A Cry From Beyond (6 page)

It was
also when the bad times truly kicked in.

2.

She
arrived on the Saturday afternoon dressed in a sheepskin jacket,
figure hugging jeans and cute little pixie boots. Her dark hair was
cut in a fashionable bob. She looked delightful and incredibly
sexy. Once again, I regretted treating her so badly in the past,
and promised myself that I would make amends. If of course she
would allow me to. Seeing her in the flesh again, after almost a
month, was like a breath of fresh air. I had exactly the same
feelings for her as I always had. And while I wanted us to spend
time talking frankly to one another, I also wanted to re-establish
the physical side of our relationship.

We drove
from Ashley train station, directly to the cottage. She fell in
love with the place as soon as she saw it, although her reaction to
the cellar upon inspection was predictable.

“It
stinks,” she said. “You should tell your landlady to do something
about it sooner rather than later. For all you know there could be
a sewerage problem somewhere down there, it could be a health
hazard.”

Oddly
enough, it no longer really bothered me. Lennon however, was in
agreement with Michelle, giving the room a wide berth since his
initial exploratory visit.

Unsure
where I stood with her romantically, I deposited her luggage in the
guestroom. Then I showed her around, starting with the master
bedroom, and ending up in the attic, now my work studio. She was
impressed. She also appeared to be in a forgiving mood. I took my
chance, slipped my arms around her waist and told her I’d missed
her.

She
looked sceptical, but in a playful sort of way. I pulled her close.
“I mean it,” I said.

“Prove it
to me,” she replied. I made to kiss her but before I could she
broke our embrace. “Later, okay,” she said. “We’ll have dinner and
then, who knows, you may get lucky.” She smiled and winked an eye
at me.

I hadn’t
told her about the party yet. The coward in me I guess. I did it
now. I had no other choice. The first of the guests were due in a
relatively short time.

Her
response was predictable. “Well, isn’t that just great,” she
stormed. “Bloody hell John, why did you bother to invite me all the
way up here, when you’ve obviously got such a healthy social life
already?”

“It’s not
like that,” I said. “It was a spur of the moment thing.”

“Same old
Johnny O’Shea,” she huffed, her anger rising. “You’ve always been
the same: act first, think later. Was it the drink that made you do
it?”

When I
failed to answer, her anger turned to pity. “I thought you’d given
it up.”

“I have.”
My voiced lacked conviction.

The pity
turned to mild disgust. “Yeah: right. I think I just saw a pig fly
overhead!”

“I’ll
make it up to you,” I promised.

“I doubt
it,” she replied. “I think it might be better if I returned to
London.”

“Please
don’t do that,” I pleaded. “Come on, Michelle, I said I’m sorry.
Give it another chance: I was thoughtless. I’ll make it up to you I
promise.”

“Ye gods,
yet another promise,” she said shaking her head. There was no angst
in her voice, only a terrible sense of resignation. It made me feel
worse than ever. I was selfish, self-obsessed, always had been. I
was always putting myself first; never thinking about anyone except
John ruddy O’Shea. I desperately wanted that to change, but the
willpower was lacking. I’d been kidding myself about giving up my
past life of over indulgence. The first half opportunity that came
my way saw me willingly derail, and drink myself into a stupor. Yet
again I was in danger of blowing it with someone who really did
care for me: someone who would be good for me if only I’d grow up,
but that was too much of a tall order, it seemed. It was simply
asking too much. I felt ashamed that it was so, but felt helpless
to change things.

We stood
facing each other. Michelle continued to look annoyed but I sensed
she was calming down. Always quick to rile, she was equally quick
to forgive and forget. I begged her to stay.

She
finally relented. “Very well, but I’m warning you John.”

“How
about a drink to celebrate,” I suggested.

She
frowned disapprovingly.

“Coffee,
I mean coffee.”

We drank
the coffee in the front room with Michelle curled up on the sofa,
me in the armchair opposite, all very civilised. Michelle wanted to
know how many guests I was expecting that evening. I told her I
didn’t know.

“But it’s
your party,” she pointed out. “Have you organised food and
drink?”

“It’s a
BYO,” I said, hoping it was the case.

Michelle
sighed. “You’re hopeless, John, absolutely hopeless. We’ll order in
some pizzas. It’s the least we can do for our guests. Drinks, what
about drinks, do you have anything in? ”

I nodded.
“In the fridge: and in the cellar: beer and wine
mainly.”

Around us
the cottage groaned in response to a sudden adverse weather change.
The room grew dark as rain clouds gathered overhead, and the sun
began to set. The table lamps, when switched on, flickered
uncertainly. Michelle and I exchanged a look and then Michelle
said, “I’m cold,” to which I replied, “So am I,” and I went and sat
down beside her.

“It’s
good to have you here,” I said, taking her hand in mine.

She
smiled. “It’s good to be here.”

The
guests started to arrive around seven and didn’t stop arriving all
night. Most were complete strangers. Word of mouth had swelled the
numbers to alarming proportions. David and Jenny turned up early
and helped try to keep the revellers in line, although it was
always going to be a losing battle. Pizza was delivered and eagerly
consumed, and further supplies were sent for. Music blared and
everyone was in good spirits, at least to start with.

By the
time the party was in full swing as many party comers occupied the
gardens as they did the house itself. Seemingly oblivious to the
cold unsettled weather, more than one couple retreated to the
outlying areas of the cottage grounds, prepared to run the risk of
catching pneumonia in order to gain intimacy.

David’s
pals rolled up just before midnight, standing up, falling down
drunk, and ready to party till the end of time. They had with them
a collection of heavy metal CD’s they insisted playing at full
volume.

“Smashing
party,” Irish slurred as he drank beer from a can and smoked an
unfiltered cigarette. “Who’s the chick in the skin tight pants?” he
asked. I looked round and realised he was referring to Michelle.
She stood by the window, looking like a million dollars, chatting
to Jenny and another girl.

“Hands
off Irish,” H warned, “That particular chick belongs to
John.”

“Pity,”
he said with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re a lucky man, Mr
O’Shea.”

“A truer
word never said,” H remarked before wandering off to talk to a
group of men standing at the bar. Still haunted by the tipper truck
incident and curious to know its significance, I finally sought
Irish’s opinion of Madam Lee.

“Why do
you want to know about her?” he asked.

“People
speak highly of her clairvoyant skills,” I said. “Perhaps she can
provide me with good news. God knows I could do with
some.”

“Don’t
count on it,” he said, “She’s just as likely to scare the living
daylights out of you.”

“Are you
serious?”

He
shrugged. “Go see the old witch if you want. See what she says.
What harm can it do?”

Terry
joined us, a good guitarist according to David.

“Let’s
jam together sometime,” I suggested, alcohol clouding my
professional judgement. I was there to work, after all, not mess
around with the locals.

“Name the
day and I’ll be there,” Terry said, genuinely
interested.

“What
about me,” Rick said, joining us.

“What do
you play,” I asked.

“The
fucking idiot,” Irish interjected.

He
ignored the comment. “Harmonica, I play harmonica.” He nodded over
at H. “Get the bearded one on the drums, and you’ll have a
readymade backing band.”

And let’s
not forget PC Morgan, I thought, sensing things were getting out of
hand.

We’ll
take the two B’s as payment,” Terry said.

I
frowned, “The two B’s?”

“Beer and
birds,” he said and laughed.

At some
point, I can’t remember when exactly, I wandered outside to get
some fresh air. I’d sunk a bucket full of ale and was feeling
lightheaded. Moreover, I’d succumbed to the gear stashed in my car.
I staggered round to the back of the house happily swigging from a
bottle of tepid lager, a half smoked cigarette tucked behind one
ear. The security light lent partial illumination to the back yard,
enabling me to make out a hairy biker known as “the tank”. He stood
behind a towering laurel with his arms wrapped around a
leather-clad female. Nearby, a skin known locally as Bonehead was
flat out on his back gazing up at the stars, virtually comatose. A
young couple introduced to me earlier that evening as Ant and
Becky, who swore blind they were fans of mine, but who would be
unable to recall my name later that night, danced drunkenly to the
muffled sound of the music coming from inside the house.

“Hey:
John!” Ant shouted when he spotted me stumbling around, “fantastic
gig!”

It was at
that point that things grew a little hazy. The white stuff I’d
snorted minutes before was starting to have an effect. I recall
smiling and giving Ant the thumbs up before stupidly colliding with
the rotary clothesline. The impact disorientated me. I swayed on
the spot briefly, whilst suffering from double vision. I tried to
refocus by concentrating my attention on the gazebo located at the
foot of the garden. It was then that I spotted the woman standing
alone in the shadows, an exquisite blonde dressed in blue denim.
She was searching for somebody named Kayla and called the name
repeatedly. I wandered over to offer assistance.

“My
daughter,” the woman said, “Have you seen my daughter?”

“You’re
referring to Kayla, of course.” The name rang a bell, although the
reason why eluded me. “What does Kayla look like?”

“Blue
eyes, fair hair: people often say she looks like me.”

“How old
is she?”

“Five.”

It
sounded like the child with the doll, the one who’d come under
attack from the birds. I was suddenly distracted by David who stood
on the other side of the lawn, calling for me to come
quickly.

“I have
to go,” I told the woman, “but I’ll be back, I promise.”

I rushed
to see what the problem was, arriving just in time to witness two
burly greasers scrapping on the patio, surrounded by a group of
onlookers.

I went to
intervene but Irish beat me to it, separating the protagonists as
if they were squabbling children. He read them the riot act,
threatening to bang their heads together if they refused to behave.
The men, formidable individuals themselves, agreed to settle their
differences in a more civilised manner. The crowd dispersed. The
party got back into full swing.

Irish’s
swift intervention elevated him to hero status in the eyes of his
fellow revellers. David was correct about him being a reassuring
presence whenever trouble arose.

I
returned to the gazebo to rejoin the blonde, but she was gone. Back
at the cottage I made inquiries, hoping to discover her identity.
No one was able to help.

The party
ended in the early hours. The last of the revellers crashed out, or
went home. I have no recollection of falling asleep, although I do
remember dreaming about the mystery blonde and her daughter, Kayla.
In the dream Kayla cradled the blanket as she had during the bird
attacks. On this occasion however, birds weren’t the problem: the
problem lay in the presence of a disfigured man lurking in the
shadows, one who carried an axe, and whose sole intention was
murder. For a reason unknown to me, I associated the axe with my
mother.

The CD
player woke me. It was morning and Whitesnake was playing at full
volume: Coverdale singing his heart out about Rose. I struggled to
open my eyes, and was surprised to see Michelle shared the bed with
me. No intimacy had taken place between us as we were fully
clothed. But we had slept together; it was a start.

The music
was intolerably loud. Michelle stirred, yet did not wake. I scanned
the bedroom half expecting to see others crashed out on the floor,
but we were alone.

The sound
of the music suddenly got louder. Seemed the party was starting up
again. And then, without warning, it stopped and the cottage fell
silent. Curious to know what was going on, ignoring the blinding
headache I’d woken to, I headed downstairs.

The place
looked like a bomb had hit it. I glanced at my watch. It was
six-thirty a.m. In the front room revellers who’d elected to stay
overnight stirred restlessly, also disturbed by the music. David,
standing on the other side of the room by the CD player,
remonstrated with a biker, trying to persuade the man to refrain
from playing music at such an ungodly hour. The biker, big and
brawny, appraised David as if deciding whether to commit murder or
not. In the end, possibly deciding the young shopkeeper wasn’t
worth the trouble, he wandered outside swigging beer from a
bottle.