Rear Window 2 – The Sobbing Man

I am alone in the dark, running through the woods. The trees appear to close in, as if to stop me reaching the house. I am holding something tightly in my hand as I run. I can hear far away voices. I am in the night, engulfed by the endless, soothing dark of the woods. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of a car driving down the empty country road. I listen to the air rushing in and out of my nostrils.

I stop at the entrance to the driveway. I can see the car. I approach slowly and realise I have a screwdriver in my hand. I need to open the trunk of the Volvo. I have to see for myself.

Then I hear the voice…….

“Tony, please wake up!”

I open my eyes, and The Blonde is staring down at me. Her face drowned in fear.

“You were breathing like a madman. What were you dreaming about?”

I sat up in bed, and stroked her worried face. “I was running I think. Through the woods, that’s all. Is the cat back?”

“No. I’ve been out along the path, as far as the woods, shouting for her. It’s just not like her to be gone so long.”

I jumped out of bed and into my jeans. “I’ll go out. I think I know where she is.”

The Blonde opened the blinds, and light streamed into the room. “I’m coming with you.”

I held her face between my hands. “No. You are not. I want you to stay here in case she comes back.” She looked as if she was about to cry.

I caught sight of my reflection in the hall mirror, and saw Anthony Perkins in Psycho.

As I followed the path, a reef of clouds and lightning raced across the skies. I should have run to take shelter from the approaching downpour, but The Blonde’s words were beginning to sink in. My hands were shaking. I tried to speed up, but I was consumed by fear and walked with leaden feet, chased by the rain. I took refuge under a tree, trying to rationalise my dream. A clap of thunder roared close by, and I felt the ground shake under my feet. I began to run towards the house with only one thought in my mind: Volvo Man.

By the time I reached the entrance to the driveway, I was drenched to the bone. I stopped dead in my tracks. The Volvo was gone. A police car, its engine still running, sat in its place.

As I opened the front door – The Blonde came rushing to greet me.

“Have you seen this story all over the front page of the newspaper today?”

“Yes, a lot of fuss over a single man enjoying himself. It’s a pity they don’t run a story about all the money he gives to children’s charities instead.”

“Not that one, the local paper. It’s HIM, look, the one you have been spying on; Volvo Man. Except that’s not his name. It’s Robert Forester. He’s an architect. His wife died two days ago in a car accident on Elmar Bridge. They only married a year ago, it’s so sad.”

I grabbed the paper and read:

29 year old Elaine Forester died instantly on Monday night when she lost control of her car in high winds on Elmar Bridge. Husband Robert, 32, was being comforted by family and friends last night after police were called to the family home following reports of a disturbance. According to a neighbour; Mr Forester was said to be ‘devastated’ by the tragic loss, and had to be restrained after trying to empty his dead wife’s clothes and belongings into the boot of his car. “He didn’t know what to do. It was as if he wanted to hold onto everything that was hers. He just stood there sobbing; it was all very sad to witness.”    

I walked into the lounge, lit a cigarette, and looked out towards the woods. The rain was starting to subside and a rainbow curled across the high trees. It appeared to vanish somewhere over the house where Forester lived. I glanced at my binoculars and felt the urge to use them, as if by doing so would somehow make the truth a little clearer.

The Blonde came up behind me and took my hand. Her face shimmered in the morning light. “Do you want some lunch, or a drink?”

“A drink would be better.”

My mobile began to ring.

“Hi Mum. Yes we have. Look, I wouldn’t worry. It will all blow over soon I’m sure. Yes, I know, I got caught up in it myself. I’ll call you back a little later OK? Bye Mum. I love you too.”

The Blonde placed the drinks on the black gloss table. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Mum.”

“Is she worried about the…….”

“The storms yes. She’s got the same there. Storms. I told her it will blow over soon.”

As I reached for my drink, I heard a faint scratching sound behind me. We both turned quickly. The cat stared back through the patio windows. Her wet face pushed hard against the window pane, her eyes pleading.

Some things are not always what they seem.

 

E.T comes home

 

Rear Window

I could see him standing at the table with a knife in his hand; he had rubber gloves on and was cutting something. He appeared uneasy as he went about his work.

“Who are on earth are you spying on now?”

I turned quickly, and the cord of the binoculars tightened round my neck like a noose.

“God! Do you have to creep up on me like that?”

The Blonde stood in front of me, looking out of the window. “You’re turning into a peeping Tony. Why are you behaving like a stalker?  Haven’t we had enough stalkers in the family lately?

“Are you referring to my mother?”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

“I’m not stalking; I was watching the cat, to see if I could find out where she goes at night. Then I saw this guy in his kitchen cutting up something on the table.”

“Which guy?

“You know – the guy opposite with the Volvo, the one with the really annoying walk.”

The blonde shrugged her shoulders and started laying the table with a clatter of cutlery. She stopped suddenly. “So what exactly is he cutting up?”

“I can’t… quite… see….”

I lit a cigarette and moved closer to the window and adjusted the zoom. “Wait! It looks like some kind of meat, and he’s putting the chopped-up pieces into a……..into a bin bag.”

The Blonde made a puffing sound with her cheeks. “I’ve made you a steak pie for dinner is that OK?”

“I’m not sure I fancy meat tonight.”

She came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear. “How long has the cat been gone?”

“About two hours. I watched her go along that path and then turn left, towards his house. Then I lost sight of her.”

The Blonde lit two vanilla candles and placed them on the table. “How can you see out of those things? Come and have a drink and stop worrying about the cat.”

“They are infrared. I think I’ll go out and see if I can find her.”

“Oh for goodness sake. Last week you wanted to get rid of the cat. Now you are behaving as if you’ve lost the love of your life. Do you think she’s been kidnapped, or catnapped? Or do you just want to spy on Volvo-man?”

I stood, with one hand on the door. Maybe The Blonde was right. I was overreacting. Things aren’t always what they seem. Then again, what if something had happened to her?

“I’ll just go and check. I won’t be long.”

As I closed the door, I heard The Blond mutter something under her breath as she uncorked a bottle of Prosecco.

Night was falling quickly, with visible speed, like a black sea creeping over the earth. I followed the path the cat had taken and then turned left towards his house. I thought of calling her name. I even looked for blood on the path, but it was too dark to see.  As I reached his house, he was still in the kitchen. A square of light showed at the back of the house, and now and again his figure crossed the light.

The Volvo stood in the driveway, and I could hear the faint ticking as the engine cooled. The darkness was thickening. Maybe she had been scared by something and was hiding under the car. I moved around the square of light thrown from his rear window. Just then I heard a noise behind me. As I turned, the kitchen door opened, and steps sounded on the wooden porch. Volvo-man’s steps. He was carrying the black plastic bag. He was struggling with the weight of it. He still had gloves on, and I could see the sweat glistening on his brow.

I ducked down below the bonnet of the car as he came closer. He looked around furtively, and opened the trunk and heaved the bag into it. He locked the car and turned back towards the house. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, and I could hear his breathing coming in short bursts. He looked back at the car, as if he had lost something. He lifted his eyes as if he was looking directly at me. He stood motionless, his lips parted as if about to speak. I crouched lower, one foot advanced for a step I dare not take.

A pair of headlights came slowly from the right along the road. He turned quickly, climbed the steps to his kitchen and closed the door. I reached the pathway in two huge leaps and made my way back home.

As I walked into the lounge, The Blonde looked up from her book, her eyes searching me. “Well…..did you find her?”

I lit a cigarette, opened the back doors and walked out onto the patio. “No, I didn’t.”

She came up behind me and put her arms around my waist. “We’ll probably get a ransom note in the morning. I’m kidding! She’ll be home soon, I’m sure she will.”

I looked over towards the dark woods; I couldn’t help but wonder, what might be lying in the trunk of that Volvo.

I turned to The Blonde and stroked her face. “What are you reading?” I asked.

“The Shining.” she said, her eyes twinkling under the moonlit sky.

 

 

Between fact and fiction, and a fish pie.

Page 101 – Key West Florida – October 7^th 2002

She was standing alone at the prow as I steered The Pilar towards the harbour. We were two miles out when the sky darkened to pitch black, with tiny patches of deep blue peeping through.

I planned to get into harbour before dark but the wind had struck up. I wanted her to meet Tony. His fish restaurant was now considered the best in Key West. I had things to tell Tony. It’s not as if I don’t think back to that fateful night in April. I do – it still haunts me. I just cannot rationalise my feelings; I’m trying to process them. I just wish I had known about her condition?

“I think you’d be safer down below” I shouted at her over the wind. 

She turned and waved, and began to walk tentatively along the deck. The wind was making the boat pitch and roll, and I could see the growing bump of her tummy as she walked towards me. She looked up – her face fixed in a frozen mask of terror. I held out my hand and gently guided her into the cabin, and into my arms.

Later, as I walked Poppy Maythrop along the quay towards the restaurant, I caught sight of a small grey cat beneath a tamarind tree. The bright yellow eyes winked at me and appeared to smile knowingly.

Hemingway I remembered, had a cat with six toes called Snowball. I squeezed Poppy’s hand, and for a moment, felt as if I had somehow slipped through time.

*****************

 7.41pm

The blonde’s voice broke my reverie, and I snapped the book shut.

“I think I’ll make a fish pie and then grill the sardines as a starter, what do you think?”

I looked up at her face, beautifully backlit.

“I’m not sure I want fish pie” I said, putting the book down on the black gloss table.

“But you like my fish pie?”

“I do, it’s just that two nights ago I dreamed I was trapped in a giant fish pie and every time I tried to push my way out, someone, or something pushed me back down.”

“There you go again, letting your mad dreams into your life?”

I drew her close and held her hands. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to drown in a béchamel sauce?”

She looked up at me with a tired expression. “Frankly no, I don’t. I only dream about nice things like… like, Ryan Seacrest.”

I smiled and stroked her hair. “I think you have forgotten, my brother doesn’t eat fish.”

“Fine, you can both have chicken pie, unless you think there’s a chance you could drown in that too.”

The doorbell rang, just like the red buzzer on BGT.

“Oh god, that will be your mother, can you fix some drinks please and keep her OUT of my kitchen?”

11.41.pm

The Blonde bounced onto the bed: “I see you found your book then, after all?”

“Yes, or rather the cat did…..  I’ve been thinking; it’s time we got rid of that cat, she’s beginning to freak me out.”

“What are you talking about, you love that cat!”

“I did, but I think our relationship has changed. They say cats symbolise dark forces, and I don’t want her in the bedroom anymore please.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, cats represent love and fertility, and that cat loves you.”

“Well it has a strange way of showing it”

I could’t help but wonder….Do cats actually understand what we say?”

The Blonde yawned and turned on her side. I watched over her until she had slipped into a deep sleep with Ryan Seacrest.

Later that night, as I crept downstairs to double lock the front door, I thought I heard the patter of tiny paws somewhere in the house, followed by a high-pitched laugh.

There is a fine line between fact and fiction…

The Cat

Hemingway ate my Sardines…

I had this dream I was living in Key West in Florida where I owned a shop called ‘So Sardines’. I was standing proudly behind the counter surrounded by thousands of tins of tiny fish. Sardines in sunflower oil, Sardines in tomato sauce, fresh sardines. There were cookery books; Ceramic mugs with Sardine shaped handles, and cuddly Sardine toys for kids. There were even a few tins of pilchards in there I noticed.

What struck me most about this dream was just how annoying I was. Every time a customer came into the shop I would greet each one with a jaunty “Hello Captain!” As the shop grew busier, the louder my greeting became. I was intensely irritating! I wouldn’t want to go into a Sardine shop while I was behind the counter, and God knows what I was wearing!  As Hemingway sauntered through the door, I woke myself up (and The Blonde) by shouting “Hello Captain!” at him in a rather overly camp fashion.

I told The Blonde about my fishy tale over breakfast….

“Only YOU could dream about running a Sardine shop” She said.

“It wasn’t any old Sardine shop. I said. “It was where Hemingway shopped. So what did you dream about last night?”

“Vivienne Westwood”….she replied, smiling wistfully into her Sultana and Apple porridge.

I peeled a banana thoughtfully and pondered the significance of my dream. The shop did appear to be doing rather well. Maybe I was destined to own a shop called ‘So Sardines’ and meet Hemingway. Perhaps I’d just taken a wrong turn somewhere down the line. Or maybe it was all to do with being Piscean and reading The Old Man and the Sea.

“What are you thinking about?” asked The Blonde.

“Fashion and Food…Why women dream of fashion – and men dream of food!”

The Blonde looked up at me with a wry grin on her face (and a speck of porridge on her chin)

“I’m going to work now. I’ll see you later……Captain!”

So I couldn’t help but wonder…Do our dreams define who we really are?

Men in my family don’t dream about Sardines or Pilchards. I asked them. They dream about manly things like buying sets of spanners and Mini Air Compressors – Electric drills or step ladders. All the men in my family are fans of DIY; and are hugely practical around the house! So what use are they to me?

My research revealed that (normal) men definitely dream a lot about cars and girls but not Sardines. So where did I go wrong?

A Woman’s brain is much different. Women dream about clothes and shoes. Babies and kittens. They have anxiety dreams about the way they look. The Blonde once dreamed she was carrying all four members of  ll Divo across a field in France. (Think I know where that one was heading!) Women think differently. Like, what is it about women and mugs? Whenever we are in a store The Blonde somehow ends up admiring mugs. She fondles them gently, caresses them. Attempts to convince me we need yet another mug with hearts on it. She refused to leave the top of the Empire State Building without buying a NYC mug. She bought a Beatles mug in Liverpool, a Marilyn Monroe in Hollywood, and last year a Zippy and Bungle mug for my birthday! I’m convinced the One Direction mug is imminent! Men would never think about mugs!

Women dream endlessly….. About the Queen, the Diamond jubilee. Kate Middleton and Rachel Zoe. America’s Next Top Model. Mini eggs and David Beckham. Harry Styles and Prada bags. Katie Price and Valentino …… or whether Simon should have married Paula Abdul after all. But women never dream of fish. How odd!

Do our dreams merely reflect what we hope for?

So before I light the vanilla scented candles and The Blonde comes home. I should seriously study the price of sardines in Florida. I’m convinced it’s my destiny. I may even phone my brother and pitch the idea of doing a TV programme called The Fish Factor…..you never know it may catch-on!

“Hello Captain!”….

 

 

 

The Night of the Honeycomb Horror

I had just slipped through the gates of deep sleep when I heard the noise that turned my stomach. A sort of high-pitched scream followed by a loud gurgling, like a Gremlin being liquidised.

I sat bolt upright in bed and checked The Blonde for damage. I could detect only the soft whisper of a snore and the gentle rise and fall of her sleeping. I glanced up at the window and the full moon seemed to wink back at me knowingly. Then I heard the noise again, this time louder, and ending with a chilling howl…

I reached under the bed and felt the comforting handle of my gun. I pulled it gently towards me and in the pale moonlight I could just make out the water level was half full….I pulled the duvet back gently, so as not to disturb The Blonde, and moved stealthily towards the bedroom door. The Water Pistol felt good in my hand. Holding my breath I reached for the door handle, and looked back at The Blonde one last time…..before stepping out into the dark hallway.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I swept left and right quickly, holding the gun out in front of me. Nothing. No sound, just blackness. I could hear my heart thumping under the soft silk of my black pyjamas. My hand was shaking as I reached for the light switch, and then I felt it. A soft mushy splat of something wet under my foot. I hit the light switch just before I hit the floor, the gun tumbling from my hand and spinning away across the shiny black surface of the hallway.

When I finally came to, I saw them on the floor. A collection of white, wet piles of what looked like batter, each connected by a long yellowish dribble of gunk making a patterned path across the hallway. The stench was unbearable. Welcome to The Night The Cat Shat….!

What is it about cats that they have to be sick or poo ONLY at home? Why can’t they do it outside? I guess I ought to introduce you to Papoushka. (She’s our Russian Blue – not the bloke who owns Chelsea Football club) The trouble with Papoushka is that she likes to eat weird things…. Her favourite foods being cheese, butter, peppermint, chocolate (particularly Creme eggs) coffee, vanilla sugar and treacle tarts. So The Blonde has to be very careful when she is in ‘Baking Blonde’ mode. Which she was… The Night The Cat Shat!

This time it was Honeycomb/Hokey Pokey. She often makes Honeycomb. I’m not sure why as I’m not that fond of it. Obviously Papoushka is. As it was that night that she shat! After I had cleaned up, (while The Blonde continued to sleep) I checked the kitchen for clues and saw the paw prints by the cooker. I eventually found her (The cat, not The Blonde) sitting in my study under the desk, looking a slightly lighter shade of blue, more greyish really. She shot me a glance as if to say “I’m glad it’s all out in the open, but I still feel like shit!”

I picked up my gun and put it back under the bed.

Cooking with Cowell, The Blonde…and Tom Ripley

Cooking with Cowell, The Blonde…and Tom Ripley

Had it not been for the Oscars and the divine company of The Blonde, last weekend would have been dull. While most of Britain bathed in sunshine, it was hard to distinguish day from night in Cornwall. Cat refused to go out, the phone hardly rang, and our broadband was about as fast as Virgin Trains.

I’m going through a work crisis which doesn’t help either. I’ve started work on a novel (details to follow…!) and its giving me nightmares. Which is promising in one way as it’s a thriller. But once I awake from the nightmare, I stay awake, fretting over plot twists and characters; who should live and who should die…and why. Meanwhile The Blonde appears to have inherited my snoring habit. Yet somehow I find it calming. The idea that she is sleeping soundly gives me pleasure, though I notice Cat has begun to join in with her. So, in perfect unison, it slowly develops into a curious Cat-Girl symphony for the night. So I get up and go back to The Novel.

Saturday night quickly became ‘Cooking with Cowell’….where I attempted a Risotto Verdi (minus the asparagus) while The Blonde, hidden from view by a huge flour cloud, tackled one of her legendary lemon cakes, but this time with a sticky marmalade topping; which was a huge success?….. Rissoto = 4. Lemon cake =9 = Cake Idol!

Mum phoned on Sunday morning sounding a bit like Mrs Bouquet. She told me she had left FIFTEEN voice messages for Simon but he STILL hadn’t returned her call!….

“Which number did you call?” I asked.

“Just hold on a minute dear and I’ll tell you….”
Three minutes go by while I listen to her turning page after page of her little black telephone book (first written in 1961 – about the same time Simon was born and we got our first Bakelite phone)

“Is it the number that ends in three eights dear?”

“No Mum…NO.”

“Oh God…..Then I’ve been phoning my other Simon…you know my Chiropodist in Newhaven.”

I read out Simon’s real number to her (which more appropriately ends with three Sixes!) and said my goodbyes. I then sent a text to Simon telling him to phone his Mother. He texted back some hours later saying he had been out late and had a migraine so could I phone her? I said no, not now, she may well be asleep at 2.35am….!

Sunday lunchtime I met up with an old pal of mine, Neale James, he used to be a DJ on Radio One years ago, but has now completely re-invented himself as a hugely talented portrait photographer. He does celebrity weddings too. I think he’s one of the best photographers I know. We went down to the beach and he took some pics of The Blonde while I tried desperately to look like a celebrity…..!

Talking about the Talented …..Sunday night soon became Music Night….well, Jazz Night to be exact. I finally got The Blonde interested in Jazz, after convincing her to watch The Talented Mr Ripley at least fifteen times over the past few years. She now knowingly refers to Charlie Parker as ‘Bird’ and can also differentiate between Miles Davies and John Coltrane. The Blonde, like Ripley, definitely has more than ONE talent!

As night begins to fall…. I may as well get back to my novel, before the snoring symphony begins again……