The Sleepwalker
By Randall Stone
He tried the handle and the door was locked. But of course it was. It was the middle of the night after all. He shivered and made his way around to the back of the house. His limbs felt awfully stiff, leaden almost, and yet there was no pain. But how had he come to be out in the front garden? The last thing he could remember was retiring to bed after his cocoa. He had snuggled up against Edna and had fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber.
A bright, silver moon shone from an almost clear sky and stars glittered in the back drop of night like scattered diamonds on black velvet. The slight breeze that played about the garden was balmy as it kissed his skin. He stopped a few feet from the front door and surveyed his front garden. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight and the shadows but his garden seemed. . .different, somehow. A puzzled frown creased his features as he tried to comprehend what it was that bothered him.
He had always been a very keen gardener and both the back and front lawns of the house had been his passion for as long as he could remember. But the privet hedges which he normally kept immaculately trimmed, seemed taller and more untidy than they had in the day. The lawn with its ruler edge borders and finely turned flower beds, were different too. Instead of the golf green height and texture that he worked tirelessly to keep, the grass seemed taller now and he stared aghast at the weeds that had crept in between his beautiful Tam ‘O’ Shanters and Skylarks. The rose plants themselves seemed wilder than he remembered, as if he hadn’t kept them pruned. But that was ridiculous. Stepping onto the lawn, he was horrified to see that the weeds, along with the odd crisp packet, had also invaded his beloved rockery.
Making his way down the side of the house, he winced as he pushed open the side gate. It screeched mournfully as it moved. Why on earth did it do that? He asked himself mentally. Didn’t he always keep the damned thing oiled? Leaving it open so it wouldn’t screech again, he crossed to the back door. The glass porch door swung open but relief was short lived for the back door was locked tight. Now what was he to do? He was loathed to start banging on the door to awaken Edna. What would the neighbours say? And why now, for the first time in his sixty three years, had he decided to sleepwalk?
Glancing up at his bedroom window he saw the faint glow of the night light that Edna kept on her bedside table. She must have awakened for a drink of water or something. Marvellous. In a moment she’ll realise I’m not beside her, he thought, and come and look for me. He hurried around to the front door again, just in case she was peering out of it at this exact moment. When she wasn’t, he made his way to the back again. Seconds dragged into long minutes as he waited and watched for any sign of the kitchen and living room lights flickering on to denote her presence in the house. After what seemed an eternity, he decided that his wife wasn’t coming down stairs.
Suddenly and idea came to him. He just prayed that he wouldn’t break his neck when he put it into action. He would go to the shed and get the ladder, lean it up against the wall, climb it and tap gently on the window to attract Edna’s attention.
Again he was struck by how untidy the garden was. Like the front, it appeared overgrown and weed ravaged. Even the wood of the shed looked warped but it was only a couple of months ago he had coated it with creosote. And, one of the windows had been broken. When on earth had that happened? It had been fine when he had gone to bed that night.
The ladder had been laid on it’s side along the shed. Another thing that puzzled him for he always kept them inside. He dismissed the enigma for the moment, his priority now, to just get back to bed. Having placed the ladder against the wall, he began to climb at a slow, steady pace. Within moments he was staring at the sleeping form of his wife as she faced the window, the night light still on. He was struck by her beauty as he gazed at her gentle features. They had been married for just over forty five years and his love for her had never diminished, nor, as far as he was concerned, had her looks. Longing to call out to her but not wanting to frighten her he settled for a gentle tap on the glass. She shifted restlessly. He tapped again, this time a little louder. She shifted again and this time her eyes opened. He waved at her and the action caught her attention.
A puzzled expression clouded her beautiful features and he grinned apologetically. He saw her eyes open wide and her mouth gape as an ear splitting scream erupted. It seemed to go on and on as her body became as rigid as a board.
He tried to shush her without shouting, flapping his hands dementedly but the screech continued. He tried to tell her it was only him and not a burglar but her eyes continued to bulge madly as she clutched at her chest. Leaning back, he caught his reflection in the window and his memory came flooding back in an instant. He had gone to bed with Edna, just as he had remembered, but he had not woke up and, judging from his appearance, it had been quite a while ago. His eyes were now two cavernous holes in a ravaged face and the flesh, what was left of it, was spoiled and rotten, hanging from the bone in tattered strips. His heart filled with pain and sadness, he faded slowly from view, melting into the night, to leave an empty ladder leaning against the wall.
Friday 27 November 2009
The Stop Off Cafe
The Stop Off Café
By Randall Stone
I turned the handle and the door was locked. Odd, I thought. Maybe there was another way in. A quick search to the left and right of the low, two storey building showed me there wasn’t.
I had found this delightfully quaint building on a complete off chance after helping an aggressive old tramp at the head of an obscure alleyway just off the town centre. Even though I had given the cantankerous old fellow all of my loose change, which amounted to at least three quid I’m sure, he seemed to believe I had a lot more and grabbed for me. After a brief scuffle I managed to throw the grizzled old lout off but then, I realised I was heading into the alley and not out of it. Not wanting another confrontation with the reeking goat though, I decided to see if there was another way out the chasm and that’s when I let on this little marvel.
It was a small, thatched Tudor building and the battered and peeling board that was hanging from a rusty bracket above the aged, iron studded door of thick oak was painted with the legend, “The Stop Off Café”. An odd name for such an old and distinguished building I thought, but still, what an absolute delight. Pity it was shut. A quick glance at my wrist watch told me it had just gone 11.31pm. It would have been great to have had lunch in such a place and, seeing as the appointment with my solicitor wasn’t until 3.30pm that afternoon, the amateur historian in me could have taken his time and savoured the surroundings and ambience of such a desirable place. Peering through the small, dark and grimy windows however, on either side of the low door, I could see no signs of life, nor indeed, could I detect any aroma of cooking from the place. Sighing heavily in disappointment, I began to move back up the alleyway and prepared myself for round two with the old tramp.
The sound of a heavy lock clicking, had me turning back and I saw a very attractive, plump woman emerge from the darkness within. She smiled warmly as she ran a hand over her thick, auburn hair that was piled up into a neat bun atop her head. I have to confess though, a little ashamedly as it happens, that my gaze was held for the first few vital seconds of our meeting, by the woman’s ample cleavage, heaving as it were, from her low cut, lacy top.
“We’re ready now sir, if you’d like to come in.” she beamed at me. She had such an open and honest face that I took to her straight away, bosom and all.
“Oh, so you are open then?” I stammered.
“Of course sir.” she smiled. Stepping to one side of the door, she extended her arm and ushered me in.
The interior of the place was every bit as fantastic as the outside. Lighted candles stood in brackets from the dark, panelled walls which were adorned with a myriad etchings and what looked to be old, monochrome photographs of single people and groups. From the heavy oak beams that veined the ceiling, hung lit lamps amidst an adornment of horse brasses and coppers. The dim lighting gave the whole place a cosy subtlety rather than one of murkiness. Small, rectangular tables were lined with pristine tablecloths of white cotton and upon these were set heavy looking cutlery of what I took to be tarnished silver. The bar was immediately before me and as I stood there, delighting in my surroundings, the woman who had let me in, made her way around the counter and awaited my order.
“It’s certainly a beautiful place you have here.” I commented.
“Thank you.” she beamed at me. “We like it. Now, what can I get you?” I surveyed the well stocked bar and sized up the old fashioned hand pumps on the bar counter.
“Well, I’m not driving today so I think I’ll try a pint of your best ale.” She nodded and reached for a heavy, glass tankard.
“Forgive my forwardness,” I said, a little hesitantly, “but do you own the place?” She stood the foaming beer in front of me as I reached into my pocket for my wallet.
“That’s alright sir, this one is on the house.” she smiled.
“That’s very kind of you.” I replied, taken aback by the woman’s benevolence.
“Not at all sir. Anyone who can find this place deserves a free drink I reckon. And yes, this place has been in the family for years. In fact, twas in the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and thirty eight, that my family took over.
“As long ago as that?” I asked, the amazement in my voice plainly evident.
“Yes.” she replied faintly, a far off look clouding her sultry brown eyes. All of a sudden they seemed to clear and she beamed at me again. “Now then sir, can I fix you something to eat?”
“Er yes, that would be great.” I answered. “Do you have a menu I could look at?” She reached under the bar and handed me a list of the culinary dishes available. I ordered an 8oz Sirloin with all the trimmings and as she took my order through to the back, I picked up my pint and decided to take a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I was no art historian by any stretch of the imagination but one of my life’s loves and the reason I had come into the city so early before my appointment, was to visit the art galleries and museums and, if these etchings were indeed the original articles then this wall was worth a king’s ransom. They depicted everything from medieval scenes of farming and town life to dramatic seascapes and old maps. The black and white photos were equally as interesting. They dated from the late 1800’s and at first glance were nothing more than portraits or groups of people from some obscure period of yesteryear.
It was not until I looked at a photo of a large gutted building that my inner sense of foreboding began to kick in.
It depicted and old fashioned fire engine of 1922 along with the fire crew outside the smouldering remains of huge brick building. Beneath the photo was the caption,
“The Hellam Street Disaster of May 19th 1922. Six dead.”
Beneath this were the names of the five workers and one fireman that lost their lives that day. Beside this was another photo. A smiling girl of just four years old. Her name had been Olivia Trent and the date of her death had been August 22nd 1930, drowned in the local river. Above these was a photo of a three funnelled ocean going liner by the name of the “Russian Lady”. She had sunk just off Newfoundland on January 11th 1919. I scanned the other pictures quickly and felt my stomach sink with each one.
Toby McGuire, 16 yrs, felled by a runaway cart in Hallsall Avenue, March 10th 1897. Reginald Atkins, found beaten and mugged, September 8th 1901, Kiddings Lane, died from his injuries in the Royal Albert and Edward, September 12th 1901 aged 57yrs. Jessica Allbright, aged 23yrs, found dead at her home in Jackson Terrace, June 18th, 1861. Her husband subsequently hanged for her murder. And so it went on. Each photo carried a grisly obituary and not a single person had died a natural death.
Members of the Tunsall Street Social and Working Men’s Club, lost in a mid air collision over Normandy, April 6th 1954. Even the old etchings carried their own morbid captions. Failure of the Findon Harvest. 231 dead of starvation, Autumn 1541.
The India Empress, lost to high winds in the Bristol Channel, 1602, 120 sailors dead.
I felt the pint begin to tremble in my hands for it seemed to have become unnaturally heavy. Not wanting to but feeling impelled to do so, I worked my way across the wall and realised with mounting horror, that the disasters and deaths drew further towards the present, the farther I went. As I reached the last photo on the wall I fell into an almost dead faint and the pot slipped from my fingers, exploding in a mass of glass and foaming ale that washed across my shoes and soaked my socks. The ligaments in my knees had been replaced by jelly and as they gave way I had at least the present of mind to stick my hand out behind me and catch a table.
With a terrible grinding noise, made by its stout legs scudding across the bare, stone flags of the floor, I fell onto it and all but collapsed. My mind and sight had become fogged somewhat so that I fancied I was looking at the world through a hazy gauze but despite all this, I could not tear my gaze from the final photograph. From the sepia coloured plate bordered by an nondescript, dark wooden frame, my own, solemn face stared back at me. Beneath the photo ran the caption, Stephen Perkins, Murdered by Unknown Assailant, Talbot Street, August 21st 2009.
I jumped physically as the hand touched my shoulder.
“I’m sorry sweetheart.” said the landlady, solemnly. “I intended to break the news over your meal.” I looked at her wild eyed, my brow covered in icy sweat. “That tramp was carrying a knife dear.” she cooed, gently. “You didn’t stand a chance. That’s how you found this place. It’s the way everyone finds this place. This is where you have your final refreshments before going on to more permanent pastures.” Her smile was warm and genuine and it went a long way to putting me at ease. “It was a vicious and unprovoked attack.” she said again. “Nobody would have stood a chance.”
I followed her gaze towards my chest and pulled my pale blue jacket aside. As I watched in horror, the dark red stain spread quickly across my light, green T shirt and as it spread, it seemed to draw out the last remaining warmth of my body. Stop Off Café wasn’t an odd name for this building. It was just right.
By Randall Stone
I turned the handle and the door was locked. Odd, I thought. Maybe there was another way in. A quick search to the left and right of the low, two storey building showed me there wasn’t.
I had found this delightfully quaint building on a complete off chance after helping an aggressive old tramp at the head of an obscure alleyway just off the town centre. Even though I had given the cantankerous old fellow all of my loose change, which amounted to at least three quid I’m sure, he seemed to believe I had a lot more and grabbed for me. After a brief scuffle I managed to throw the grizzled old lout off but then, I realised I was heading into the alley and not out of it. Not wanting another confrontation with the reeking goat though, I decided to see if there was another way out the chasm and that’s when I let on this little marvel.
It was a small, thatched Tudor building and the battered and peeling board that was hanging from a rusty bracket above the aged, iron studded door of thick oak was painted with the legend, “The Stop Off Café”. An odd name for such an old and distinguished building I thought, but still, what an absolute delight. Pity it was shut. A quick glance at my wrist watch told me it had just gone 11.31pm. It would have been great to have had lunch in such a place and, seeing as the appointment with my solicitor wasn’t until 3.30pm that afternoon, the amateur historian in me could have taken his time and savoured the surroundings and ambience of such a desirable place. Peering through the small, dark and grimy windows however, on either side of the low door, I could see no signs of life, nor indeed, could I detect any aroma of cooking from the place. Sighing heavily in disappointment, I began to move back up the alleyway and prepared myself for round two with the old tramp.
The sound of a heavy lock clicking, had me turning back and I saw a very attractive, plump woman emerge from the darkness within. She smiled warmly as she ran a hand over her thick, auburn hair that was piled up into a neat bun atop her head. I have to confess though, a little ashamedly as it happens, that my gaze was held for the first few vital seconds of our meeting, by the woman’s ample cleavage, heaving as it were, from her low cut, lacy top.
“We’re ready now sir, if you’d like to come in.” she beamed at me. She had such an open and honest face that I took to her straight away, bosom and all.
“Oh, so you are open then?” I stammered.
“Of course sir.” she smiled. Stepping to one side of the door, she extended her arm and ushered me in.
The interior of the place was every bit as fantastic as the outside. Lighted candles stood in brackets from the dark, panelled walls which were adorned with a myriad etchings and what looked to be old, monochrome photographs of single people and groups. From the heavy oak beams that veined the ceiling, hung lit lamps amidst an adornment of horse brasses and coppers. The dim lighting gave the whole place a cosy subtlety rather than one of murkiness. Small, rectangular tables were lined with pristine tablecloths of white cotton and upon these were set heavy looking cutlery of what I took to be tarnished silver. The bar was immediately before me and as I stood there, delighting in my surroundings, the woman who had let me in, made her way around the counter and awaited my order.
“It’s certainly a beautiful place you have here.” I commented.
“Thank you.” she beamed at me. “We like it. Now, what can I get you?” I surveyed the well stocked bar and sized up the old fashioned hand pumps on the bar counter.
“Well, I’m not driving today so I think I’ll try a pint of your best ale.” She nodded and reached for a heavy, glass tankard.
“Forgive my forwardness,” I said, a little hesitantly, “but do you own the place?” She stood the foaming beer in front of me as I reached into my pocket for my wallet.
“That’s alright sir, this one is on the house.” she smiled.
“That’s very kind of you.” I replied, taken aback by the woman’s benevolence.
“Not at all sir. Anyone who can find this place deserves a free drink I reckon. And yes, this place has been in the family for years. In fact, twas in the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and thirty eight, that my family took over.
“As long ago as that?” I asked, the amazement in my voice plainly evident.
“Yes.” she replied faintly, a far off look clouding her sultry brown eyes. All of a sudden they seemed to clear and she beamed at me again. “Now then sir, can I fix you something to eat?”
“Er yes, that would be great.” I answered. “Do you have a menu I could look at?” She reached under the bar and handed me a list of the culinary dishes available. I ordered an 8oz Sirloin with all the trimmings and as she took my order through to the back, I picked up my pint and decided to take a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I was no art historian by any stretch of the imagination but one of my life’s loves and the reason I had come into the city so early before my appointment, was to visit the art galleries and museums and, if these etchings were indeed the original articles then this wall was worth a king’s ransom. They depicted everything from medieval scenes of farming and town life to dramatic seascapes and old maps. The black and white photos were equally as interesting. They dated from the late 1800’s and at first glance were nothing more than portraits or groups of people from some obscure period of yesteryear.
It was not until I looked at a photo of a large gutted building that my inner sense of foreboding began to kick in.
It depicted and old fashioned fire engine of 1922 along with the fire crew outside the smouldering remains of huge brick building. Beneath the photo was the caption,
“The Hellam Street Disaster of May 19th 1922. Six dead.”
Beneath this were the names of the five workers and one fireman that lost their lives that day. Beside this was another photo. A smiling girl of just four years old. Her name had been Olivia Trent and the date of her death had been August 22nd 1930, drowned in the local river. Above these was a photo of a three funnelled ocean going liner by the name of the “Russian Lady”. She had sunk just off Newfoundland on January 11th 1919. I scanned the other pictures quickly and felt my stomach sink with each one.
Toby McGuire, 16 yrs, felled by a runaway cart in Hallsall Avenue, March 10th 1897. Reginald Atkins, found beaten and mugged, September 8th 1901, Kiddings Lane, died from his injuries in the Royal Albert and Edward, September 12th 1901 aged 57yrs. Jessica Allbright, aged 23yrs, found dead at her home in Jackson Terrace, June 18th, 1861. Her husband subsequently hanged for her murder. And so it went on. Each photo carried a grisly obituary and not a single person had died a natural death.
Members of the Tunsall Street Social and Working Men’s Club, lost in a mid air collision over Normandy, April 6th 1954. Even the old etchings carried their own morbid captions. Failure of the Findon Harvest. 231 dead of starvation, Autumn 1541.
The India Empress, lost to high winds in the Bristol Channel, 1602, 120 sailors dead.
I felt the pint begin to tremble in my hands for it seemed to have become unnaturally heavy. Not wanting to but feeling impelled to do so, I worked my way across the wall and realised with mounting horror, that the disasters and deaths drew further towards the present, the farther I went. As I reached the last photo on the wall I fell into an almost dead faint and the pot slipped from my fingers, exploding in a mass of glass and foaming ale that washed across my shoes and soaked my socks. The ligaments in my knees had been replaced by jelly and as they gave way I had at least the present of mind to stick my hand out behind me and catch a table.
With a terrible grinding noise, made by its stout legs scudding across the bare, stone flags of the floor, I fell onto it and all but collapsed. My mind and sight had become fogged somewhat so that I fancied I was looking at the world through a hazy gauze but despite all this, I could not tear my gaze from the final photograph. From the sepia coloured plate bordered by an nondescript, dark wooden frame, my own, solemn face stared back at me. Beneath the photo ran the caption, Stephen Perkins, Murdered by Unknown Assailant, Talbot Street, August 21st 2009.
I jumped physically as the hand touched my shoulder.
“I’m sorry sweetheart.” said the landlady, solemnly. “I intended to break the news over your meal.” I looked at her wild eyed, my brow covered in icy sweat. “That tramp was carrying a knife dear.” she cooed, gently. “You didn’t stand a chance. That’s how you found this place. It’s the way everyone finds this place. This is where you have your final refreshments before going on to more permanent pastures.” Her smile was warm and genuine and it went a long way to putting me at ease. “It was a vicious and unprovoked attack.” she said again. “Nobody would have stood a chance.”
I followed her gaze towards my chest and pulled my pale blue jacket aside. As I watched in horror, the dark red stain spread quickly across my light, green T shirt and as it spread, it seemed to draw out the last remaining warmth of my body. Stop Off Café wasn’t an odd name for this building. It was just right.
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