Denied to all but Ghosts (22 page)

His journey took him away from the square and
towards St Mary’s church. He appreciated the half-timbered
Tudor-style buildings that he encountered along the way, for they
provided a fitting medieval backdrop. A group of jugglers,
entertaining the audience with a thrilling display of flaming baton
flinging, amiably distracted him before he emerged upon the freshly
cut lawn outside the church. The green was home to several ancient
trees, whose bare limbs pointed skyward, as if drawn to the
anomalous crooked church spire.

His arrival coincided with a rally held by a
motley Christian order, whose troll-like speaker was berating his
congregation concerning the unholy and aberrant frivolities that
the town was enjoying. The Preacher’s impassioned sermon warned
them of the dire consequences of such sin and fornication.

Beckett was a romantic at heart, who still
held onto a noble concept of love and chivalry, and he wondered
what planet the preacher came from. It must be a very troubling
world if all he could see was the potential unhappiness and misery
of the next life. Surely, these preachers should preach joy, not
doom and gloom? He ruminated upon the fact that his mortal life was
not exactly a barrel of laughs.

The crooked spire of the parish church
corkscrewed high above his head in such a way that would have been
impossible to replicate artificially and he miserably wondered if
the spire was representative of something much deeper. It became
obvious that the killjoy sect was depressing him; all too often
these days a sense of despondency lurked close beneath his veil of
shallow rhetoric.

Beckett snapped a few pictures of the famous
crooked spire before deciding to head back towards the hotel. He
wandered aimlessly, wallowing in the miasma of his melancholy with
its futility and angst, and so it came as a revelation when he
realised that he was lost. Perhaps the expression ‘lost’ was an
inaccuracy on his part, for in reality Chesterfield was scarcely
big enough to disorientate anyone. What he did not realise was that
he had wandered into the Shambles.

The Shambles was possibly the oldest area of
the town that once housed its butchers and meat traders. It was a
place where the streets once stank of death and ran with the blood
of slaughtered animals. All that now survived was a narrow, central
street crossed at right angles by several alleyways in the heart of
the old town. The main street was narrow and the half-timbered
buildings closed in dauntingly on both sides.

The New Age contingent visiting the fayre had
adopted this knotted area of the town. To Beckett it seemed as if
civilisation had collapsed and nature had stepped in to reclaim it.
From the sides of the buildings foliage and boughs of shrubs of
unknown species, to Beckett at least, draped coquettishly. The air
was heavy with the scent of incense, and perhaps other substances
that were unfamiliar to Beckett. A pub lay at the heart of the
Shambles, a sign proclaimed its ancient heritage, yet Beckett paid
scant attention to the wording before deciding to enter. Ivy grew
up the side of the building and this natural growth had been
embellished with additional greenery so that the building took on
facade of an organic entity.

The interior was gloomy, made artificially so
by dark wall hangings that depicted Celtic and mythological
representations, garnished by yet more vegetation. Candles lit the
bar and the air felt heavy to breathe, intense with the aroma of
incense and other pungent odours. It felt as if someone had built a
temporary wall around a damp forest clearing.

The bar space was crowded with what Beckett
might collectively call ‘hippies’. His lack of any knowledge
pertaining to their world precluded a more accurate description. He
instantly decided that this was not his scene and turned on the
spot to reach for the door handle to leave the Fetid Pig.

“Hold hard there, soldier,” announced a man’s
voice and he felt a hand take hold of his arm, “let’s not be too
hasty, eh?”

Beckett felt an adrenalin rush as he faced
the person holding him back but his apprehension faded when he
noticed that the hand tugging at his sleeve was the only one that
his would-be assailant possessed. Indeed, the man was not only
missing most of his left arm but also his left leg.

“Sorry, my friend,” said the man and for the
first time Beckett recognised the gentle Geordie accent, which
again was an insulting inaccuracy as the man hailed from Gateshead.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you, thought you could do with a
drink.”

Beckett relaxed a little. “Why not,” he said
carefully.

Two other limping men joined the man, who
Beckett placed as being in his late twenties or early thirties. All
three were similarly attired and similar in appearance. Despite
their apparent injuries all three exuded confidence inspired by
physical fitness, and sported varying degrees of facial hair.

Each wore a white tee shirt with four letters
emblazoned across the chest, ‘FUIA’. Beckett’s new acquaintance
watched Beckett’s eyes roll over the letters.

The man laughed and declared, “Fucked up in
Afghanistan!” The man held out his hand to Beckett, “I’m Smudger,
this here is Baz,” Smudger pointed to the man on his right, “and
that there is Big Davy,” said Smudger pointing to the shortest man
of the group.

“I’m Tom, pleased to meet you.”

“A West Country boy, unless I’m very much
mistaken?” stated Smudger.

“Bristol,” replied Beckett.

“Hey, we’ve got a cider-head, a pint of
Blackthorn for the man, Charlie,” demanded Smudger of the man
behind the bar.

“Actually, I don’t really drink cider, I’m a
bitter man,” corrected Beckett.

“Whatever your poison, mate. It’s okay by
me,” said Smudger smiling.

A pint of bitter was handed to Beckett who
sipped it whilst looking around the room. His eyes had now become
accustomed to the gloom enabling him to observe his surroundings in
finer detail, not that he liked what he saw.

“So, come along to join in the celebrations,
have you?” asked the Mancunian twang of Baz.

“Sort of, didn’t really know it was going on
to be honest,” replied Beckett.

“Yep, I reckon it’s the best kept secret in
the country, and long may it be so,” proclaimed the moderated
Estuary English dialect of Big Davey.

“You boys been here before then?” asked
Beckett.

“Yep, every year without fail,” said Big
Davey.

“Yes,” said Baz, “this is our second
year.”

“So what is the attraction for you boys?”
quizzed Beckett.

“Pretty obvious isn’t it?” answered a puzzled
Smudger, and by way of explanation he continued, “we come for the
ambiance.”

The three men laughed in unison, Beckett’s
smile was one of acquiescence.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Tom,” said
Smudger, “you look like a troubled man.”

“Do I?” asked Beckett defensively.

“It’s my business to understand men, that’s
what I do. Now, I’ll tell you what my advice is, you go over to the
corner over there and have a word with young Mary.” Smudger pointed
to the gloomiest corner of the pub, from which Beckett could just
discern the faint light of a burning candle.

“Well, that’s kind of you to offer advice,
Smudger, but I’m not really into that kind of thing,” said Beckett
as delicately as he could. These boys seemed friendly enough but
Beckett did not want to risk upsetting them.

“Don’t be a plank, man!” shouted Smudger to
Beckett. “Mary, love,” ordered Smudger, “get your arse over
here!”

“There really is no need, honest,” said
Beckett, slinking back to the wall. A waif-like girl in her late
teens, wearing a long kaftan style dress and smoking a poorly made
roll-up cigarette tiptoed over towards Smudger.

“Mary, poor old Tom here needs your help,”
said Smudger to the girl.

“I really don’t,” insisted Beckett.

“Don’t talk bollocks, man,” insisted Smudger.
“I can see you are really in need of Mary’s special gifts.”

Both Baz and Big Davy smirked
conspiratorially. Mary smiled as she approached Beckett. She blew
aromatic cigarette smoke into Beckett’s face, inducing him to
flinch and cough. The next thing he noticed was a pack of tarot
cards waved before his eyes.

“Go on, son. Mary has the gift, she’ll sort
you out, you know that the cards never lie,” said Smudger.

At that moment, the door of the pub opened
and a head appeared around the edge of the door accompanied by an
overwhelming blast of fresh air.

“Major Smith, Sir,” said the voice from
beyond the door, “the bus leaves in five minutes, Sir.”

“Thank you, Corporal,” replied Major Smudger
Smith, “be with you now.” Smudger addressed his two companions.

“Captain, Lieutenant, time to hit the road,
gentleman.” Somehow, Beckett could not equate the northeast accent
with the rank of major. He had never heard a British officer in the
old black and white movies speak with such a dialect; perhaps the
1940’s thespians were incapable of performing a Geordie
inflection.

“Now listen to me, Tom. You have a session
with Mary, it could change your life. Take care of yourself, you
hear.” Smudger slapped Beckett on the arm and limped out of the pub
followed by his two grinning subordinates, leaving Beckett alone
with Mary, the tarot card-reading girl.

“Come on, me duck,” said the Chesterfield
lass, “Let’s learn all about you.”

She grabbed Beckett's hand and made to drag
him towards her dark corner table but Beckett had his heels firmly
planted.

“Sorry, love, I’m not really up for all this
shit.” The background chatter that filled the pub slowly died and
Beckett could make out all the ‘hippies’ in the bar look his way.
He instantly regretted his hasty choice of words, the most obvious
way out of his predicament was to agree to the girl’s demands and
so he allowed himself to be led over to the corner seat, where he
reluctantly sat on a barstool.

The table was lit by a solitary candle held
in a wine bottle, its sides streaked with runs of molten wax, which
had cooled to form patterns of intricate depth and colour.

“Alright, me duck, I’ll cut all the ‘shit’
and give you the straight reading, it won’t be half the fun though.
Ten quid, please.”

Beckett opened his mouth in protest but
stifled the outburst. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and
took out two five-pound notes. She took his hands and stared into a
crystal ball that lay at the centre of the table. She leant forward
as if looking for something in the heart of the glass, her eyes
almost touching the sphere. As she did so, the top of her kaftan
fell forward affording a clear view of her breasts that drew
Beckett’s unintentional gaze.

“Stop looking at me tits and relax,” she
ordered. Beckett flushed as he complied and decided that he too
should stare into the ball. However, all he could see was the
distorted reflected light from the candle.

“My, you are an interesting one,” said Mary,
“what do you want me to look at, your future or your past?”

“Well there is sod-all point in looking at my
past; I think I should know that, don’t you?”

“So you know of your past lives do you?” said
Mary, who did indeed sound a little contrary, unused to dealing
with such disbelievers.

“The future it is then,” she continued. “I
see a beautiful woman. She will fulfil a deep longing but at a
price.” Beckett looked up from the crystal ball and into the
earnest face of the young woman.

“Do you want her?” asked Mary. Beckett may
have considered her act theatrical but she had him hooked none the
less. Mary smiled and raised her eyebrows. She let go of his hands
and leant serenely back from the globe.

“Is that it?” exclaimed Beckett with more
than a hint of disappointment, “Is that all? I never said
anything.”

“You don’t have to, lover,” said Mary
evasively, “oh there is plenty there alright but not for you to
know about.”

“What sort of fortune telling is that!”
blurted Beckett.

“It’s the sort of shit that you deserve, me
duck.”

“Well thanks for nothing!” said Beckett
standing up belligerently. He was actually looking forward to
having his fortune read even if he did not believe a word of
it.

“Me duck,” she said as he went to leave,
“seriously, be careful of what you wish for.”

“Thanks, love, that is really specific and
helpful,” said Beckett derisively. He turned his back on her and
walked towards the door.

“Beware of false prophets!” shouted Mary.
Beckett stopped and turned back towards the girl.

“Beware of who?” he asked. He thought she
might as well have thrown in the Ides of March whilst she was at
it.

“False prophets!” cried Mary animatedly.

“And who are they, a seventies prog rock
band?” laughed Beckett.

“No, I’d guess they are people pretending to
be like me,” declared Mary sheepishly. Beckett continued to laugh
and shook his head.

“Thanks, Mary. Thanks for cheering me up. Be
lucky.” He turned for a final time and left the pub.

“Brother Christian, how are you?” enquired
Cavendish politely.

“I’m good, Marchel, it goes well.” Cavendish
nodded his approval.

“Have you received the package?” asked the
Untersucher. “Yeah, no problem, it looks good,” replied Searsby
whilst rolling a cigarette.

The two men were sitting on a bench seat
outside the impressive town hall in Chesterfield, an area where the
fayre had not been allowed to encroach. It was Sunday afternoon;
Beckett was in town discovering the delights of the fayre.

“Yes, Lynda certainly has done me proud. I
was very lucky to get her at such short notice, she is busy working
on another Mummy exhibition, I believe.”