by Loui Downing
Instead of heading for the city, he travelled around the houses close by that were adequate to sleep in for the night. After a few hours of circling the blocks a few times, he started to feel sleepy, his grip on the motorcycle weakened, so he pulled alongside a milk float and sat there for a while. As his foot touched the ground it was wrapped by a piece of newspaper caught in the swirling wind. A nearby shop kept the time of half past two, it had stopped a few decades ago thought Neville. He wondered whether to depart back to his home or simply wait for morning and head off. He gazed at the stars, seeing a shooting star for the first time, as he looked at the moon and chuckled at the face it formed.
“Cock-a-doodle-do” awoke Neville as he heard three times from a nearby farm. He opened one eye cautiously, looking up at the blisteringly warm blue sky and stretched his aching muscles. He had no idea where he was, for a second he believed he was still dreaming. He looked around and saw debris of houses, soon realising where he was as it all looked familiar now. A deep sense of dread built in the pit of Neville’s stomach about what might be watching him right now, or what may be hiding in the overgrowth. A flock of birds flew overhead as Neville watched them still lying down. He thought about getting up from where he was lying. He had fallen asleep on a bench opposite a newsagent shop that was amazingly still erect. Neville stumbled like a newborn finding his feet across the road and into the shop. Neville entered and started to rummage through the food that was still in the correct places. All the food had gone rotten and created a stench so foul that it would make you ill if you smelt too much. He was so hungry he was so tempted to eat a chocolate bar or crisps but he refrained and took a few things that were less out-of-date compared with the others and started unravelling and eating, feeling his stomach celebrate at receiving some nourishing food at last. Over the road was a bridge made from limestone, with a river flowing below it, which ran into the heart of the city. Deserted boats bobbled lightly as the sun reflected off the wooden outer coating. Neville felt so alone, he rushed to a nearby telephone box, quickly lifting the receiver to be disappointed by a droning monotone. Neville wanted to explore the country as quickly as possible to see if there were signs of life anywhere. He walked over to his motorcycle and jumped on and started, disturbing nearby birds that flew away. Thoughts of his parents flashed through his mind. He was sure where he was heading now, there is no turning back.
A robin bobbed along the roof of the cream coloured public house directly in front of Neville. The public houses’ exterior is delightfully in good shape considering the years of malnourishment. An old man walking a small and podgy Scottish terrier dog trotted down the slopping road. Neville awoke fully; swiftly emerging from a dip in the field next to the public house, the name of the public house was shown in the shadow on the opposite road ‘The Queen’s Preference’, all in golden old English style writing. Tired and confused, he swept the sticky branches off his back and brushed his hair back and stretched out as far as he could reach, feeling the blood rush through his veins and revitalise his muscles. He paused with his arms in the air as he looked at the man and the dog across the road, watching them as the man turned and looked back at Neville.
“HEY!!” shouted Neville at the top of his voice. The man carried on walking, unaware that Neville had just reached the boundaries of his vocal chords.
“EXCUSE ME!” continued Neville as he wiped the gooey yellow waste from the corners of his eyes. The old man stopped and looked in all directions around him. Finally, he noticed Neville over in the car park of the queen’s preference. Neville started to wave at him, shocked that he had even seen another human being, let alone one in close proximity. Neville looked down the road further, hoping to see a car or a house that maybe the man was heading towards, but there was nothing to be seen. He glanced back to see the man, but he had vanished from sight; he wasn’t in the bushes, down the road or anywhere. Neville’s heart sank at the prospect of facing his own insanity; all this reclusive behaviour was taking its toll on Neville’s social capabilities.
“I must be delirious” said Neville, reaching down with his arm and sitting on the grass verge behind him. After giving his eyes a severe rub, suffering from the grass pollen tremendously he assumed that the man was a figment of his imagination.
The morning rumble of Neville’s stomach seemed to last for an eternity as Neville grew hungry as the day progressed, feeling his jeans loosen slightly. The deserted public house and restaurant to Neville’s right had its doors wide open and by the looks of the footprints outside it looked as though the surrounding animals had sought out their shelter accordingly. Small and large paw prints were scattered around the entrance to the restaurant and bar area, next to the golden mat on the ground. The scenery from up here was magnificent; Neville peered at the furthest house on the hill, noticing the wavy hills sliding off in the light fog that covered far away villages and towns. Neville decided to take a look inside the restaurant and have a think about what his plan was next for the day. He walked in casually with his arms swinging from side to side as he recognised the town’s emblem on the picture frame just as you opened the doors. As he proceeded to another door, this one being glass, he pressed his nose up close to the glass pane to see through into the restaurant before he entered as he was feeling skeptical. Neville saw a dusty bar, empty bottles scattered around the place and a thick foggy atmosphere. The power of the wind outside ran straight through the restaurant, slamming a far door shut as it fired its way passed Neville. The spirits behind the bar were caked in cobwebs and all sorts of creepy crawlies that made Neville cringe and feel as though someone had brushed a feather across his back. Neville entered the bar and picked up an object on the floor that was in his way, it was a peculiar shaped bottle; its edges rounded which made it hard to pick up. A cold breeze distracted Neville as he turned around to see a small figure standing scarily still on the room next to a much taller black and white door. The figure’s face could not be seen, all that was visible was a small black robe with a long hood that hung over its head. It looked like the size of a young child, which made Neville more confident if it were to attack him.
“Who’s there” spoke Neville, wobbly in his speech. There was no reply from where the figure stood, only a precariously gruesome silence that filled Neville with the deepest regret. He took a step back and wondered if he was imagining the whole thing like earlier, until the figure moved sideways into the light, casting a ray of light to his deceased skin, although nothing could clearly be seen for the figure moved back again seconds later. The tension in the room soared to an almighty break; the figure began walking towards Neville. Neville panicked as he desperately tried to think of a plan. Neville looked down at the creature’s feet, expecting to see some resemblance but instead he saw something that was utterly shocking. The figure has no feet, only stumps, his legs continued to the floor like a cliff edge. Neville couldn’t take his eyes off the creature’s legs as he watched him heading straight over to him.
“Stay back!” shouted Neville, more seriously than before. He quickly grabbed a nearby stool and started to wave it around like some sort of shield for himself. The figures cloak lightened from a deadly black to a gloomy grey, gradually getting lighter and lighter as the creature paced slowly, his top half of his body motionless. The figure bowed to the ground, Neville lowered his stool to observe what the creature was doing.
“The great it will. I’m here for the last one. Where is it?” whispered the figure, Neville only just making out the words he was saying as they were mumbled and croaky. The figure’s hand burrowed out from its dusty robe that gave the impression it had been thrown over him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about” said Neville, completely confused by what the figure had just said. Neville looked down at the figure’s hand. The figure has a wrinkly yellow hand, small and withered like a battered stone from years of decay. He unveiled it slowly and outstretched it as far as he could reach, stopping as he turned over his arm. Neville
spotted a symbol etched into his deceased skin. The symbol has thick black lines in the middle of a circle with golden letters written in between each line. The figure could sense Neville’s interest and lifted his robe up further to reveal the markings properly. There appeared to be green writing underneath the symbol which was too small for Neville to read.
It looked like something foreign, something symbolic to the figure. If only Neville could understand what it means he could offer help to the figure. The figure remained paused until Neville stopped looking at the symbol. The figure lifted its other sleeve to reveal another symbol that was completely different to the one he had just seen. There were signs of blood and soreness, the marking looked recent compared to the other one.
The symbol has a dark circular shape that sits creepily behind the isosceles triangle and rectangular shapes in front. There are four spherical shapes, one at the top, one at the bottom and one right and on left. In the middle of the rectangular shape was a criss-cross shape that had a smaller ocean blue triangle on the bigger side of the crosses. Neville found it hard to take all of the information in at once, feeling overwhelmed by seeing anyone, let alone a small figure that bore complex markings and spoke in a way that Neville has never heard.
“Where have you come from?” asked Neville, clearly detached from the figure. The figure reached in his pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. The figure unfolded the paper, smoothing out the edges as he did. He opened it and turned it around so that Neville could see. He started to point at a particular section on the paper. The piece of paper resembled a map, although not a conventional one that Neville was used to. The edges were brown and a faded yellow, tattered from excessive use.
“We are here young one” said the figure with a very deep yodel, Neville guessing that the figure was male by his traits and behaviour. The figure started lifting the paper with his hands, taking it away from Neville who was reluctant as he didn’t understand what the figure was saying.
“I can’t see anything” whispered Neville to the figure, aiming under his hood.
“What do you mean you cannot see anything boy!” replied the figure, pointing a stick at Neville angrily. His face gently lit by the moving sunlight cast through the far window. Horrid and gruesome, the figure’s face as cracked as dry paint, his nose all bobbled and bashed. It looked as though he may have been in a fire, his chin carrying signs of scarred tissue. The figure moved closer to Neville as he noticed him staring intently. The figure’s nose elevated as it walked, pointing at the sky, like a lonesome soldier on a battle field. Neville was so scared by this point, too scared to even look at the figure for long periods of time, feeling threatened by his presence.
“This is the way to London, quickest one you see” said the figure, his voice droning like a silent alarm, tailoring off into the distance with every word.
“What? The piece of paper is blank!” replied Neville, worried that he had angered the figure or that he was going loopy.
“Ah…yes of course” said the figure, turning to Neville and blowing into his face. The figure’s eyes were completely closed as speckles of sand started flying from the hand of the figure, landing over Neville who reacted slowly to the flying material and managed to get one or two specs in his eye. The figure stopped blowing and lowered his hand back to his robes. Neville soon after started to wobble hideously like he was really drunk, crashing into tables and chairs until he regained his balance.
“What was that?” enquired Neville in a child-like tone, looking intriguingly towards the figure.
“A gogqle through our eyes” replied the figure as he looked at Neville through the corner of his eyes. Neville glanced back at the piece of paper and was astonished to see rivers, towns, roads and people all going about their day as normal. A prolonged hoot distracted Neville’s attention on the map as a pigeon was landing on the chimney breast of the house, echoing through the bar and restaurant. Neville’s attention was still on the bird perched on the house roof, he could see it now, walking along the gutter trying to find food for its family.
“What are you?” asked Neville as he turned around to see the back of the figure heading for outside. The figure stopped dead like a horse rearing with fright.
“That I cannot say. My name to you is Knulles, I’m just a messenger. Please follow the signs” said Knulles dominantly, tired of all the persistent questioning from Neville.
“All I am here for is to give you this” added Knulles as he reached into a tiny top pocket with his withered fingers, reaching for another tatty piece of paper and placing it firmly into Neville’s hand.
“One more thing…don’t look at the contents until you really do feel a desire to” finished Knulles, hobbling through the bar door that squeaked as he headed outside into the car park and the surrounding countryside. Neville, completely startled, unravelled the piece of paper, stopping himself just as something was in sight. He folded the corners back into place before he could read any of the contents, placing the paper safely into a small pocket of his own in his jeans.
“Wait! Where are you from? Why have you given me this?” cried Neville, his words prolonged on this tongue as he spoke. He sprinted for the bar door where he had come in, chasing after Knulles as quickly as he could. The second bar door churned as Neville opened it with conviction. Knulles was nowhere in sight. Neville looked endlessly for him, scanning bushes, the road and hills below but still Knulles wasn’t there. The empty countryside reflected Neville’s state of mind, vacant yet surprisingly peaceful. Why had he been given the rumpled piece of paper thought Neville as he looked down upon what remained of the mixed green forest. Knulles is a strange name for a person added Neville to himself, clearly trying to decipher where Knulles was from.
Neville decided to head home and retrace his steps from there, hoping that he would gain an insight to what was going on around here. He lifted the motorbike out of the small ditch just before the entrance, pulling twigs and branches from the wheel spokes and handlebars. He kicked the lever down and swung his leg over, sitting on the faded seat and amazingly the bike started first time.
A few hours past as Neville eagerly found his way through the cities, the bike’s roar filling the street of Mount Avenue, Northamptonshire, the sign was still on its side, bringing a rush of memories back for Neville. He soared further down, passing deserted houses and cars. The searching headlights shone down the street, reflecting off the rear brake lights of an old maroon Rover. The houses across the road were supported by temporary scaffolding, evident that the people living there had endured severe damage. Neville’s house was a huge pile of debris, with only a third of the house remaining. Neville rejoined the motorbike and headed for his house, still imagining it as it was before, glistening white with smiley mother and father and Edward chatting in the garden. For a few seconds Neville dreamed of his mother coming to greet him at the gate on his way back from school, just before she left for Africa. Neville’s brother Edward entertaining himself on the perfectly mowed lawn on the front. His father worked away inside the house as usual. All the memories drifted away like a cloud passing the sun. Neville was brought back down to reality, disappointing him in every way. As a child the memories were insignificant, yet now they filled his dreams. Neville walked up to the house, stepping over various bricks and wooden planks. He passed the letterbox and headed for the chipped steps that lead to the front door. To feel separate is an understatement in Neville’s eyes, he felt so alone than he had ever done. A ting glimmer of hope still bobbed in the distance, only Neville’s optimism remained fearful, feeling as though every time he reached out the hope would travel further. The heavy black door felt rugged as Neville sprained trying to push it open, remembering it being lighter when he was younger. A portrait of the family stood graciously over the fireplace in the dining area, it was the first thing Neville always noticed as he walked in, except this time he felt proud instead of embarrassment because he would usually be with a friend. Liona would always
compliment Neville, which back then he ignored, making him feel regretful for not reciprocating some of the great things she did for him. The house made Neville feel ashamed for his behaviour as he never really cared for anyone but himself and for being stubborn and careless at school. Liona stood firmly in the painting, portraying a authoritative stance within the family and caring, whereas [ ] beamed anxiously forward. Edward was in a costume at the front of the painting, amusing the rest of the family with his weird and wonderful characteristics. The photo was taken at a much happier time, considering the complications with Edwards medical requirements. His dear brother is greatly missed by Neville, unaware of where he may be. Even if he did see him again, would he recognise Neville. The doubt was emphatic, distorting Neville inhibitions. To see his brother again was his deepest desire as he would confide in Edward sometime when problems occurred in the house. Neville was not so keen on his mischievous behaviour that he would unleash in his bedroom, none the less, they were brothers and that meant so much to Neville. He carried this thought into the dining area at the front of the house, thinking of how he never did spend a great amount of time with his parents and Edward. The tiny speckles of sun started to creep their way through the sleek curtains, partly destroyed by insects. As Neville walked further down through the long dining room towards a conservatory at the rear. The fireplace he once used to warm himself against was now infested with dust, mould and cobwebs. On entering the conservatory, Neville got the impression that there was a mass state of panic in here, still contained by the glass door. He stopped and looked through the glass. The room looked as though it had been turned upside down, Newspapers, documents and clothes formed the carpet, giving the impression that the people in the house were in danger. The conservatory door was cracked near the handle, the thin lines stretched down the glass pane like the roots of a tree. Neville remembers Edward playing in the conservatory a lot as a child on a rainy weekend when it would be too wet for football in his mother’s eyes at least. The door was jammed as Neville tried sliding it along the metal panels below. Neville gave up after a few minutes of trying, his hands turning bright pink. The garden could be seen in between the fluctuating blinds, the weeds and wildlife had soared at an alarming rate. He headed for some short stairs that led to the bedroom, the handrail separated from its hinges and left dangling from the staircase. On the way up to his bedroom he glanced out of a small window on the landing, looking far into the distance he could see the top of the tower a few villages away still in perfect condition, which was very odd due to the vast planes of destruction. The tiles were slightly rotten but the general welfare was healthy. He eventually reached his bedroom, still in the same condition as he remembered all those years ago, only a few of his belongings not as he remembered. Liona always used to chuckle to herself about Neville’s cleanliness, realising that it must be something hereditary as it came naturally to him. The floor was swamped with damp clothes, which explained the musty smell that Neville didn’t recognise immediately. Books and pieces of paper were thrown aimlessly around the desk that was hidden and a wardrobe close by that was full of odd junk. He used to place all the things that were scattered on his floor in the wardrobe, opening it with caution when he actually needed something. Half a dozen half full bottles of water were propped against his bed, although signs of life at the bottom cod be seen through the condensed plastic. Magazines of rock stars and bands covered the walls, leaving no space for wall décor. The top drawer of Neville’s desk was left open; he curiously went over to see what was inside. A small collection of detective books and adventure novels half read poked out of the drawer. The drawer contained bottle caps, pens, wallets and hair products, along with his favourite aftershave back when he was younger. His friends used to secretly spray themselves just moments before they heading out the door, which would explain why he would have to buy it so often. He closed the drawer, pushing the books down so it would close and spontaneously headed for his wardrobe, pulling back the medium maroon door to uncover a pile of clothes that had been forced in there. Neville stuck his hand in the wardrobe and reached for the very back, pulling shorts and t-shirts forward, which wasn’t his concern. He pulled out a small handcrafted wooden box, its sides held together by dovetail joints and a coating of wax kept its exterior gleaming. The box was just over the size of a wrist and seemed to be a lot heavier than Neville recalled. He carried it over to his chrome posted double bed, sitting down on his favourite lime duvet as he opened the box, picking random items out such as bangles, badges, watches, notes and pin-on badges. He smiled as he found a batch of love notes from his past girlfriends, making him think back to his wild youth. Neville picks out a letter that has been written by a girl on a family holiday. He managed to escape his dreaded trips arranged by his parents and decided to go and explore by himself for a few hours. On his journey out of the green hotel in the heart of Spain he followed the road down, arms tucked in his pockets and nothing but shorts and trainers as he let the sun coat his skin, closing his eyes as he walked. The roads either side of the walkway were considerably small compared to ones back in England. The walkways are usually packed with tourists watching the street artists with amazement as they occupied the cobbled paths throughout the day. Neville carried down the walkway, following the tongue like stones that led towards the sea’s mouth. Neville walked quickly passed a scary man dressed in black gothic clothing who pranced around making the audience jump when he was given a few cents. The locals would roll their eyes as they watched the amazed tourists, obviously having to endure this on a regular basis. Tall tropical trees towered tantalisingly above Neville, leaning inwards which blocked the sun for a few seconds. The cloud that had lingered around the sun finally drifted away as the sun beamed down on Neville and reflected violently off the cobbles. He could see the sea in the distance along with a tiny surrounding of golden sand. Endless amounts of people were gathered around the beach, buying drinks and fruit from sellers that roamed. As Neville entered the main area of the city, he could see a large docking port, ships and boats stationed whilst they visit the city. The busy road ahead was accompanied by a gigantic statue commemorating the discovery of America, the bronze coloured figure pointing towards the country. Neville idly watched the statue whilst walking out into the road whilst traffic gained on him. He continued towards the distinct smell of fresh salt water, heading down a large seating area that stretched the docks. Artists and lovers would gather here and admire the views and tranquility of the perfect view ahead. Further down the docks there are tents visible, close to the beach serving expensive food. The restaurants were extremely well run and the food looked great as Neville admired people plates on his way past. He loved the smell of fresh sea food, inhaling vast amounts and enjoying the sensation. The young Spanish waiter nodded over to Neville as he noticed his desiring expression as he opens a bottle of Rivat and pours the sweet wine elegantly into the glass. Neville resisted the allure of the restaurant food, mainly due to his pockets only containing enough to have a piece of bread. As he continued around the corner and back onto a straight walkway he noticed that the beach was not the far away, noticing high cliffs and the national stadium high in the distance. The gentle wisps of the waves could be heard; creating a soft breeze as Neville suddenly had the craving for some water. Passers-by were wiping the sweat from their faces as the temperature soared to 36 degree Celsius, Neville loving the sun’s attention, something that he rarely got to experience back home. An extremely tanned man approached screaming what only can be heard as a distant muffle.
