by Stan Mason
I returned home that evening to a hug and some kisses. Then we ate and sent Robert to his room early. It was only a few minutes before we retired at a ridiculously early hour to be in bed with each other. After the night of such passion before, I thought that intimate sex would slow down to a normal pace but I was totally wrong. Whether she had any intimate sex over the recent past I had no idea, although I could hazard a guess, but she seemed to have saved up all her emotional energy to become insatiable. As we romped and rolled over the bed and onto the floor with intimate erotic passion, I suddenly realised that I had turned a simple quiet village woman into a raging nymphomaniac!
Two weeks later, I had settled down to be wholly in love with my new life and with the woman with whom I was living. There was no question of us not living together... our union was unique while Robert seemed quite satisfied by my presence, always absorbed with his school work or reading books.
I had a small problem getting used to the vouchers I earned as a security guard. I had been allocated a hundred-and-fifty each week to use to buy food in the shops or the cafeteria. However, fifty of them were deducted to pay for the damage I had done to the police cell. Not that it mattered to me... a hundred was enough for my needs. In any case, I always handed them to Bridget for her to use as she wished. In addition, I no longer had any use for my car which caused the garage mechanic concern because I refused to go to the garage to collect it. Each morning, I would go to the front area of the village to take up my post but no one ever came. Nonetheless, I was the security guard with the duty of repelling all strangers whether they came or not.
My love for Bridget grew stronger as time went by even though I had known her for only a short while. Destiny had driven me to her and I was most grateful for that. I thought about her all day long, unable to get her face out of my mind for she was so beautiful... so loving! I became a little concerned about keeping up with her sexually. Not that she was a nymphomaniac. Nonetheless she was highly emotionally charged. Perhaps it had something to do with me... I wasn’t sure. We would kiss regularly like young lovers, embracing each other closely, and touch each other tenderly as though it was essential for us to feel each other’s flesh. Most nights, we enjoyed making love together. I looked forward so much to the end of days when Robert was fast asleep in his bedroom and the two of us were together, naked as the day we were born, in the same bed. They were beginning to become halcyon days and I was enjoying every moment. Perhaps it was the release of tension tramping the dusty road and the desert surrounding Basra, looking for evidence of terrorists, listening to the sound of gunfire that triggered my feelings. Life in Numbwinton was exactly the opposite.
One evening, I sat watching Bridget and Robert reading books, scanning their faces as they waded through the pages. Eventually Bridget looked up noticing my vacant expression.
‘Why don’t you go to the library to get a book to read?’ she suggested helpfully.
‘I didn’t know you had a library here,’ I responded with an element of surprise in my voice.
‘I’ll take you there tomorrow,’ she offered freely. ‘It’s at the far end of the village.’
I couldn’t resist my feelings and went over to her to kiss her fully on the lips. ‘I love you,’ I told her warmly, ‘with all my heart!’
She placed her arm around my neck and kissed me on both of my eyes. ‘I love you too!’ she returned emotionally.
The next day, after Robert had gone to school, she took me to the library. I had imagined it to be small housing a few hundred books but I was surprised to note that it was fairly large with a plethora of tomes which ranged on shelves all the way across the building. Not surprisingly, none of the books were modern; they all related to works of Victorian times and earlier. How they had accumulated such a large number of works was beyond my comprehension. They must have been shipped here a hundred years ago. As my eyes roved up and down the aisles, I noticed a statue at the end of the room and I approached it to find out who had been honoured. The plate beneath the statue read: ‘Obediah Keppelberg... 1803-1872’.
‘That’s how the village became known as Keppleberg... after this man,’ I commented. ‘He must have done something fantastic to have a statue made of him.’
‘He did,’ uttered Bridget in awe. ‘He was a very great man.’
‘What did he do?’ I asked bluntly with interest.
‘First of all he founded the village. But you’ll have to ask Mr. Townsend if you want to know more. I can’t tell you.’
There it was again! The same words: ‘I can’t tell you!’ My God, after seducing the woman night after night and for her to declare her undying love for me in which our intimate relationship blossomed, she still couldn’t bring herself to tell me anything about anyone in the village... not even about the founder. I was becoming more and more angry at the reticent attitude of the villagers towards me even though I considered that I had fully joined their ranks. I knew, without doubt, that approaching Townsend on the subject was useless. He was like a politician capable of answering all my questions without revealing anything at all.
I went boldly up to the librarian to see whether I could get anything out of her.
‘Obadiah Keppelberg,’ I began hopefully. ‘He was the founder of this village. A great man, I understand.’
‘He was a very great man,’ she responded readily.
‘I’d like to see some historical documents about him and his work... and the reason why he founded this village.’
She paused for a moment and I knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘Those records are not for public viewing.’
‘Why not?’ I countered sharply. ‘If he was so great, why aren’t they available for all to see?’
‘Because they’re confidential,’ she replied firmly. ‘That’s why they’re not on public view.’
‘The man died in 1872,’ I rattled irately. ‘What could be so confidential about him over a hundred-and-fifty years on?’
‘That’s not for me to say,’ she returned solemnly. ‘I’m just doing my duty in this library. If you want to take the matter further you’ll have to ask Mr. Townsend. In the meantime, if you wish to choose a book, the library is open from ten o’clock until four o’clock.’
I threw my hands in the air with frustration. What could be so confidential about the founder of the village. Surely there had to be some history for them to glorify the man’s name! I couldn’t imagine any reason why anyone should want to hide his identity away in a confidential file. I selected a book written by Charles Kingsley entitled Westward Ho! Which I had read when I had attended school and left the library in a huff with Bridget holding on to my arm,
‘Please have patience,’ she pleaded trying to bring me back to normality. ‘You’ll learn everything about us and our history in due course. Just be patient.’
I rued the fact that everyone was so pleasant but they were secretive. Despite the calmness of their lives they lived in a clandestine atmosphere, shunning all strangers, denying the information they knew to all newcomers. It was then that I wondered how strangers to the village had fared in the past. I decided to reserve that question to the time when my temper subsided. In the army, everyone knew exactly where they stood with daily orders. The attitude of the villagers was irrational, unfair, and showed a distinct lack of trust.
The following morning I left the house to go to the main shopping centre when I noticed a small crowd of people had gathered in the area where I had originally parked my car. I walked across to find a vehicle that had been vandalised in the same way as my car. There were no wheels, the radiator was smashed and the distributor was damaged beyond repair. I knew, even without proof, that the mechanic at the garage had been responsible. But who did the car belong to? It had to be a stranger to the village!
I went to the police station to find out if they knew of the incident, facing the
Desk Sergeant directly as PC7 looked through a folder.
‘Did another stranger come to the village last night,’ I asked firmly.
The Desk Sergeant stared at me dolefully. ‘It was another stranger,’ he uttered. ‘We’ve locked him up in a cell. He says his name’s Austen. Wayne Austen but you know how people lie when they’re arrested by the police.
‘He couldn’t produce any documents to prove he was the owner of the vehicle,’ stated PC7 butting into the conversation. ‘And he didn’t say why he was here for a second time. You see, we caught him here once before. He even signed a document to say he wouldn’t come back. What is it with these people?’
‘So you arrested him and now his car’s a complete wreck outside.’ I countered smarting. There was a moment of silence before I continued. ‘I’d like to see this man!’
The Desk Sergeant gave me a quaint look and then shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. ‘You know where the cells are. Go ahead!’
I sauntered down to the cell area and came face-to-face with the detective. He lay on the straw mattress looking at me sadly for a moment before leaping to his feet to grasp the cell bars.
‘Sam!’ he called out urgently. ‘Get me out of here! I’ve done nothing wrong! You’ve got to get me out!’
I shook my head sorrowfully. ‘Wayne,’ I began. ‘What on earth made you come back to the village?’
‘I had to,’ he claimed miserably. ‘I couldn’t go back to face Tim telling him that I’d failed.’
‘You idiot!’ I ranted angrily. ‘You’re locked up in prison for God knows how long... especially as you signed a form saying you wouldn’t come back. You car’s been wrecked. How did you think you’d succeed in getting me out of here when I told you I wanted to stay? You’ll have to tell Mary that I will see her in due course but not for some time.’
‘I’m not very good at my job, am I?’ he bleated lamely.
‘I don’t know why you persist in trying to get me out of this village. It’s idiotic!’ I ranted on. ‘If I can get you released and your car’s repaired, you’ve got to promise me that you’ll never come back here again.’
He pondered over my comment for a short time and then nodded. ‘Okay,’ he muttered reluctantly, ‘I won’t come back again. I only hope that you can swing it. The police are crazy in this place.’
I left him there holding the bars tightly and returned to the Desk Sergeant.
‘Look,’ I began, pleading with him. ‘I know this man. My sister sent him to try to get me to leave the village and he felt honour bound to serve her wishes. I’ve made him understand that he must not come here again and he’s agreed.’
‘He gave his word once before... in writing,’ exclaimed PC7. ‘He can’t be trusted.’
‘He’ll listen to me,’ I cut in sharply.
‘He was seen loitering at the start of the village and you sent him packing,’ added the desk sergeant.
‘It won’t happen again. If you let him go you’ll have seen the last of him. I’d regard it as a personal favour if you release him. I swear you’ll have no trouble with him again.’
‘I think we’ll let him stew for another twenty-four hours,’ declared the Desk Sergeant. ‘Just to teach him a lesson. Then we’ll review his case.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll go to the garage to get the mechanic to tow his car there for repair. In that way we’ll get rid of him much faster.’
The two policemen stared at me bleakly and I left hoping that they would accept my plea and release Wayne on the following day. I was unable to understand why the detective had returned after the way he had cowardly run away at our last meeting. Some people are complete losers in life and nothing would change them. Their destiny lay in the hands of a hopeless God who unwittingly led them on to one dilemma after another. Wayne Austen was one of those unfortunate people risking life and limb for no reason and for no purpose whatsoever.
Chapter Eight
Life with Bridget got better and better. There was no interference from Robert who spent most of his time in his bedroom leaving us in peace. I wasn’t sure whether it was all the kissing and touching between myself and his mother that sickened him but he stayed away. After all, most young people cringe at the sight of their parents making loving gestures with each other.
One evening I put down my book to enter into a discussion with the love of my life. She looked up at me with her large doleful eyes, her eyelashes flickering as a brief smile touched her lips.
‘What’s wrong?’ She asked pleasantly.
‘I’m thinking about your parents,’ I ventured thoughtfully. ‘What happened to them?’
‘My parents,’ she repeated lamely with a slight frown on her face.
‘Where are they? Do they live in the village? I’d like to meet them.’
She shook her head sadly before replying. ‘You won’t’ she answered tersely. ‘It all happened some years ago. A stranger came to the village... a man who was clearly of some account. He was extremely eloquent. He asked Mr. Townsend to call a meeting of everyone at the village hall because he said he had something very important to tell them. On the appointed evening, he spouted about the fantastic life that existed beyond the village where people had televisions, computers, holidays abroad, films and cinemas, and many other things including the opportunity to drink and live a life of luxury. He appealed to the villager’s greed outlining how they could gamble at will, win fortunes on a lottery, and so on and so forth. He appealed to them about freedom, a new way of life, including free healthcare. My parents were influenced by the man whose main aim was to find tenants for the houses he owned and to fill his pockets with the rent. They left here for a new way of life and I haven’t heard from them since.
‘They were allowed to go?’
‘Anyone could leave the village then if they wanted to.’
‘How long ago was it when your parents left? I might be able to find them for you.’
‘It’s no use,’ she told me sombrely. ‘They’re long dead. I know they are.’
‘How can you be so certain?’ I asked. I had an uncanny feeling that she was correct in her assumption and that she also knew the reason.
‘There’s not to reason why, there’s but to do and die!’ She quoted using the words of Alfred Tennyson in his ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’.
‘I think you owe me a better answer than that,’ I persisted believing that she was telling me a tall story. Why should her parents leave the village to start a new life elsewhere which they knew nothing about?
‘It was quite a long time ago and my parents were fairly old,’ she went on. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t have survived in the hostile world outside the village. ‘They’d live here all their lives.’
‘Is that the honest truth,’ I demanded, perhaps a little too strongly.
‘Why would I lie to you,’ she returned quickly. ‘I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
‘Even though I’m a stranger,’ I riposted, wondering what her reaction would be.
‘Especially as you’re a stranger,’ she retorted changing the subject. ‘You’re so different to anyone else here. That’s why I fell in love with you.’ I stared at her beautiful face and it seemed that she was telling me the truth. How could I feel anger towards her when told me something like that. ‘I know that you were in the army in Persia,’ she continued.
‘It’s Iraq now,’ I corrected.
‘I’ve never been overseas. What’s it like in other countries?’
I paused for a moment to reflect. She was bringing the past back to me rapidly and it was my turn to explain. ‘I can only tell you about Iraq. It’s another world out there,’ I informed her, eager to express my views and enjoy a moment of nostalgia. ‘The temperature’s very hot except for certain times in the winter. There’s sand everywhere an
d occasionally sandstorms which causes day to turn into night. At all other times the sun beats down mercilessly. It gets tremendously hot. Many houses have been demolished in the fighting and the people are split into two factions... the Sunnis and the Shi’ites who tend not to like each other. There are also different tribes which hate each other intensely although there’s no real reason. From one town to another, roads have been built, but they are heavily mined in places making it dangerous to walk. They’re put there by people who hate the British invading their country and they want us to leave. There was a joke on a television programme where the interviewer asked: ‘Why is it that five years ago men always walked ten yards ahead of women. Now it’s the other way around.’ The person being interviewed said: ‘Mines!’ I waited for a smile to come from Bridget’s face but she stared at me blankly. I could easily see her difficulty in imagining the place I had just outlined to her.
‘I don’t understand,’ she responded with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘What are mines?’
I waited for a while before continuing. ‘Okay, ‘ I went on, trying to keep my voice on an even level. ‘I had to make sure that peace remained stable in and around the city of Basra. It’s an important town in Iraq. Some Arabs were good and behaved themselves, others were bad and fired guns at us trying to kill us. Occasionally, a mine... a bomb placed in the ground... exploded, killing or wounding soldiers or civilians.’ I decided not to boast about the medal awarded to me and it was just as well because she held up her hands to stop me from going on.
‘I don’t really want to hear any more,’ she argued. ‘It sounds very terrible and I would not wish to go to places like that. We have such peace in the village. Why should I go elsewhere? It sounds terrible!’
