A Sleepless Night.
I have managed to escape Sebastian’s attentions for the morning. I thought Samuel was over protective, but he’s like one of those mums who use their pushchairs as a wedge into traffic, compared to Sebastian’s paranoia about my safety. This is of course entirely my fault.
After the beating I took, I arranged to meet the group again on Wednesday night. Sebastian protested strongly and wrung his hands, but I insisted that it needed to be done. It took lunch and tea to convince him that he couldn’t join me. All the while I had to look as though I didn’t want to go myself, so I started biting my nails, which is a hideous habit. In truth, I shouldn’t want to go, but I felt oddly compelled. Despite the pain of the kicking they gave me, because I was in control of what was happening, it held no fear for me. I’ve been beaten up before, by a group of lads at school. When you don’t know how far they’ll go, and you don’t know how much they hate you, or why, or what you’ll look like in a few minutes, that’s the worst part. It’s like a dream fight, when your limbs are all dough, and the rules of time have stopped looking your way. With the group's considered blows, it was more like a game of endurance, and the stinging fingernail I’ve stripped down to the root is giving me more cause for regret. I wish I was a better actor though.
Endurance was also the theme of our next meeting. I was driven out a few miles onto the moor and asked to get out onto a grassy bank.
“You won’t be going back to the hotel tonight.” Explained the blonde. “Lie down. You’ll tell your friend that you were abandoned on the moor and had to walk back. Rub the grass and mud into your clothes. Get the legs.”
I did as I was told, still more surprised that any of them owned a car than by what I was being asked to do. It was a smart hatchback, the interior light of which cast enough for me to see my outline as I distressed my clothes. It isn’t as though they should drive a hearse of anything, but it was impeccably clean. There should have been cobwebs in the windows. When I was suitably soiled up, we got back into the car and drove back into Whitby.
“You’ll stay out of sight for the tomorrow, and return the morning after. You should appear hungry and dehydrated. Don’t tell him about the car. Tell him you don’t know where you were.”
Which is true. For a dreadful few minutes I thought I was going to have to stay at the blonde’s Munsters theme house, but the helmet haired one had a sofa I could sleep on.
The next big shock was that he went to work in the morning. I woke up to see him darting about in a white shirt, and after instructions to eat well but not to wash or sleep, the door slammed and he was gone till six.
By the time Geoff (who has abandoned his name, but not as far as his bank or energy suppliers are concerned) came home, I was full of beans on toast and bored after another slew of terrestrial TV. Which is how I persisted with questioning the man until he cracked. It turns out the blonde (real name still unknown, but I wish I could take another look at that junk mail) is the most hardcore of the coven. I guess that’s why he feels entitled to take charge. He’s the only one who doesn’t come out in the day, for starters. The others hold down jobs, at the pubs or restaurants. Occasionally he’d forget the inconvenience of namelessness and refer to them as Maria, Liz and Brian. In the main they sounded like ordinary people.
When I woke Sebastian this morning, he wanted to call the whole initiation off. He practically hugged me – thank god for a two-day build up of BO. The underlying nature of the group has Sebastian fretting, especially while I was missing. At first he thought they were harmless – deluded but clueless. But after these rites, he’s wondering what they might have done to Challoner – something that would explain why he hasn’t even left a message.
This afternoon I’ve arranged to meet him for lunch. I’ve been instructed to stand him up, and while he’s waiting I’m to steal something personal from the room.
After the beating I took, I arranged to meet the group again on Wednesday night. Sebastian protested strongly and wrung his hands, but I insisted that it needed to be done. It took lunch and tea to convince him that he couldn’t join me. All the while I had to look as though I didn’t want to go myself, so I started biting my nails, which is a hideous habit. In truth, I shouldn’t want to go, but I felt oddly compelled. Despite the pain of the kicking they gave me, because I was in control of what was happening, it held no fear for me. I’ve been beaten up before, by a group of lads at school. When you don’t know how far they’ll go, and you don’t know how much they hate you, or why, or what you’ll look like in a few minutes, that’s the worst part. It’s like a dream fight, when your limbs are all dough, and the rules of time have stopped looking your way. With the group's considered blows, it was more like a game of endurance, and the stinging fingernail I’ve stripped down to the root is giving me more cause for regret. I wish I was a better actor though.
Endurance was also the theme of our next meeting. I was driven out a few miles onto the moor and asked to get out onto a grassy bank.
“You won’t be going back to the hotel tonight.” Explained the blonde. “Lie down. You’ll tell your friend that you were abandoned on the moor and had to walk back. Rub the grass and mud into your clothes. Get the legs.”
I did as I was told, still more surprised that any of them owned a car than by what I was being asked to do. It was a smart hatchback, the interior light of which cast enough for me to see my outline as I distressed my clothes. It isn’t as though they should drive a hearse of anything, but it was impeccably clean. There should have been cobwebs in the windows. When I was suitably soiled up, we got back into the car and drove back into Whitby.
“You’ll stay out of sight for the tomorrow, and return the morning after. You should appear hungry and dehydrated. Don’t tell him about the car. Tell him you don’t know where you were.”
Which is true. For a dreadful few minutes I thought I was going to have to stay at the blonde’s Munsters theme house, but the helmet haired one had a sofa I could sleep on.
The next big shock was that he went to work in the morning. I woke up to see him darting about in a white shirt, and after instructions to eat well but not to wash or sleep, the door slammed and he was gone till six.
By the time Geoff (who has abandoned his name, but not as far as his bank or energy suppliers are concerned) came home, I was full of beans on toast and bored after another slew of terrestrial TV. Which is how I persisted with questioning the man until he cracked. It turns out the blonde (real name still unknown, but I wish I could take another look at that junk mail) is the most hardcore of the coven. I guess that’s why he feels entitled to take charge. He’s the only one who doesn’t come out in the day, for starters. The others hold down jobs, at the pubs or restaurants. Occasionally he’d forget the inconvenience of namelessness and refer to them as Maria, Liz and Brian. In the main they sounded like ordinary people.
When I woke Sebastian this morning, he wanted to call the whole initiation off. He practically hugged me – thank god for a two-day build up of BO. The underlying nature of the group has Sebastian fretting, especially while I was missing. At first he thought they were harmless – deluded but clueless. But after these rites, he’s wondering what they might have done to Challoner – something that would explain why he hasn’t even left a message.
This afternoon I’ve arranged to meet him for lunch. I’ve been instructed to stand him up, and while he’s waiting I’m to steal something personal from the room.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 9:06 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home