3
The Arrival
The
un-named man began to regain consciousness. Opening his eyes he realised that
he was lying on a couch staring up at the ceiling with the blue and white light
shade suspended above his head. Slowly he eased himself up and swung his legs
round so that his feet were on the carpet, he felt shaky, unsteady and
confused. For here he was in the comfort of a room he neither knew nor
recognised, certainly it was not the familiar, and spacious home of his
converted warehouse. Certainly, something didn’t feel right at all, because the
last thing he remembered was being behind the wheel of the Lotus Seven,
enjoying the freedom of the open road. Yet here he was, with no idea of where
he is, how he came to be here, or why. He slowly rose to his feet and went over
to the window, pulling back the curtains he looked out upon the unfamiliar view
beyond. Not that of the docklands, with ships on the
The man turned away, crossed the lookout
and passed through a turquoise gate, along a gravelled path and up four steps
onto the balcony of the green domed building. Leaning on the stone balustrade
he could see over the road below which reappeared on the other side of the
archway and carried on down the slope. There was a cobbled square below with colourful
candy coloured buildings on three sides, white and with dark stained weather
boarding, oh yes and a blue and red statue of a man holding a scroll in his
left hand, with the right hand raised, standing on a balcony. Over the roofs of
the candy coloured building towered a tall tree, and more, a bell tower which
as far as he could see from this vantage point, was easily the tallest
structure and a far better vantage point from where he could see all about him,
and gain his bearings at the same time.
He turned to the steps which led him down to the road and the square the other side. He saw a black and white striped pole with a candy striped canopy, beneath which was the blue sign which read in white lettering ‘General Store.’ He paused to look in the bay window which displayed all manner of tinned provisions, along with a selection of fancy goods and records. But it was the red labels of the tinned goods “Village Foods” this together with the canopied Penny Farthing logo which grabbed his attention. Leaving the General Store behind, the man crossed the corner of the cobbled square and through a turquoise gate, up the steps and path towards the bell tower. Finding more steps he climbed them to the door of the bell tower and found it stoutly locked against him, he put his shoulder to the door, but it would not yield. In frustration he turned back on his steps, the quiet was absolute, there was not a sound to be heard, save for the gentle rustle of the trees in the breeze and the call of birds. But then as he stood upon a grassy bank looking around at the candy coloured buildings, working in the flower borders he saw two figures busy tending the flower beds. He quickly dashed back across the square, passed the General Stores and down the road, down a set of steps he ran, to his right a set of cobbled steps led onto a stone structure with several columns. And then more steps leading down onto a lawn where a sign invited him to ‘walk on the grass’, across the lawn and up yet more steps onto the piazza, with its fountain and shallow pool, “free sea” as the sign indicated below its candy striped canopy set upon a black and white striped pole where the two gardeners were on their knees busy planting new bedding plants. Both seemed happy in their work and neither seemed aware of his approach until he accidentally kicked a tray of plants.
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“Watch out sir, don’t damage the plants”
said one gardener.
“Sorry” he replied looking down at the tray
of petunias.
Both gardeners stood up, hand fork and trowel
in their hands, both wearing dove grey overalls and deck shoes. One wore a pair
of steel rimmed spectacles, and the other a matching dove grey cap, curiously
more than that, each wore pinned to their overalls a white badge with a black Penny
Farthing bicycle together with a canopy and a red numeral in the penny wheel,
one 36b and the other 184.
“You
alright?” asked Number 36b.
“Looks lost doesn’t he” said Number 184 to
his colleague.
The man looked at the gardeners and then
round at the Village about him “I’m slightly confused, I don’t know where I am.
This place, it looks Italianate.”
“I was right, he doesn’t know where he is…..”
said Number 184.
“That’s saying nothing, neither do you!”
quipped 36b.
184 shot 36b a glance of annoyance then
continued “He’s a new arrival, spot ‘em a mile off I can.”
“Yeah, a new arrival” sniggered 36b.
“Where am I, what is this place?” he asked,
but doubting that he would get a straight answer.
“The Village” answered 184.
“Doesn’t it have a name?”
Number 184 looked at the man quizzically “A
name, of course it’s got a name, everything has a name.”
The man was showing inward signs of annoyance with this pair of gardeners “What is it then?”
“The Village” responded 36b.
Looking at Number 36b with disdain, he knew
he had to find a way out of there, and to the nearest town “Can you show me the
way to the bus top?”
“No buses come through here mister” replied
Number 184 with a knowing smile.
“Is there a railway station?”
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The two gardeners looked at each other “No
trains, no railway station” they answered in unison.
He was being thwarted with every answer, and
so was not over confident when he asked “Where can I hire a car?”
“No car hire, only taxis” they informed him.
“You mean I can get a taxi from here?” the
man asked delightedly.
“Oh yes, you can get a taxi alright, local
service only, but they’ll get you where you want to go” 36b confirmed.
The man was delighted as 36b pointed out
the way with his trowel in hand “Along the piazza, up the steps and left
through the arch there. Walk along the road passed the café and the taxi rank
is on your right, can’t miss it.”
The two gardeners watched the man storm off
along the piazza, then turning to one another with something of a knowing
smile, they went merrily back to their work.
The man bounded up the steps and through
the archway of a stone wall into the road beyond. He stood there for a moment
gathering his bearings, then set off along the road, passed the café where a
waitress was just setting out the tables on a black and white tiled patio, of
which a gardener, the exact image of Number 36b was busying hosing down. The
gardener looked at the Prisoner and gave him a knowing wink.
The man surprised by this moved
briskly on and just around the corner from the café was the taxi rank, where a
white Mini Moke taxi with a orange and white striped canopy stood waiting for
its driver. Looking over and around the vehicle he noticed the key in the
ignition, so seeing no one about he climbed aboard. Turning the ignition key
firing up the engine, engaged first gear and drove off from the taxi rank, passed
the sign indicating the Labour Exchange, and through a tall yellow archway and
away along the narrow tree lined road. The road turned right and over a stone
bridge, then carried on meandering its way quite aimlessly through the trees,
then out into the open passed a large castle before turning right, winding its
way down between the blue and white rhododendrons which lined the road. It
wasn’t long before he found himself driving back along that road, back into the
village. Passed several buildings, round through the first entrance arch,
through the second entrance archway and passed the cobbled square and the
General Store, the green domed building, and down the road, round the corner at
the bottom of the hill and passed the café, with its canopy covered tables and
white wrought iron seats, all set out ready for the day’s customers, and finally
coming to a stop near the taxi rank, from which he had set out! Surely he had
missed a turning somewhere, so off the taxi went again on the exact same trip
but the other way! On his way back into the Village he saw the two gardeners
ahead, one pushing a wheelbarrow, and the other riding a lawnmower. They gave
him a cheery wave as he drove passed into the square, through an archway and
into a cobbled square. There was a young man wearing a striped blazer and straw
boater sat on a bench, the Moke stopped.
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“Pardon me, but could you direct me to the
nearest town, it’s stupid I know, but I can’t seem to find a road out of here.”
The little man peered through his thick
black rimmed glasses at the man sitting in the taxi, and stooped a little to
see the face underneath the canopy. He spoke in some indeterminate language, some
incomprehensible gibberish.
“Do you speak English?” he asked slowly and
clearly.
“Dibb” Number 3 replied.
“A road, where is there a road, a main
road. I can’t find my way out of here” the man persisted.
The little man raised a hand and pointed
this way and that with the following instructions “Bossfaday, kankadoy,
bossforshore, mankadore.”
Now utterly and completely confused the man
bid his farewell and started the engine of the taxi “Thank you, thank you, I’ll
find my own way” he waved.
“Bashatta’ said the little man, as he
watched the taxi disappear down a slope between the Round House and the General
Store.
The shopkeeper was cleaning the glass panes
of the bay window of his shop
“Good morning Number Nineteen, open for
business?” asked Number 3 in perfect English.
“Give me a moment and I’ll be right with
you sir” said 19 ringing out his chamois leather.
Meanwhile the Mini-Moke turned left down a
cobbled path, ahead of him was a statue of Hercules on a large plinth, the man
drove the vehicle round the statue then sharp left coming to a dead-end pulling
on the handbrake switching off the engine and abandoning the vehicle where it
was parked. He walked across the lawn, up steps and through a small portico and
up the cobbled road which he had so recently driven both up and down, the stone
lion growling at him from his position upon his stone plinth. It was not
difficult to find his cottage, across the street, up the steps, through the
gate, along the gravelled path and he was there. The only difference was, that
now outside the French door stood a sign on a black and white striped pole and
hung beneath a candy striped canopy ‘6 private’. The man gave it a cursory
glance as he walked passed and through the now automatically opening French
door into the lounge beyond, the French door closing behind him with an
electronic hum as the door secured itself.
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All alone in his cottage, he saw nothing
for it but to take in his new surroundings. True the cottage was as unfamiliar
as the Village outside, yet the furniture, fixtures and fittings were those of
his own home, his converted warehouse. His desk, table lamps, two leather armchairs
and sofa, the two large bookcases containing his modest library of horror,
ghost and tales of terror and the macabre, and his copy of the ‘Danger Man
Omnibus’ lying on the glass topped coffee table. His paintings of sailing ships
hung upon the walls, along with prints of steam locomotives and traction
engines. And something else, Gus his large soft toy Orang-utan, who sat by the
phone in the far corner of the room, strangely dressed in striped jersey, brown
trousers and straw boater. It was then he spotted a mistake, for above the
mantle piece were two crossed foils, weapons he thought, and made to grab one
of the foils, but both were solidly fixed in position prohibiting their
removal. No ‘they’ had made a mistake!
The kitchen was fully equipped and
stocked with both fresh and tinned provisions, cheese, milk, butter and cooked
meat in the fridge, tinned ‘Village foods’ in the wall cupboard. Upstairs was
the bedroom, single bed, chest of draws and a wardrobe, both of these were
devoid of clothes of any kind. And the bathroom was simply the bathroom, bath,
toilet, shower, hand basin and wall cupboard which contained the usual
toiletries, all of which was knew, and still sealed in their paper wrappings.
Returning downstairs to the lounge, he
scanned the room for a second time, his record collection of classical music,
record player, military statuettes all were in place, then his attention was
suddenly drawn to his desk, upon which was a small white card, it read ‘Welcome
to your home from home.’ Someone was obviously having a laugh, ‘home from home’
indeed, this was nothing like his home! Making a search of the desk he found it
to be void of anything, save for a brown leather bound ‘Map of Your Village’,
he unfolded the map which was in colour, and depicted the Village, the
mountains, the woods, the sea, the beach, but nothing to give away exactly the
location of this village. Refolding the map, he replaced it in the drawer and
slammed it shut. Then he recalled the secret drawer he had built into the desk,
there in was something in case of emergencies. Opening the top left drawer he
felt inside for the catch, but there was no catch, nor was there a secret drawer……this
was not his desk! Then he checked his
pockets and felt the photograph, he took it out, glanced at it and placed it in
the desk for safe keeping. Other than the photograph his suit pockets were
empty, wallet, passport, even his loose change all gone. He began to feel like
a prisoner, confined, disorientated, but with questions. Where is this, who had
done this thing to him? Trying the French door he found it now secured against
him, as too were the windows. He began pacing back and forth like some caged
animal, the anger growing inside him. There were two items not familiar to him
in the room, lava lamps, as he paced this way and that he stared ever deeper
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into
the one in the small niche in the wall. It was lit, and globules and long
streaks of wax or what he took to be wax, floated to the top and then descended
to the bottom. It served no purpose what so ever, yet curiously there was
something about it, something malevolent, as though the wax inside was every
bit a prisoner as he was inside his cottage. There was also a black silver
edged speaker set upon the mantle piece which began to play music. He picked it
up and looked for the on/off switch, there wasn’t one, nor was there an
electrical lead, in fact there were no external connections or wiring of any
kind, and it was while he was wondering how the device worked that the cream
telephone on the corner table where Gus was sitting began to bleep, and by its
tone somewhat impatiently.
He crossed the room and lifted the receiver
to his ear.
“Good morning, I hope you enjoyed your
short excursion this morning” a voice greeted.
“Who is this?” he demanded brusquely.
“Quite a picturesque place really, don’t
you think?” asked the voice.
“I’m sure it’s quite charming when you get
to know it” he replied “where am I, who are you and what am I doing here?”
“I thought as neighbours we should get to
know each other, join me for breakfast, Number Two, the Green Dome” said the
voice, and before he could say more the line went dead.
Replacing the receiver he hesitated for a
second before crossing to the French door, which now opened automatically for
him, allowing his passage out onto the patio beyond, over which the Green Dome
cast its shadow.
Making his way through the gate and along the short gravelled path, he wondered about the man he was about to meet. Certainly the voice had sounded both charming and polite, and he had been right about this Italianate Village, it was picturesque, that much was certain, and peaceful in its atmosphere. Yet as he climbed the steps onto the balcony of the Green Dome, there was something at the back of his mind which told him that all was not as it seemed. And what of this man he was about to meet? And so it was with a look of concern that he turned to face the door of the Green Dome, a brass numeral 2 upon it, and a black wrought iron bell pull to its right which he tugged, and from somewhere a bell tolled and with it the door opened automatically allowing his way over the threshold and into the foyer beyond.
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