’re the first person to notice.”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking. “Welcome.”

“You looking for a particular type of holiday?”

“Not really just looking at what you’ve got, you know what I …mmm”

The girl didn’t know what to say; she’d seen more then a glint in his eyes.

“Tell me your perfect holiday” He looked at her nametag, “Melinda?”

She looked like she was looking to deflect obvious interest. “Well when my boyfriend and I were planning a honeymoon we would have gone out to Dubai, do a three day stop over and then fly down to the Maldives for 16 days.”

“Show me?”

Melinda got out the brochures and turned to the relevant pages, he watched the longing in her eyes.

“Looks great, how much?”

Melinda tapped a few keys on the keyboard and with a final well-practiced flourished tap, sent the printer into work mode. She passed the computers conclusion.
Peter inwardly gasped, you could buy a new small car for the cost of the holiday; no wonder she had said ‘would have gone’, ‘would have’ being the operative words.

“That’s for two.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Hundred?” Melinda looked confused. “Joking.” He took out his wallet. “Card OK?”

“Err yes, of course, just a few details, are you sure?”

“Sure.”

As Melinda brought up the booking pages, Peter concocted a plan. “When are you getting married?”

“One moment, erm one second, there. On the 21st of next, just a, right, up a page, of next month.” Melinda was talking to him and the keyboard at the same time.

“Day before I want to fly, is that date OK?”

With a short disappointed type of hiss from her nostrils, Melinda forlornly replied, “I don’t need to look that up, I know it is. Name?”

He gave his name and Amy’s address.

“And your partner, it’s Mrs James?”

“Sadly no, Mrs James died a number of years ago.”

Melinda took her hands off the keyboard and opened them up in a placating questioning manner.

Peter leant forward to ensure he got it right. “Melinda Thomas.”

“That’s my name…”
He wasn’t sure if it was confusion or she was contemplating the possibilities, his overactive Id plumbed for the latter.

“Is this all a perverted joke Mr Thomas, I can’t come with you, I’m getting married.”

“You sure about both?”

“Shall we get the manager?”

“No, no just wait a little bit,” sighing to slow things down. “Put your name down, just do it.” He ordered, and then said softly, “and put your boyfriend’s name and address in the other box, your honeymoon is a gift from me. Your picture has brought a smile to me most mornings, it’s a thank you.”
Melinda came round the desk in tears, Peter couldn’t help himself, putting the fox down he gave her bottom a more then fatherly rub. “Just call me Christmas.”
After approval and witnessing by the manager, He left the travel agents with a considerably lighter bank balance and a considerably lighter conscience.

Peter, nearly forgot and went straight into the terminus café, he stopped just in time. He couldn’t risk being doused again by a juxtapositional Jessie, who knows it could be curry next and he didn’t particularly like curry, played havoc with his sarcastically highly hilarious hiatal hernia. He peeped in to check who was there. Jessie was nowhere to be seen, probably been sacked for her… he stopped the thought ‘demented dotage’, the words didn’t sit well with him, and she didn’t deserve that. Who did, echoed deep, deep down inside. He entered the café with the stealth of a geriatric ninja.

“Is she about?” He had tucked the fox under an armpit, bent his knees with hands ready in a karate position.

The owner smiled. “No I’m afraid Jessie left and after yesterday’s performance…” she shrugged her shoulders. “What can I get you? It’s on the house”

Peter didn’t totally relax; he transferred the cane and swished it like a foil, still on guard, just in case. “Will you be seeing her again?”

“She should be back in a couple of days, collect her wages.”

“Can you give her this?” He cavalierly tossed the cane to his other hand, to free his right hand, only his left hand didn’t get the message and the cane fell at the feet of an older woman. Three times he tried to pick it up. Eventually the woman leant on her tartan shopping trolley and picked it up for him. “Here you are Athos.”

He honoured her with a touch of his homburg and turned his attention back the cafés owner. “Could you give this to Jessie?” He pulled out the envelope he’d prepared earlier.

The owner took it extremely reluctantly. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

The owner lifted the tucked in flap and took out a cheque. “I don’t understand.” It was made out to Mrs Jessie Jones for five thousand pounds – only. “After yesterday?”

“She was always complaining about her teeth, this should help put them right.”

Dumbfounded the owner put the cheque back in the envelope. “I’ll… I’ll pass it on.”

“Tell her it’s from tooth fai…ellow.”

Peter couldn’t help feeling a little despondent about how Jessie and he had parted; it would have been good to have one final jest with Jess, if she’d been a few years younger, who knows?
He was about to leave when he heard a voice shout. “Can I pour a tin of peas over you?” He shook his head, there’s always a wit that starts with T.

There was a small diversion from his usual route, he needed to sign some papers and pick up some cash from his old bank. As he walked in, shock shook him. A name from the past had returned to trouble him, Debra Schofield. Debra had been a trainee when he was branch manager, a vivaciously ambitious girl who had caused him a lot of problems and Maureen a lot of pain. She was now well up the ladder, Branch manager. He pulled his hat down to cover some of his face. As he concluded his banking and was putting two large packages inside his coat, the electronic voice of the cashier nasally droned. “Mr Thomas, Ms Schofield would like to see you, could you wait there a moment?” Damned telephone call earlier.
“No, no,” came out a lot louder then it should, a deafening quiet descended into the bank, everyone now tuned into Peter who pulled his hat even further down across his face. “No sorry, haven’t time, got to rush, next time.” He left a perplexed casher with the speed just short of a Zimmer framed arthritic bank robber.


“Tom.”

“Pete.”

He accepted the hip flask.

“Amy still got you signed up for the temperance movement?”

“Umm. Tom got something for you.” Peter reached inside his coat, checked the size of each package then passed one to Tom.

“Know that there Thai bit must have left you more then a bit short, so here’s forward payment for the next five years whisky.”

Tom’s hand left his groin to take the package; with a banker precision he flicked the contents. “I can’t accept this, never mind five years worth of whisky, there’s a down payment on a distillery in here, thanks Pete, can’t take it.” He made to give it back.

Peter held up his hand. “Take it, a home, hospital or the bloody government will seep it away for profit or some pointless parliament plan, and all my working life will mean nothing, just take it, you’ll appreciate it, they don’t care where it’s come from.”

“But Amy.”

“Amy’s looked after, plus I’ve given her as much as I can, the death duty scavenging tax jackals will devour what’s left.”

“Thanks, it means a lot.” Tom put the package away and reverted back to scratching. “You seem down Pete?”

“Mmm, me-thinks there’s plans a-foot. In fact, I’m sure there’s plans in place to put me in hospital, I suspect this is the last time we’ll be able to meet here.”

“Pete, I’m sorry, don’t know what to say.”

The two stood up as one and embraced for the first time ever. “I’ll come and see you.”

“Don’t bother mate, my body may be there, but I suspect my mind will be somewhere else.”
The final words of a fifty-one year friendship.

Peter wiped the precipitation from the side of his eye as he entered Leopold Street; he had a quick glance over to the plaque on the other side. He had one last thing to do before he went to see Sabine. He didn’t do his usual linger outside the shop, instead he walk straight in and up to the counter where the red headed girl was waiting.

“For years I’ve wanted to come in and buy something, now I have a friend, I don’t know what to do.”

“A friend,” echoed the girl’s pursed lips emphasising the end of ‘friend’.

“Can you advise me? After three years of courting we are beginning to get, get a bit intimate.”

The glint in the girl’s eyes matched his. “Three years, intimate.”

“Intimate,” he nodded, the girl nodded back, lips still pursed. The manager huffed from somewhere in the shop.

“What do you think she’d like?”

“Don’t know, one of these” He felt the fabric of a Basque besides the counter.

“You’ll need pants and stockings to match,” the girl disappeared for a second coming back with two open boxes. “These match beautifully.”

Peter looked at the items, “I don’t know, it’s difficult to tell, they’re all so… flat”

The girl smiled a most wicked smile. “What size is your friend?” She took a deep breath in, “anything like me?”

He resisted spreading and waggling his fingers. “Mmm she would be about your size.”

The girl lent forward in a conspirator whisper. “Would you like me to model them for you?”

“You can do that?”

The girl took the boxes and then his hand and led him into an enclosed area to the back of the shop and sat him down. “Wait there I’ll be back in a moment.”

As she came out Peter could only smile. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you” she curtsied, revealing a scaled down Cheddar gorge. She gracefully spun round.

He pointed with one finger. “They…”

“You didn’t think this was natural,” she flounced falsely while taking off a bright red wig, letting down a fall of auburn curls.

“You should model.”

“That’s the plan.”

“I’ll take it. Don’t suppose you come with it?”

“What about your friend?” she was teasing him.

“Between you and me, I haven’t a friend.”

“Between you and me, I know.”

“Why then?”

“We had a bit of fun, didn’t cost anything, life’s for living not constraining to death.” She turned as she left for the changing rooms, “you don’t have to buy them.”

“I want to, a present to you.”

“They are rather nice, good choice.”

They returned to the checkout the manager was hovering. The girl, with bright red hair back in place, started wrapping the clothes.
“Long time ago I lost my second daughter at birth, if she had lived I truly hope she would have been like you.”
The girl came round the counter and with one leg cocked at the knee chastely kissed him. “Thank you,” she murmured softly.

“Is cash alright?”

“Err… sure.”

Peter took an envelope out of his coat. “Keep the change.”

The girl took the money out. “I can’t, there’s hundreds.”

“Thousands, for your career.”

The manager intervened. “Can I help?” He could see her eyeing the cash.

“One moment m’dear,” he turned his attention back to the girl. “You keep the change, you do what you need to do.” He turned back to the manager. “Yes you can, I need something else, what do you think?”

“It depends on what you’re trying to achieve.”

“I know.” He walked over to a rail and took down a sheer piece of black material with three strategic openings; he turned the hanger round to reveal three string ties that held the whole thing together. “What about this? Will you model it for me?”

Peter saw the flash of resentment in her; he also saw the want flash from a fleeting glance at the cash.
He tapped his breast pocket. “For five grand?” He held out the hanger.

The manager looked at the tiny piece of material, then to Peter, then back to the material. He could experience the apprehension tension, then with a “Humph” she snatched the hanger.

He waited ‘till she got to the dressing room curtain. “One second,” he tapped his coat pocket, then he started rummaging in his trousers. “I haven’t got five grand, what about modelling for five pence?” He took a five pence coin out of his pocket.

The manager threw the garment to the floor like it was soaked in Hydrochloric acid. And with the venom of a crotalidae Pit Viper she screamed. “WHAT TYPE OF FUCKING WOMAN DO YOU THINK I AM?”

He looked at her calmly, raised the Homburg and politely replied. “We’ve established that, all we’re doing is negotiating a price.” Peter had to admit bake beans are a lot softer then the palm of a hand.

He rubbed his left cheek as he looked across the road, deliberately assassinating time, he frantically searched for things to do, any excuse not to cross the road, anything. A cup of tea, but he wasn’t thirsty. A sandwich, he wasn’t hungry. A, a, a, a, there wasn’t anything, nothing. So it was with extremely anxious trepidation he crossed the street. He looked down the cellar steps. His vestibular spun and vomit built, swallowing back each step he took, he made for the big studded door and stopped. Slowly the door swung open, he didn’t now how, but he knew he was expected inside.

It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t exactly light inside either. What light there was came from floor, up-lighters, that fanned out beams of vermilion shaded laser light up the walls into prisms about head height, that in turn, refracted light into a myriad of pinpoint spots on the ceiling. The door slammed shut. Without outside light the corridor he had just entered had became darker. His heart rate rose, his breath became shallower, just as his eyes adjusted to the new level of light, everything went black. Then it started, the sound of a mounting pulse, it matched his increasing internal rhythm, the up-lighters started to flick to the beat until sound, light and body vibrated as one. Everything grew swifter, faster, his head started swimming, he couldn’t breath quick enough, he was about to tumble, when it stopped. Everything paused for a moment of black perpetuity. Then gradually images started to flash, slowly at first. Where they came from, Peter couldn’t tell. Old images from old archives, faded and flickering, parts remembered and others forgot, parts brown, others faded and burnt out. How long he was there, he couldn’t tell, a lifetime? A few seconds? A few minutes? A few… it went dark again. The pulse created a new cadence, slower, it sounded to ripple down the corridor in a repetitive dying tone. The lights illuminated the hall for a millisecond, then darkness, and then every second beat the lights sequentially followed the sound down the passageway, passing flashing memorable images along the way. Peter was aware of an urge building. The lights and sound were calling him down the corridor. His head’s rational belief said no, irrational heart said yes, and won. As he got closer to the end of the corridor, he could see a plain wooden door, a door just like any internal doors found in millions of houses everywhere. He hesitated by the door; there were no handles or any distinguishing marks. He had a sensation that somehow, this was the most important door in his whole life. Why or how, he didn’t know, but it was. Hundreds of cognitive thoughts bombarded with reasons not to proceed; yet there was a deeper pull that diminished all of them. The door was there to be opened and he could, and he would, and he did.
The room was triple vaulted and full of what looked like hard-edged objects around the walls but they were obscured by low light. What light there was came from the left-hand corner of the vault, a single desk lamp. Lots of hands could just be seen working in the puddle of the light, they were quick and efficient. As he moved towards the light Peter kept stopping with a jolt or a shudder, it was if he’d bumped into something, yet there was never anything there. As he approached the lamp someone from behind the desk turned it and caught him, not unlike the searchlights from the past, he stopped.

“Another who didn’t use the left door.”

“I used the right door?”

“Probably, then a lot of people do, bet you’re here to see Dr Trudeau?”

“Sabine, yes I am, she gave me her card.” He started fumbling for proof.

“I should have guessed it’s nearly always people who’ve been with that Dr Trudeau that tend to come this way, never mind.”

The illumination lifted; as his eyes adjusted and as the black-flecked effects from the light subsided, he was surprised to see only one person behind the desk, he hadn’t heard anyone leave. The person (Peter was unsure of the gender) shook their hands down by their sides, as if trying to shake cuffs down from inside the arms of a jacket. Their head was an unusual shape, wide at the top yet elongated and tapered, and what looked like their ears were far too far up the sides of their head. But it was the eyes that unnerved him; they were far too big for the head, if it hadn’t been for the two arms coming out of their jacket, he would have thought it was an octopus.

“Right, let me see… you must be PP?”

Peter was shocked it had been a long time since anyone had called him PP. It brought back memories of his mum, she called him PP, Perfect Peter, she’d say, but she actually admitted later on in his life the first P was some form of reference to his lack of bladder control.

“How did you…?” He stopped, he was sure Octoson or Perpus or whatever they were was deliberately looking towards his groin area with a knowing look and nod.

He covered himself with his coat. “Are you the one who’s going to show me around?” Peter uneasily asked, one, to cover his confusion and another, he was desperate to ensure they had only two legs.

“No PP I’m here…”

“The names not PP I’m…”
“I know who and what you are!” It was the stern voice of his mother. It softened, “I will point you in the right direction, it will be Dr Trudeau who will look after you. D
Don’t want you going the wrong way and meeting all the wrong people, do we… PP?”

Peter stopped himself biting, wasn’t sure that whatever was across the desk wouldn’t bite back and the moment was so surreal he couldn’t trust anything. “It’s not the…”

“Drugs no, this is real, this is you living in the present.”

“Do you…”

“Know everything? Yes, it’s all filed away.”

“Do you…”

“Not always. Did your daughter catch all this reiteration off you? Don’t answer that, it’s not needed for your file.”

“I have…”

“A file? Everyone has a file.”

He was getting upset, about what, he didn’t know, he snapped. “Can I…”

“Bloody well finish off what you started? If you want. Don’t see the point though, haven’t all the time in the world. Well you haven’t…”

The sentence stopped him. Stopped him, then ebbed away all the built up negative energy. “What do you…” he could see they were going to say something, then stopped. “…mean?”

“Everything finishes at sometime, needs to end.”

Something stopped Peter pushing this, and that was what the next answer could be. “Not?”

“The drugs, no. This is a unique experience that will never occur in your life again, relax, go with it.”

“Won’t kill me then?” He was sure whoever they were just shook their head at his incredulity, well as much as one can without much of a neck.

“Through that door, across the courtyard to the door in the left-hand corner, Dr Trudeau will be there.”
Peter headed towards the door that had been pointed at, he halted for half-a-second. “Do you know…”

“I’m weird? Not to me I’m not, I’m normal, always been this way. Now you…” For once they didn’t finish the sentence.
“Bast”

“I assure you I’m not,” followed him as he went through the door.


There were a lot of people in the courtyard. Peter was surprised most of them were old; there were very few young people. The area was large and open to the elements. There was a wooden covered walkway that surrounded the courtyard, the centre was grassed with what looked like fruit trees scattered here and there. Some people looked to be moving with purpose, others just milled about, sat under trees, stared into space. he heard a baby cry out from somewhere; where, he couldn’t tell. He set off across the grass towards where he’d been told Sabine would be. As he reached the door, a very emancipated sandy haired boy came out, Peter move to one side out of his way, tension rose. So it was with some trepidation he knocked on the door. The door opened with the force of the knock, he stuck his head into the room, two large inlayed desks were in the centre and very little else, no pictures or paintings, no cabinets or any sign of papers or computers, just two large desks and two large chairs. He was about to leave when he saw a door opening diametrically opposite from where he was standing. At first he thought it was a man who entered, the person had the walk and body of a man, then before Peter could blink, the person changed. They reached up to the back of their head and shook down a mass of long, wavy blond hair. It was Sabine.


8
Book is now snipped to halfway through the Museum, to give a sense of what happens inside. The intent is to flip the reader’s perception to one of more empathy for Peter. (Bob had appeared earlier).

“So there’s always been a Father Christmas?”
Sabine smiled, she was back in the long black dress and white blouse. “How does it feel knowing that he’s in all of us?”
“The girl in the travel agent.”
“Exactly, Father Christmas was always there, you just suppressed him.
“Bugger me.”
“Prefer if I didn’t have to.”

They walked a little way, the thick blue carpet softening footfall.
As they sat down on a big burgundy over filled, buttoned leather Chaise, Peter pondered for a moment. “Just think of all them opportunities missed, all them big grown up girls that could have come and sat on my Santa knee.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I don’t mean it really.”
“I know.” It could have been mother talking.

“Which door…” Sabine didn’t have time to finish, Bob came ricocheting down the corridor, arms and legs flaying. “FIRE FIRE, FIRE,” exploded extremely loudly off the not so pretty pink walls. Doors to rooms opened, saw it was Bob, then closed with a rhythm that would have done many a heavy metal drummer proud.
As Bob headed for Peter and Sabine, they stood in unison. Tripped on his shoelace and with the agility of a Walrus landing with only a half opened parachute, Bob sat Peter down with a head butt to the groin. If he'd dared to breath, Peter would have gasped. He leant forward and put his head into his hands. It was through tear splashed, fingers he watched Sabine pick up Bob and sit him down. Peter pressed the heels of his hands hard into his cheeks, desperately trying to give his brain something else to think about. As Sabine tied Bob’s shoelace, he attempted to push down the two lumps that had appeared in the side of his neck, an action he hoped would relieve some of the sickness.

“I think there’s a fire over by reception.” Sabine turned Bob towards where he’d come from.

With tears ebbing in his eyes, Peter, risked enough breath to say. “Why doesn’t he go to the toilet like everyone else?”

“His belief.”

It felt like an ice age and back before Peter could move again.

“Left I think,” Sabine announced, just that little too brightly for Peter.

“After Bob, why don’t we do it right?”

Sabine gave him a look as if to say, well, as if to say, something he didn’t want to hear.

“Left, you have too many beliefs left, you‘re out of balance.” She linked his arm. “Come on you can’t just have right-hand side beliefs all the time.”

With the perfect petulance of a perturbed five-year old, he muttered, “Ok.”

The doors were unlike any of the other doors, they were double doors, not like on the westerns, they were the double doors you push trolleys through, hospital doors.

As he pushed through the door, Peter became one with the room. The sensation that he was the room and everything in the room was still disturbing, however repetition brought familiarity. The room was dimly lit not like any of the others. He breathed in sharply when he saw the sandy haired boy from the courtyard, he turned to Sabine, she nodded, he let himself drift, until once again, he became one.

Through a radiant myriad of bulbs and switches, an intense round red light flashed, synchronising a sound to a rhythm of life. The frail body had just one intrusive tube, a feed for relief. His father is slumped in a sterile hard blue plastic chair; head resting on the white starched stiff sheets of the bed is no longer holding his son’s hand. Nine months of worry, four days of exhaustion had momentarily broken the bond between them, the connection of father to son. The blue with yellow bear curtain that contains their world moved, disturbing the warm dry air. Stirring for one second, the father, if he’d come fully awake would have seen the curtain waft against the crescent of electronics around his son’s head and the ghostly blue brain trace of the oscilloscope change. He’d have known something was happening.

The boy mumbled. He was scared, very scared from a ratcheted culmination of emotion since being diagnosed, he knew he was dying, he knew it was close. His mind was misty, frantically he tried to move, he couldn’t, he tried to call out, he couldn’t.

The peep increased, trace activity increased.

He needed his dad, he needed his dad to hold him, keep him safe, as he had done so many times before in his nine years of his life. Especially in the last three years, even more in the last nine months, he needed his dad, he needed his dad desperately.
He urgently tried to reach for his father’s safety, but nothing would respond, only panic and panic rose pitilessly.
Suddenly something cool touched his hand, the tension slowly…ebbed…away.

The peep slowed… the trace decreased.

“Hello sweetheart.”
He knew the voice, it was a voice he hadn’t heard for three years, and through mind miasma he searched for her face. Not the pale face of when he’d last seen her. He searched for the face of her laughing, her face of Christmas tears, the special smiley face she saved for him and dad. Through the fog he called for her, desperate not to be alone, not now, not at this time.
“Mum, mum I can’t see you!” His words were searching.

The peep steadied, trace activity increased.

“Just wait sweetheart, it won’t be long.”
The boy searched, at first there was only a shadow, then a shape and finally his mum came to him. She wasn’t dressed as she normally was, but it was his mum and she was here, calming him, cooling his brow, taking some of the pain.
“I’ve missed you mum,” deep down, he wept.

The peep slowed, trace activity steadied.

“And I have missed you, more then I could ever explain.”
The boy sensed his mum, he felt her love for him, encapsulate him, holding him, something he’d missed for the last three years. Taking more of the pain away, comforting.
Suddenly something lurched inside.
“Mum!”

The peep increased, trace activity increased.

Her touch eased the physical pain, yet another pain rose, a pain only his mother could answer.
“Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me and dad?”
“I didn’t want to… I stayed as long as I could.”
She was calm, slow and understanding.
“My only comfort was you had your dad and eventually Fran. I knew the strength of his love would carry you through what happened, as I knew you would be the support he needed when I’d gone.”
“Mum I’m ill.”

The peep stayed even, the trace decreased.

“I know darling, that’s why I’m here. I know, I’ve watched, I’ve been waiting ‘till now, I couldn’t help before.”
“Why not before?”
She didn’t answer question.
“Your dad didn’t need me until now. Wasn’t he great,” she deflected. “When they told you about the cancer. When he would clean you up when you were sick, the trip to Disney land, shaving his hair when you lost yours, he had all the years of love he was going to lose, to fit into these last months.”
“Mum, I don’t want to die.”

The peeps increased, the trace steady.

“No one does sweetheart, no one does.”
“I hurt mum!”
“Hush, it’ll soon be gone...”
“ I’m frightened, mum.”
She watched her son’s agony, with the helpless pain only a parent can feel; she needed him quiet for what lay ahead. She caressed him as best as she could, bringing childhood peace back, the childhood peace she had brought in to his first six years of life.
“I’m here, I’m here for you now.”
The words worked, he relaxed, his breathing eased.
“Why did you go?”

The peep decreased, the trace decreased.

“I had to go, I stayed as long as I could, I fought for you and dad, but in the end there was nothing I could do, I had to go.”
The boy thought for a while, his mother calmingly close.
“I didn’t want to forgive you for leaving.”
“I know that’s why I’m here now.”
“Mum I don’t want to leave dad all alone… he’ll never forgive me.”
“He already has.”

The peep decreased… the trace decreased.
“Did you forgive the man?”
“Not at first darling, but grandma came like I have and told me. ‘To forgive others makes you strong, to forgive yourself allows you to move on, be your true self…’ Do you forgive me?”
The boy whispered quietly. “I already have.”

The peep… decreases… the trace …decreased.

She waits, watching the turmoil in her son and as he searches, his mind becomes peaceful.
“I’m not frightened anymore, I’m ready.”
She smiles the smile she used to share with her two ‘boys’.
“It’s time to leave sweetheart.”
For a crack in time the room quietens, the boy reaches over and touches his dad’s hand. The man wakes, as the first of many tears tumble down his cheek he doesn’t see the curtain move.

The peep now a single tone… the trace a single line… the light goes out.

Peter was openly crying as he left the room, suddenly a commotion sounded down the corridor. He stopped, pointed the fox. “BOB, WHY-DON’T-YOU- JUST-FUCK-OFF!”
Arms and legs stopped with a “Fi”.
With an expanding moisture patch appearing, Bob turned and serenely walked away.
“Forgiveness,” Peter simple said.
“Forgiveness,” Sabine simply replied.

They sat down, Peter reflecting on what had happened to the boy in the room.
“My second daughter died.”
Sabine said nothing, her eyes just held him in a safe secure space of empathy.
“I was there.”
Sabine’s silence created an osmotic response.
“It was my fault.” Peter could a feel a twisting tightness around the hardened crust of the old emotion. “I didn’t kill her… but it was my fault.”
Sabine raised her lips into a semi-smile of encouragement.

“Maureen would have died, as well as the baby, I pushed Maureen to terminate.”

Sabine nodded ever-so-slightly.
“I was there when the baby was born…I watched her struggle to live, to breath, she fought and fought…
She was too young… It was my fault; my fault and I could do nothing to help her, to save the pain, I killed her. I’m sorry, so, so sorry.”

The dam of damned emotions, fractured into tears.
“Sabine do you think she’ll?”
“She already has.”
Peter didn’t ask, he stood up, and as the crust crumbled, and the belief shifted, the slight hunch he had carried in his shoulders, for all those years, straightened.
Peter sort of smiled. “I need to talk to Bob, and put out a fire.”


Snipped to the last chapter >

Peter sat alone in the Atrium, all the new memories of an old lifetime soared through his body, shifting perspectives, changing outcomes, turning tears into smiles. And though he had never felt so alive, he knew it was the end, and stood.
He checked himself in the mirror by the door. The white morning suit fitted perfectly, the lines so straight, no longer bowed with age, or sagged with stress. The white shoes were polished, the tie tied right. The breakfast brown toasts, glistened back with a new light, the lines of life long gone, peace radiated.

“You ready?” Sabine in a tailored suit, hair tied back, startled him slightly.
Peter gave a nod down to one side. “Everything’s working” He winked.
Tenderness transcended from soul to eyes. “I bet it is”. She winked back.
There was a tension so taut between them, it ignited every cell in his skin, then it stopped, unexpectedly. “I’m ready.”
“I know.”
Peter moved to the door and rested a cheek on the wood. His hand felt for the indentations, the rings of the woods life, the little knots. They were there, yet they were smooth and flat. Sabine put her hand on his shoulder. “Its time?” he asked.
“Time was in the past, Peter.”
“There’s no handle.”
He turned to Sabine. He felt to turn quickly, to look at her, and he did, only the room took its time to follow.
“Thank…” She put a finger on his lips.
“What’s your final belief Peter? Sabine put her hands on his shoulders, and gently squeezed.
Something so deep, he hadn’t felt since he was a child, released.
A heady weightlessness flowed over him, his voice, not his own. “There is no death, only a door.”
Peter saw her smile.
He returned. “Sabine is that…?” her smile widened.
With release, he turned and walked though the door.


… Amy knocked on Dr Livingston’s door

“Come in.”

“I’m sorry, you’re with someone.”

”It’s okay, Amy this is Dr Trudeau, he’s trying to convince me to take part in a study.”

Amy’s eyes wandered to the rather handsome man, sat besides Dr Livingston’s desk.

“I’m sorry, just wanted to say thank you for everything you did for dad, before he died.”

“It’s my job, but thank you.”

Amy turned to leave, then swung back. “Dr, do you believe he was happy at the end? After his fall down the steps and the coma, I couldn’t tell.”

“I don’t know Amy, beliefs are Sebastian’s - Dr Trudeau’s area of psychology. However, one thing I will say, the closer he came to the end, the more peaceful he looked.”

“Thank you Doctor.” Amy made to leave.

“Amy, AMY before you leave, you never did tell me why your dad was covered in beans, when we brought him in?”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.04.2010

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