by Loui Downing
Jim, or the old man in the corner never did like America, after the family became religiously obsessed with visiting for holidays he decided to stay and live the rest of his life in tranquility, the countryside was seen as ‘a greenery of gentle glamour’ which always stuck in Kerry’s mind as she imagined a breeze on a hot English summers day and her family all together, the sparkle of sun rays reflecting off the grass blinding anyone who made contact. Kerry came around after a few seconds and was filled with a desire to reach out and grab the past as she missed those times most of all. All the feelings of happiness and joy were replaced with wrath on herself for not visiting her father enough.
The taxi halted as the automatic voice stated ‘Destination-please insert a form of payment and have a pleasant evening’. Kerry placed her index finger of her right arm onto a glassed pane situated in front of her close to the drinks cabinet. The car was spacious and very comfortable with windows either side but none in front like her grandfather remembers, this nearly always make’s Kerry cringe, especially when he used to rant on about having to drive yourself, I mean this seams completely preposterous. A ray of blue and red lasers scanned over her finger and the machine spoke softly ‘Payment granted- Thank you Mrs. Marvel’. Kerry left the taxi and looked up at the tall building just over the road from her, it was a very old building and it looked haunted, as there was an eerie presence along with dark clouds that seemed to linger above as she walked to the spiked tall black gate. The stars were peering out behind the thick placid clouds sparkling randomly as Kerry took one last look above her, feeling a nauseating pain throughout as she reached for her keys to her spacious home in Park Avenue on the upper east side, the house that Rupert has worked so hard for. Kerry pulled back her sleeve and said her grandfather’s nursing home clearly into her embedded telephone piece on her wrist underside ‘Manalan Nursing’s, Oxfordshire, England’.
The trolley squeaked as the wheels changed from carpeted surface to that of wooden. It was the health assistant bringing the patients their medicine for the night before bedtime. Jim hated medication of which he thought he was alone with this thought, unaware that the majority of the patients and retired persons really wanted nothing better than to wonder free down to the local shop or walk their pets, something human, whereas to be placed here Jim thought of as captivity like a bear in chains.
The young women wearing a blue tight fitting uniform that really didn’t accent her figure began reading Jim’s medical record on the way to finding him. The blue folder with reams of notes looked tattered and eroded. The young women flicked through the contents of the documents to locate Jim’s medication. Jim had unfortunately been diagnosed with a progressing Alzheimer’s and before this he had been having troubles with his heart, which made him lose the feeling in one side of his body after having an aggressive heart attack. This made Jim unable to talk much to the staff or family, of which made him reclusive, aggressive and sad as Frankie had recalled one of the matrons viewing a tear on occasions in despair for being speechless.
‘Evening Jim, how are we today then?’ shouted matron Henchworth in an extremely patronising tone. Jim acknowledged in the form of a murmur and a half smile that was about all he could manage.
‘Time for your medication and then bedtime I think for you lot’ said the matron after a long pause looking around the room whilst attending to Jim’s medication. Jim looked at the floor with an absorbing stare wondering whether things would change. A youngish girl of Asian orientation entered the room with urgency as the matron beamed at her.
‘Can’t you see I’m busy, go and attend to the others’ declared the matron with a stare that was soul penetrating. The small Asian women took this in her stride, obviously having been spoken to like this constantly in her working profession here.
‘But Miss this is a video transmission from America for Mr. Marvel’ whined the women. The matron looked confused and the eyed the blue and white clock faced situated about the canteen hatch.
‘Surely not at this hour!’ protested the matron. Jim made a loud noise, probably one of the loudest he’s made, as he looked tearful with eyes widened with intrigue. The matron glanced at the Asian women and then to Jim.
‘Very well, he’ll take the call in here’ accepted the matron grudgingly. The small women placed the call through into the conservatory area, where the matron noticed it had started getting quite dark and placed the mushroom shaped lamp on in the unfinished bricked corner, which gave little help to anyone.
The Asian women passed what looked like a diary to the matron who stared back at the women as se stood next to her.
‘Well…. don’t you have any work to do?’ questioned the matron. The Asian women Dia turned away and looked at the floor whilst muttering something in Arabic, which I’m guessing, wasn’t a thank you. The matron placed the device into Jim’s hand and pressed a button on the side. The reflection of his daughters face in Jim’s eyes as he smiled frantically, tears streaming down his jagged face dripping onto his bib and onto the device giving a splatter that distorted the picture. The matron wiped away the tear and left the room.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes Jim’ softly spoke the matron, shutting the French doors behind her and exiting through the dark room attending to the door and lighting a cigarette.
‘Jim, how are you?’ asked Kerry in the knowledge that he couldn’t respond.
‘We are coming over to see you and Frankie in a few days’ added Kerry.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to check on you. Rupert wishes you well; he’s working quite a lot at the moment. I will call you again before we get the flight out to England. Hope you’re ok and we are looking forward to seeing you soon, love you bye’ ended Kerry as the device screen went blank and returned to the normal screen menu. Jim looked wildly happy as the matron returned. All of his family together made him feel safe, if only someone could look him after.
The matron placed the pills and liquids into Jim’s mouth and rubbed his throat to ease the effort of swallowing and wheeled him to the lift next to the stairs, clicking the lights off as she went.
The telephone rang with an almighty clattering ting that shook Frankie who was leaning back on his chair, feet raised on his desk in his army barracks tent looking over the papers of new recruits, he found something odd about the applicants’ similarity. The tent was full of dusty guns, papers, medical equipment and the length of the tent was rather huge, designed for around forty or fifty persons. The assessment of the new recruits and its deadline all vanished as he was distracted by the telephone over to his left, bellowing away making the table vibrate. Frankie left his desk and proceeded over towards the small rickety table and lifted the receiver, placing it to his ear and mouth, although not speaking.
‘Frankie here of the London Intelligence Alliance’ said Frankie with an element of authority.
‘Sir, may I bring to your attention that there is suspicion and possibility of a terrorist attack in London and in America, England being the major target’ said the young man as the receiver died to a monotone decibel.
The red and white underground train station of St Angel was in pristine order on the contrary to what had happened later that night, that of drunken louts clabbering on anything possible and acting in a rather stumbled way. The pavement glistened just like a polish boot and there was a stench of dust and debris that clogged up the eyes and nose of Jessica Platts. Coughing and sneezing as she only just managed to see the step on exiting the train on to the platform at Piccadilly Circus; she remembered her favourite shop and located some coins in her tiny purse where she kept her diary and other girly items.
‘Mummy are can we go to Mr Biggles sweet shop’ said Jessica with an urgent whine, one that her mother Lensa frequently heard.
‘Yez, okay ve will go and get sum sweets if zat is vat you want’ replied Lensa Wolfgang Platts, Jessica’s and Alexandra’s German mother. Her accent was slowly wearing off from living in London ever since Jessica
was born back in 2009, the year of the house price fluctuation. This was a good thing really considering their father; Eric Hoovenstaad Platts was of Dutch origin, so this created a mixture of languages, enunciations and interpretations along with colloquial misguidance, sometimes the household conversations can be pretty lengthy.
Eric is an architect and a highly respected one, coming up with such designs as the Manchester auditorium, the bridge to nowhere in Calcutta, various football memorabilia and statues and offices in London that have won e-co awards and architectural beauty. On a hobby note, he loves a big breakfast and is a true supported of Ajax, although cheers on Arsenal from time to time.
Their mother on the other hand Helga Wolfgang Platts is of German extraction with her father Datlept being in the Second World War and her grandfather a fighter pilot in the First World War, being gunned down in the blitz after flying too low to enemy lines. She is a devoted housewife with enough on her plate to think about working.
Finally, there is Alexandra Platts, named in honour of her grandfathers’ middle name. She is the newborn of the family and is expected to be a true hero and successful just like Datlept, according to Eric to make her mother proud.
The Platts family proceeded to the exit signs in green and followed past the pushing crowds and manic atmosphere that was still present with the underground facilities. Eric Hoovenstaad jolted on to the escalator as if to avoid being swallowed up by the tiny spikes that were the mouth of the escalator monster. Eric noticed whispering from the two ladies in front, his English was not that good but he tried to make out what they were saying.
‘I know I can’t believe someone would do that’ whispered the lady with the Harvey Nicholls bag, curled hair and a long furry overcoat that itched Eric’s eyes.
‘It’s disgusting, and at such an age’ regressed her friend of medium build eying Eric listening in on the conversation. Eric still carried on looking mindlessly figuring out words and translating. He then got caught as soon as the women in the fur coat turned around and looked directly at him, obvious collusion between the two women.
He turned away quickly, drawing even more attention to himself, as their conversation ended.
As the family arrive onto the main reception area of the station, shops, banks, kiosks and people dashing from one thing to the next surround them. The announcement chirps in and interrupts the conversation between Eric and Lensa, they result to light shout, only to notice that the announcement ends and they remain loud. Lensa blushes and Jessica raises a smile, holding back the laughter and swallowing it back down.
‘Where is the sweet shop then Jessica?’ exclaimed Eric in a mild Dutch accent enunciating and prolonging the use of the words o and j. They approach the sliding doors and began to wonder along the narrow path faced with mild traffic as it now approaches seven o’clock.
‘It’s out of the station and about a two-minute walk’ hurried Jessica. Alexandra was being carried by her mother in a front carrier strapped to her chest. Eric is really against them and says they are unsafe, but Lensa insists that it is better for her posture and the baby, Eric usually agrees reluctantly. The tiny blanket that is covering Alexandra fluctuates in accordance with the winds patterns; her pale face is a mixture of turquoise and chipped white ice that is slightly frosted over, as her mother glances down to adjust the blanket to wrap her up more tightly. The strawberry red cheeks and natural skin immerge like snow from an oak tree descending the bark and regaining its presence and glow. The family entered the shop and was greeted by one of the friendliest men they had ever met. His name was Mr Arthur Gernball and he loved to see all the children happy and full of sweets. He was an old man in his late fifties who was never too old to work he said. The sweet shop was the tallest Jessica had ever seen, with high ceilings and endless boxes of sweet and treats for all different ages. It was a shock for the family when they entered as there were children running wild, grabbing sweets and dodging the grasps of their parents.
There was some kind of special room that a few of the children were surrounding towards the rear left corner of the shop. As the Platts family approached they felt a magical presence that made even the adults intrigued. Jessica spotted a sign.
The sign red ‘TO ENTER, THE BEARER MUST SOLVE: When a girl or boy desires something so secret that they become restless in sleep, for they are ecstatic to uncover what they dream. One single beam pounces dramatic, an ounce of sound would follow. With might and extraction, blackness becomes their greatest attraction’.
The family look at the sign and read it for a minute as Arthur ushers forward through the crowd, breaking through, he calls out that ‘you must be a child to enter’. Eric smiles over to Lensa, as the children look so happy.
‘I can’t get it mummy, its too difficult’ shouted Jessica half running back towards her parents with the biggest collection of sweets and toys you can ever imagine.
‘Never mind, try again next time’ assured her mother.
‘Yeah but mummy they change all the time’ droned Jessica looking gloomy. After carefully choosing her favourites, Eric paid Arthur and they vacated the shop. Jessica skipped along whistling the whirly music that was being playing in the shop just as they noticed the shop was closing for the night. Arthur was left with the delightful task of cleaning the children’s mess. On the contrary he didn’t mind as he loved to see those happy faces and wanted to create a wonderful experience for the children of London and all over. He locked up the shop, with the rim of a door inside beaming brightly.
Joseph Hampton stared aimlessly into the bendy reflection of the cassette compartment of a disused hi-fi system from the nineteen eighties. The reflection bore that of an infant school where a few colourful swings and slides and that of a wall used for sporting games. The building was a cylinder shape with parts unroofed. There, standing directly in the middle of the school, in between the playground and field was a small withered, naked tree brown and fully eroded like the building itself. The school was 1950’s style construction, red bricks with concreted plaques that named and dated the owners of the building. The light and dark clouds above were slowly merging to one, as the day grew long. Joseph lent back on his chair and his eyes fluctuating and on the third bounce of the eyelid as he then drifted into a light sleep as his mouth transfixed vertically to the ceiling. He was overworked and underpaid, barely affording a social life and time for his children.
Joseph lives with his son Edward in the middle of England. Liona, Edward’s mother lives separately to them after they parted as their lives became very different. Liona is predominately career-based and would put her academic and working goals before her family and friends, remaining a good friend although somewhat stubborn. She participates in missionary work for Africa and helps out at her local charities in her spare time.
Edward is 3 months old and exceptionally quiet; so long he has his toys rather. He is his mother’s ‘diamond boy’ for the first thing Liona saw was his sparkling deep brown eyes, chipped in their complexion, as she sensed bravery and buoyancy. Edward has an older brother Neville, of whom comes and says hello only Edward returns the greeting by slobbering and looking blank, Joseph swears that he’s already looking up to his brother. Neville is 15 years old and always up to no good. He is regularly at his school’s headmistress’s office serving detention for some dangerous or outrageously silly prank played on one of the teachers, such as the famous bucket of water on top of the door too new and cleaver ones like triggered bangs when opening her desk draws, pens that squeak, clocks that jump time giving the teacher a freight of their life. Apart from his mischievous behaviour along with his counterparts, every old lady in the village loved him dearly.
‘Another tickleswing sir?’ exclaimed the bartender not caring if he is old enough to drink. The Handsum and Trot public house is situated around a half a mile away from their house and has a garden that has one of the biggest lemon trees you’ll ever see, something that Edward is always absorbed to. The
pub acquired such an extraordinary name, named after the bartender’s ancestors, owning many widely known shire horses and stallions.
‘Erm…no I think I shall try the Colle Oppio’s thank you’ replied Neville. The bartender, a small man with the posture implying that he suffered from muscular back problems pulled the ale from its refrigerator and ceased the metal bottle opener, placing the beer underneath and opening with a mellow hiss and clunk, and the bottle top fell and shimmied into the container bellow. Neville began to count the remainder of his money by placing it on the pine bar surface and separating the coins as he counted. Once there was enough he handed to the bartender, who smiled half-heartedly as he could smell the alcohol on Neville’s breath, and placed the coins into the till compartment.
Neville retreated with his bottle of ale to the seating and gaming area of the pub. There were two men and a child, one reading a bar copy of the Evolution, today magazine, the other man was sat in the corner in the dark eying the surroundings and looking at his watch anxiously. Neville glanced at the man and decided to look away as he felt somewhat threatened by his presence, giving an aura of death and hatred that felt contagious. The child happily playing with the games provided, which constructed of colouring in screen, which is basically a wall that enables writing on it, like a blackboard. Other activities were virtual skiing, pool and also learning games such as ‘build a human’ and ‘bake a cake’ which entailed the user placing a headset on to be faced with a visual screen, accompanied with gloves with motion sensors and movement controls. The new gadgetry of today Neville thought of was nothing new to him, whereas his father would spend hours fiddling with the equipment, accomplishing very little in the process. Neville spotted a free table and sat down. The pub was quite small with the entrance being on the left hand side of the building, which opened up to a dining area, a bar seating predominantly for drinkers only and a game and smoking area situated at the back.
