Beyond the Realms

by Gill Mather

“SO,” SAID GEORGIE ON their return to the little house off Cowdray Avenue when she got Orielle on her own, “how did mummy and daddy like their son-in-law to be?”

  “Actually, incredibly, quite well indeed.”

  “They have all got two legs and two arms and one head each this family of yours?”

  “More or less. Yes.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE PUB WAS CROWDED and noisy. Very noisy. Jack was at the bar getting in a round and Triss was helping him. Orielle and Georgie were looking on fascinated by the spectacle. Totally unexpectedly, Triss had consented to come out on a foursome and since they arrived, the two men had had them in stitches telling them joke after joke. They weren't particularly sophisticated jokes but they suited the mood of this impromptu evening out. Obviously Triss had no trouble remembering jokes. Any number of them. It had seemed totally unbelievable to begin with but they’d all had quite a lot to drink by now and they’d more or less stopped gawping at the change that had come over Tristram.

  “Triss drinking alcohol! I can’t believe it!” Georgie said. “Are you sure he’s OK?”

  “Well he was thirty minutes before we came out.” Orie gave Georgie an unnecessarily violent nudge and Georgie, slightly limp from excess alcohol herself, was pushed to at least a forty five degree angle before she recovered and sat upright again. Both girls started giggling uncontrollably.

  It was Georgie’s birthday and since no-one had been sure exactly when Jack, newly arrived back from sea, would be able to get to Colchester, they hadn't arranged anything special and decided on the pub outing when he turned up at eight in the evening having hired a car at Portsmouth and driven, he said, like a maniac to get back to his darling baboon (Georgie had thumped him quite hard at this point) as soon as possible.

  “Yes we did hear all right! What sort of a bloke is he to induce that sort of cacophony.”

  “Speak for yourself!”

  “Yes but we had months of enforced abstinence to work off. Gosh I’m surprised I can even say the word by now. You’ve got each other all the time.”

  “I know,” sighed Orielle, “it’s just blissful. And suddenly he’s more….a bit more….I can’t say it.”

  “More what? Go on you can't leave me in suspense!”

  “Well he just different. More relaxed about everything. More….normal though I hate to say it.”

  “Well good. Oh here they come.” They pushed the empty glasses aside and fresh ones were deposited in front of them. A Tom Collins for Orie and a Singapore Sling for Georgie. They were working their way through the cocktails menu. The two couples had walked from the house and were going to be walking back so they didn’t have to bother about driving.

  Triss had devised such successful and original tax avoidance schemes for PWT, that Seb had felt constrained to give him a bonus of two thousand pounds. Or at least the money was paid to Orie because of course Triss had no bank account and she had drawn the cash out and given it to Triss. PWT didn’t mind apparently that they couldn't put it through the books as a tax deductible expense and would have to pay the tax on it themselves because the latest scheme was so unbelievably novel and such a huge money spinner. Triss had tried to explain it to Orielle one evening saying that since GAAR came into force it’d been much more difficult and…..

  “Sorry. GAAR?”

  “The General Anti-Abuse Rule. Basically if it looks like a dog and barks like a dog, then it’s a dog. So it’s been my job to try to disguise the dog and bury it inside the scheme sufficiently deeply so as not to attract attention.”

  “Du-uh?”

  It was all double dutch to her. He’d even put his hands on the sides of her head and looked deep into her eyes and some particles of the scheme did seem to burst into her consciousness but they were disorganised and meaningless and the pair of them just ended up falling onto the bed and having sex together.

  “How about this one then,” said Triss rolling up the sleeves of his new top purchased with his bonus and sitting down. “It seems appropriate. She was only an Admiral’s daughter….”

  “….but she did like her naval base full of seamen,” finished Jack. The girls nearly fell off their chairs.

  “OK. She was only a grave digger’s daughter, but she’d lie under any old sod.”

  “Heard it,” said Jack as the girls giggled helplessly.

  “She was only a drummer’s daughter, but she did like a roll on the green.”

  “The old ones are always the best ones,” said Jack.

  “I didn’t know that was an old one,” said Triss.”

  “Where have you been then in the last twenty years?”

  Orielle, Georgie and Triss looked at each other. Jack watched them keenly, shook his head and started on another joke.

  She’s told him something thought Orielle.

  She glared at Georgie who shrugged. Perhaps, thought Orielle, it was better this way. They couldn't keep it a complete secret forever from everyone. Jack was undoubtedly trustworthy. Wasn’t he? Though who knew what he might blurt out under the influence of alcohol in some far flung part of the world that someone only interested in their own personal gain may follow up and try to make capital out of.

  “Right. What’s the difference between goats on a mountainside and pigeons in Trafalgar Square?” said Jack.

  “Well of course. The pigeons muck around on the fountain! Right then. And the difference between someone at a Billy Graham rally and nuns in a bath?”

  “Yes. Yes. The former have hope in their souls!” said Jack. "Hey. I had to go to the doctor the other day about one of my testicles. It was bigger than the other two!"

  “OK. You won't have heard this one,” said Triss. “The ultimate Alan Coren cockerel joke. This man’s driving along a deserted road miles from anywhere and his car breaks down. He sees a farm house in the distance off the road and gets out and walks to it. A woman answers the door and he asks if he can use the `phone. She say yes but only if he helps her out. She take him round the back and shows him a dozen hens and says they aren't laying well because the cockerel’s under the weather at the moment. Well, he says, what am I supposed to do about it. Then it dawns upon him…….”

  “I think we get the drift. Perhaps it’s time to move on,” said Georgie. They had planned a meal anyway, perhaps an Indian, and then onto a club.

  “Yeah, why not. I’m starving,” said Triss, instantly diverted, not at all like him.

  Goodness, thought Orielle, he is changing. She was vaguely uneasy. But at the restaurant he had only vegetarian food so she felt better. But he still ate like a horse. She kept watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was so relaxed about everything. Laid back was the expression that came to mind. But that wasn’t Tristram! Was he doing this on purpose to make her feel more comfortable? Was he doing it for the benefit of others? For Jack perhaps? But that just wasn’t his way either. A shudder went through her. But it was Georgie’s night and she didn’t want to spoil it.

  The club they chose was packed solid. This was obviously a busy night. They grabbed one of the last tables going and sat down. Georgie and Jack went off to get the drinks and Triss put his arms around Orielle and looked at her. He was rarely demonstrative in public normally.

  “I love you, you beautiful girl. Shall we get married?”

  “I….Triss! I….I don’t know, are you sure? I know I suggested it but…”

  “Absolutely. We can have loads of children and have non-stop sex and live….happily ever after. Yeah. Happily ever after.”

  Orielle knew there was something wrong then. Triss would never say happily ever after. He would think it trite and banal.

  Just as Jack and Georgie came back, a drink in each hand, staggering a little, a familiar face hove into view. It was the rather gorgeous Nick Farrow, holding hands with a sweet looking girl with long ringletted titian dark auburn hair.

  “Hello Orie,” he sa
id in his London accent, a wide cheeky Artful Dodger smile on his face. She felt Triss stiffen beside her but thought little of it. “The conveyancing world’s been missing you. When are you coming back?”

  “Some time maybe,” Orielle laughed.

  “But not that soon,” said Triss with an expression she’d never seen before as she turned slowly in his direction. The noise around them subsided as though the small group existed in a bubble, cut off from what else was going on.

  Nick frowned for a few seconds, then put his hand up to his head. His eyes opened wide and he looked at Triss.

  “Wh….”

  Tristram let go of Orielle, got up off his seat. It all appeared to happen in slow motion. He looked piercingly at Nick. Nick’s face creased in pain.

  “No. I won't. I promise. Honestly.”

  “No. You won't. Definitely you won't.”

  “All right. I’ll go. I’ll go.” Nick was no longer holding his companion’s hand. She and the others watched as he turned and walked falteringly away and disappeared into the throng of dancers, but still little sound penetrated their small cut off world. The girl who had been with Nick looked wide eyed and frightened and appeared rooted to the spot. Jack looked uncertain what to do. Normally in such a situation he would have quickly summed up which side was in the wrong and acted accordingly in a physically obvious way. But this! This was completely alien. He would have liked to have taken Triss by the arm and guided him out of the club, told him man to man that there was nothing at all to be worried about. But he couldn't move. Not a muscle; not at all.

  The disc jockey could be heard faintly to be introducing music from a group it sounded like from the sixties. The sixties? Tonight’s special! He gave the name. Orielle thought disjointedly and from afar that she’d never heard of them. A single syllable name. The sound gradually returned in waves but the five of them remained motionless. Only Tristram was unaffected.

  The featured group’s song rang out, loud but not loud. Audible on one level but seemingly muffled. On and off. Like an audible psychedelic pattern pulsing slowly, changing shape, weaving in and out of itself. An aural hall of mirrors, there one minute, not the next, big then small, fat then thin.

  Tristram repeated one of the lines. “I’ll give you my dawn surprise,” he smiled at Orielle in a slightly cruel way. Not at all like him. Worrying but wildly attractive nonetheless. “Come on. What are you waiting for,” he said taking her hand and suddenly Orielle was able to move and irresistibly followed him out of the club and onto the street outside where the activity had spilled onto and the revelry continued.

  Oblivious of the crowd, Triss put his arms around Orielle’e waist and pulled her to him. He looked down at her.

  “You’ll be mine and only mine forever,” he said. When she didn't say anything he grabbed her bottom rather roughly and pulled her harder to him. “You will,” he said without smiling. “He won't come anywhere near you. All right?”

  “What?” said Orie stupidly.

  “Nick.”

  “Nick?”

  “You heard. I’ll kill him if he tries anything with you.”

  “I….I don't understand.”

  “I saw you together.”

  “But I’ve only met him once.”

  “Yes.” A pointed wooden stake started to bore into her brain. It was intensely painful and she started to scream. Triss put his hand hard over her mouth and hissed into her ear. “Stop that. That’s what it feels like to me to think about the two of you together, on the street outside that pub. You’ll never see him again. Do you understand?”

  “Triss. What’s happened to y……ahhh. Triss stop it. You’re hurting me with your mind. Please stop. Please,” she cried.

  Abruptly Triss released her and the pain subsided. Scenes of some passion were commonplace outside the pubs and clubs at this time of night and no-one had taken any notice.

  “Triss. What’s happened to you?” she repeated.

  Triss was white as a sheet. “I don't know. I think I’m going to be sick.” And he was. “Take me home,” he said, leaning up against the wall. Vomiting on the pavement outside a club wasn't especially unusual either and attracted no attention.

  Orielle flagged down a passing taxi and they both tumbled in.

  “WHERE IS HE?” said Georgie looking about the kitchen where Orielle was sitting at the table. She and Jack had walked back.

  “He’s in bed. Out like a light. Don't worry. He hasn’t disappeared again.”

  “Well that’s a relief. I suppose.”

  “Georgie there’s something wrong with him. I think he’s ill. He’s never behaved like that before.”

  “How long have you known him then?” said Jack.

  “About six or seven months. Actually eight months I think.”

  “Maybe he’s just started to show his true colours.”

  “Well I’ve only known you for four months,” said Georgie, “and most of that time you’ve been away.”

  “That’s different.”

  “No it’s not!”

  “Look,” said Orielle, “there’s no need for you two to get in an argument about it. I’ll just go to bed and see what’s it’s like in the morning.”

  But Jack wasn't giving up. “All right but I can't mess with people’s heads like he can,” Jack's eyes looked to the ceiling as he said this. “That thing in the club!” He shook his head. “Where did you say he came from?” he looked at Georgie who gave him a warning look in return.

  “This is crazy,” said Jack shaking his head again.

  “Orie, come to bed.” They all turned to the doorway where Triss stood in boxers and a tee shirt looking pale but otherwise normal. Jack however looked alarmed.

  “Don't you try that thing with me again mate. It’s completely below the belt.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s incredible. Weird! Who are you? What are you?”

  Tristram swallowed. “Orie I think I need to see a doctor. Can we arrange something tomorrow?”

  “What is it?” said Orielle getting up and going over to him. “What’s the matter?”

  Triss looked at the others. “If you don't mind them knowing,” he said bleakly. Orielle shook her head. “I think it’s a brain tumour. Well, I’m basically certain it is.”

  “Triss!” Orielle flung her arms around him and he held her lightly. “No! Is it…..will you get better?”

  “How can you possibly know it’s that without tests and things?” said Jack. No-one said anything.

  Orielle started to cry softly. You had to be upbeat about illness, she thought, but somehow she knew this wasn't going to turn out well. A chill went through her and she found herself shaking and coming out in goosebumps. To lose him! She would never recover. She buried her head in his chest and wept. He stroked her hair and patted her back gently.

  “There there,” he was saying as Georgie and Jack quietly left the room.

  GETTING THE APPOINTMENT had been difficult. Lots of questions. Issues about ID. But if someone needed investigation and treatment in this country, they got it.

  After the MRI and the results of it being available, Orielle and Tristram sat the other side of the desk from the consultant who’d had several hundred similar conversations but still managed to make them feel that they were unique and special.

  “It’s a gloimatosis celebri.”

  Triss nodded and Orielle looked uncertain.

  “It means….that it won't go away and is almost certainly inoperable. It would kill you to operate.” Orielle fell into Triss’s lap and cried soundlessly.

  “But, with treatment, radiotherapy, and other measures, we’ve had very good results.” The consultant was an older man, kindly and soothing. “There’s no reason my dear,” he said without sounding even a little patronising, “why your….companion shouldn’t have a good prognosis.”

  Triss said nothing. Orielle raised herself up at these words. “What do you mean exactly?”

  “That he may l
ive for another year or more and have a good quality of life. The end is often quiet and…..” he stopped since Orielle was wailing pitifully, a forlorn and hopeless sound such as he’d heard often when working in war zones from time to time. Mothers losing their children mostly. A violent animal keening. He swallowed and his breath quickened. It was something you never got used to. The apprehension of loss, bitter loss.

  Triss smiled. “Just when I was starting to like it here,” he said lightly. The keening redoubled.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE ANCIENT RETIRED Solicitor plodded up the path to his cottage. It was pitch black; not a shred of light penetrated the darkness, it being a moonless night and there being no street lights at all in the village. He grimaced to himself more out of habit than for any particular cause. The fact that no-one in the small pub had spoken to him that evening was of no account to him. He had at one time or another upset just about every regular in the place and as to any strangers who happened to cross the threshold and might have engaged a seemingly lonely old man sitting on his own at a table in pleasant conversation about the old pub or the village or the area in general, they had only to take a look at his malevolent expression to be immediately repelled and shrink as far away as possible from him.

  The old man staggered a bit. He always occupied the same seat in the pub and woe betide anyone who might be sitting in it already when he arrived or who might try to join him at the same table. He always drank the same strong beer and always seven large bottles and did The Times cryptic crossword or sometimes the easy alternative depending on his mood and his wrinkled face took on a more bitter and miserable appearance as the evening progressed. That he actually had nothing much to worry about having a decent pension, annuity rates still having been quite respectable at the time of his retirement, a mortgage-free home and reasonably good health, made no difference. He had been a miserable dissatisfied baby, a grumpy child, a surly teenager and student and then a deeply pessimistic Solicitor all his professional life. His clients respected him but they didn’t like him, his colleagues and associates kept their distance and let him get on with his cases and his staff frankly feared him. At the beginning of his career, he’d made the staff line up at the beginning and end of each day and say “Good morning Mr Sharpe” and “Goodnight Mr. Sharpe” but that had had to stop in the seventies as even he had had to bow to some of the social changes that were taking place.