by T F Lince
“It has started well, Dean.” Rosie held her hand to her tummy.
That’s why she is drinking orange juice, Dean thought.
“Rosie, everyone thinks you’ve had vodka in it all night,” Sam said. “I have already sneakily had to replace four drinks bought for you with straight orange juices – the plants near the bar will be pissed. What with that and the choir’s bar tab…”
“Once a Yorkshireman, always a Yorkshireman, Sam, you tight arse,” Rosie said as she gave her new husband a hug.
“It’s called being careful up here, right?” said Dean, and Sam laughed.
Dean looked at his mother’s tummy, which she was rubbing with affection.
“Sam, what do you think of Dean?”
“He’s OK, love, but a bit old for you.”
Rosie gave Sam a tap on his arm.
“No, what about the name, if it’s a boy?”
Sam looked at Dean. “Do you like your name, Dean?” he enquired.
“Well, it’s never done me any harm. It’s better than Kevin or Trevor.” Dean tried playing it cool. It didn’t work.
“I’ll think about it, Rosie, I’ll think about it.”
As they clinked glasses, a blue mass was heading back to the stage from the bar. The choir quickly got into position, then the leader announced, “We’re back, and to kick us off, Mick is going to sing a song about his lovely wife, ‘Whip Jamboree’.”
“Whip Jamboree, Whip Jamboree, oh ya pig-tailed sailor hang down behind…”
Dean knew this one. Before long, he had his dad’s arm around his shoulders as Sam recruited others to join in the chorus.
“Oh Jenny, get your oatcakes done…”
The song finished and they all held the last note as long as possible.
The night was coming to a close. Sam took the mic – there was enough time left for one more drunken speech, thanking everyone from Aunty Sue who had made and decorated the cake to the cleaners who would have to clean this mess up tomorrow.
“I have one more announcement to make,” he said. “My wife has come up with a name for the boat.” Everyone looked up expectantly. “She will be called The Whitby Trader in honour of Dean, my new best friend. OK, let’s have a big round of applause for the Marske Fisherman’s Choir, who are now going to play us out with a local favourite, ‘Whitby Whaler’.”
Everyone cheered as Sam joined his wife on the two seats that had been placed facing the stage for the happy couple.
“Anyone seen Little Jon? It’s his song.”
“I think he’s being ill in the toilets, mate,” said a voice from the crowd.
“Anything else you want, Sam? We’ve lost the lead for that one.”
Sam looked at Rosie.
“It’s Rosie’s favourite, Jim.”
Dean walked across the dancefloor and whispered to Jim, the choir leader.
“I know it, guys, if you’ll help me out on the chorus.”
“What’s your name, son?” Jim enquired
“Dean. It’s Dean,” he replied, frantically trying to remember how the song started.
“Rosie, lucky for you we have a stand in to save the day. Let’s have a big cheer for Chris and Bill on the guitars. The room upped the decibel levels as the guitarists took their bows. So to sing us out we have a our newest member Dean…and we’re the Marske Fisherman’s Choir. Here is ‘Whitby Whaler’, and let’s hear you all join in. Off you go, Dean.”
The music started. Dean looked at Rosie and gave her a smile. “This is for the best couple in the world, Sam and Rosie.” He cleared his throat and began. Everyone hung on Dean’s verses, which he was just about remembering from years gone by, then joined in to sing the chorus.
Could things get any better? Dean was looking at his mum and dad, who were very happy and beginning their life together, and he wanted to thank whoever it was who’d made this possible. Then he thought about Sarah and Jodie, knowing at this moment he was a little baby in his mother’s tummy, not even part of this world yet. And he had nearly thrown it all away.
Dean sang the penultimate verse and turned to the choir, who were backing him brilliantly, along with everyone else in the room. Giving the choir a wink, he prepared for the final verse. All he had to do was remember the first line, and the rest would take care of itself.
Giving the choir a last appreciative nod, he turned to face the front again.
Oh my God!
Less than a foot away, staring straight at Dean, was the man with the cane who had pursued him so relentlessly at the fairground. The man took off his fedora; he was bald, and Dean could see the skin on his head doing its best to cover up the bones beneath it. The jagged bones looked like they were starting to win that battle.
The man’s eyes were a piercing blue and were on about the same level as Dean’s, even though Dean was on the stage. Everyone else in the room was carrying on as normal, the choir coming to the end of the chorus before Dean’s big finish for his mum.
“Not now,” he said under his breath, looking at his mother and father, who seemed very proud of him right then. “Please, not now.”
The chorus ended and the guitar introduced the last verse. The man was still staring at Dean, then he reached into his pocket and took out his battered leather-bound book.
The guitar rolled through the verse and looped back round to give Dean a second chance. Dean looked straight back at the bald figure as if he was glued to the spot. Could nobody else see him?
The man, once again all in black, waved his hand across the book, and the pages transformed to order. Dean Harrison, his date of birth and a calendar of June 2017 appeared on the page, a black mark on Friday 16 June. The man raised his cane above his head. David behind the bar covered his face as the cane was retracted to striking point.
“Mam, Dad,” said Dean under his breath as he started to cry. Sam got up from his seat, walking straight through the mysterious figure to climb on stage and stand at Dean’s side.
“You’re not on your own, son. We’re all with you, whenever you need a hand.”
The guitar looped around again, and Dean and his dad sang the start of the next verse. Dean joined in slowly at first, and then with more gusto.
If I’m going to die, then singing to my mam with my dad is how I will do it, he thought. What will be, will be.
Everyone in the hall belted out the chorus as if their lives depended on it; Dean’s life probably did. Rosie joined him and Sam on stage – a couple whom Dean had only met hours ago were standing by him in his hour of need. Then Terry joined them, followed by everyone in the room. The choir did three choruses to milk a good ending, with every guest singing as loudly and tunefully as their vocal chords allowed. The one exception was the uninvited guest in black, his cane, filled with menace, held behind his shoulder. He stood where he had been all along, about a foot from Dean’s face, staring at him.
The song came to an end and Sam and Rosie gave Dean a big hug, thanking him for a great night. Then there was a click of the man’s bony fingers; the room froze. Everyone was still as if the room had been paused; only Dean and the man continued to move.
Dean blinked a couple of times and felt a shiver work its way through his body. He looked at the man, the poised cane, weighing his options.
This is it, he thought.
All of a sudden, David ran past all the paused figure to get between Dean and the man.
“Please, sir, give him one more chance. Please, sir.”
The man looked at David, then at Dean and his parents. He slowly lowered the cane, allowing it to stroke Dean lightly on the face on its way down. He then consulted his book again, shaking his head a couple of times as if he was trying to fit in a doctor’s appointment.
He looked up at Dean and David, who were standing side by side. With a bony finger, he slid the black mark from 16 June to the 18th. He put his hat back on his head and tipped it towards Dean before leaving, clicking his fingers as he went to un-pause the room.
&nbs
p; “What was that about, David?” David obviously knew more than he was letting on. “Have I been given a second chance?”
David looked at Dean. “I can’t tell you, Dean, you have to work things out for yourself. All we can do is guide you.”
As David started to walk away, Dean asked, “Who is he, David? What’s going on? Please help me.”
David turned back and looked at Dean.
“You’re safe for today, Dean…”
“Today? But he moved the date to mid-June, so I’ve got another month. It’s only May…”
Dean’s voice trailed off at the sad look on David’s face.
“It is only May, isn’t it, David?”
“I can’t tell you, Dean, but I can tell you, he’s not made his mind up on you yet. I’ve only seen that look on his face once before, and he usually decides one way or the other. You’re testing him, that’s for sure.”
“But what…”
“I’ve said enough. If I say much more, you don’t stand a chance. There is only one person who can prove to him what he wants. Good luck, Dean.”
As David left for the bar, Dean said goodbye to all the guests then looked at his mother.
“I had a great night, thank you, Rosie.” He gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head.
“Thank you for coming in. We’ve loved it too, haven’t we?” Rosie reached out for Sam, who was saying goodbye to the final guests on their way out.
“Yes, and thanks for the last song, Dean, even though you needed some help.” Sam gave him a playful punch on the arm.
“You don’t know how much you helped, Sam.” Dean said this like he meant it. He did mean it. If his dad had not come to help him, he was sure that he would not be here right now.
“No problem, Deano. Do you know what, Rosie? If it’s a boy, he can be called Dean if I’m allowed to call him Deano. Deal?”
“Deal,” Rosie said as she rubbed her tummy again.
“Well, lovely to have met you both, and have a great life together with little Dean – if it’s a boy. And don’t be too hard on him, especially if he breaks the glass ship on the mantelpiece when he’s a kid or wants to move to London and chase his dreams. Never stop someone chasing their dreams.”
“OK, Dean. Glass ship on the mantelpiece.”
Dean just smiled at his mother’s face, which was looking quite bewildered, and gave her a loving look that can only come from a son. Then Dean’s smile broke out into a laugh. He knew he would still get in trouble when the ship got smashed, but maybe he’d only get grounded for a week instead of two.
“Take care, Dean. Will we see you again?” asked Rosie.
“I can guarantee it, Rosie.”
Dean started to leave the room, turning at the door to get a last look at his mum and dad, who were standing arm in arm, waving at him. Then he opened the door and was again in the hotel. He turned and looked at the room behind him out of curiosity – it was nothing but a storage cupboard full of stationery.
Dean headed upstairs to Room 119 to get some well-earned sleep.
Chapter 20 – Don’t Be Scared Of Clowns, Jodie
Jodie could hear a shuffling noise in her room. She squinted her eyes and looked up at the alarm clock.
“Mum, it’s only three o’clock in the morning.”
There was no answer. Jodie turned and saw a plump figure looking at the chess pieces on the board.
“Oh my God, who are you?” Jodie pulled the covers up to her chest as if they were armour that would protect her.
“So you’ve given up on your dad, I see.”
She recognised the voice and turned on the lamp.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
“If you mean the Nasty Clown, Jodie, then yes. I don’t think I’m that nasty, do you?” The clown was wearing a black and white harlequin outfit with chess pieces on the squares. There was no colour on his face today – he was going for the ‘neutral clown’ look, all black and white with three black teardrops of decreasing size under his right eye.
“No, I guess you’re not. And no, I haven’t given up on my dad. I never will. And you were quite nasty last time.”
Jodie released her grasp on her protective covers. The clown hadn’t actually been that nasty last time; he’d just said some nasty things, like the fact her dad was going to leave. Which was more the truth than nastiness, as it turned out.
“You have reset the board. It looks like you have given up to me,” the clown said, gesturing at the chess pieces with an opening palm.
“I just thought my dad needed a break. I’m sick of seeing him get beaten.” Jodie sat up in her bed. “Anyway, it’s impossible for the whites to win, even the computer says so. I’ve tried everything.”
Jodie got out of bed and walked over to the chessboard.
“I though the computer said there was 0.01% of a chance. That’s not impossible, Jodie, that’s just nearly impossible.”
How can the clown know what the chances were? Jodie thought. She then remembered she was in a dream. Anything is possible in a dream.
“Well, I’ve been trying with Kyle, and it’s impossible as far as we are concerned.” Jodie followed this up with a knowing nod like her dad would do, an additional full stop to an already powerful statement.
“Oh, so you have given up then. What was it your dad said again?” The clown left an intentional pause. “Oh, that was it: ‘There is always a way, Jodie. When someone has got nowhere to run, it’s better to go down fighting, no matter how futile the fight’. Is that going down fighting, Jodie? Your dad needs you right now – you know this, don’t you?”
Jodie nodded her head. She did know that her dad winning this game was important; she just didn’t know why. But deep inside her, she felt like her dad’s life depended on it, and she would do everything she could to fix it.
“But I’ve tried my hardest. I’ve tried everything.” Jodie looked at the clown, tears filling her eyes. “Can you help me? I don’t know what to do.”
“I can’t help you, Jodie, I can only guide you and your dad. However, I can remind you of what Kyle said.”
“Yes, anything. I know there is a way, I just can’t see it. What did he say? I can’t remember him saying anything that would help.”
“It’s not what he said, Jodie, it’s what he meant.” He gave her a comforting tilt of his head as if to try and prove he was on her dad’s side. “White gets beaten time after time. They’re under too much pressure from the beginning.”
“How does that help?”
The clown looked at the pieces on the board and more or less blanked her. Jodie knew she was on her own; she had to work this one out for herself.
“White gets beaten time after time,” Jodie said under her breath. “They’re under too much pressure.” She looked up at the ceiling, thinking, then said it again, looking for inspiration. “Time after time. Time and pressure.”
Jodie looked at the clown, who gave her a wry smile. He could see the penny dropping in front of his eyes.
“Time and pressure, that’s it! Black will always win as they have time to think and all the key pieces. We have to bring in another element to the game. I’ve got to put them on the clock, haven’t I?”
She looked at the clown again to make sure she was heading in the right direction.
“And what will that create, Jodie?” The clown was teasing the last piece out of her like Columbo about to unmask a murderer.
“Pressure!” They said this together.
“Thank you so much.” Jodie gave the clown a hug, and he hugged her back.
“Good luck, Jodie, your dad is depending on you. Should I reset the board for tomorrow?”
They both looked at the board. In Jodie’s head, the white pieces already looked more aggressive and up for the fight.
“Yes please,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Benjie, Jodie, I am Benjie the clown. Pleased to meet you.” Benjie gave an extravagant Shakespearian bow, flourishing a pret
end hat as he did so. Then he waved his hand across the top of the board and the pieces reset to their positions, ready to resume their battle tomorrow.
“Night, Jodie, good luck.” The clown waved his hand in front of Jodie’s face and she slowly closed her eyes. The alarm clock still said 3am.
In the morning, Sarah let Jodie have a sleep in. She was normally up by now, but it was a Saturday and Sarah thought she could do with a break. She had been thinking about her dad and his chess game too much and not sleeping.
When Sarah eventually opened the curtains in Jodie’s room and the light crept across the floor, Jodie opened her eyes and squinted.
“What time is it, Mum?”
“Eleven o’clock, Jodie. You never sleep in this long, and I thought you were going to give the chess thing a rest,” her mother said, looking over to the reset chessboard.
“Oh, that wasn’t me.”
“Jodie, remember this is a new start. We have to be strong, and lying is not a good start.” Sarah plumped a couple of cushions on Jodie’s sofa bed. They didn’t need plumping, but they always got a plump anyway every time Sarah was in the vicinity.
“But, Mum, it was the clown. It really wasn’t me. I…”
Sarah stopped her in her tracks.
“I don’t want to hear it, Jodie! Clowns, for God’s sake. It’s a new start and we’ve got to be honest with each other, remember?”
Jodie thought about the clown then looked at her mum, realising that Sarah was not ready for the truth right now, regardless of whether it were true or not. She then looked at the board, all set up to continue her game with her dad.
“You’re right, Mum. I was going to have one more go before I went to bed last night, but I’ll leave it for now.”
But Jodie wouldn’t leave it; she knew her dad was depending on her. She also knew that she needed an opponent. Then she remembered what the clown had said last night.
“Time and pressure.”
She had to put Kyle on the clock; put Kyle under pressure.
