Everybody has secrets, some darker than others. Abraham knew most young girls were systematically sexually abused in the camps, and he knew his new wife had been violated by German soldiers. She'd talked only once about it, telling him that it wasn't much because she was so skinny and filthy. Contact was also forbidden. Germans couldn't fraternise with the filthy Jews. Abraham pushed it from his mind. He loved his wife with all his heart. She could do nothing other than survive in those camps, and he thanked God every day for Rachel. With the move to England the past was never forgotten, but never mentioned.
Rachel knew the Swiss man was a Bavarian German living in London under false papers. Working as an art dealer, living the happy afterlife, his stolen gold safely locked away in some vault. Maximilian had possessed a collection of photographs displayed in ornate silver frames stolen from a dead Berlin family. Alone for many hours Rachel had often inspected them with a hidden jealousy, seeing happy times next to the lake, the sailing, the picnics and the skiing. She fantasised of a life without war, a life with food and a life of freedom. She knew that Maximilian had a twin brother, Heinrich. Something Abraham never knew.
Rachel had expunged her past the moment she met her lovely husband, and became a fresh teenage girl once again. With the war starting before she was a teenager she'd never been a fresh teenage girl, and now she had the chance. She'd never been a childlike sex slave. Rachel never told him about her level of physical experience. She'd learnt to love in a creative way at the hands of her husband. Maximilian had been very creative from day one, now Rachel decided she would be creative. She decided to go down into a depression. She needed a break with her sister Mila, something to cheer her, and let her relax.
Rachel knew Maximilian wouldn't recognise the shapely dark and beautiful woman she now was, not the skinny child woman that had been his pleasure toy, his little rag doll clutching his massive arms. Rachel shuddered at the memory of his power and her feeble protests the first time he took her, a long night, a night of blood and pain.
She was confident of standing directly in front of him and not being recognised. Rachel wore a disguise. She bought a pair of very weak glasses from a second-hand shop. Dying her hair a lighter chestnut colour and wearing it long around the face all added to the mystery. Abraham would not have recognised her if he'd passed her in the street. Her husband might have recognised her lovely legs, but she didn't know if Abraham looked at things like that. He looked at her legs in their bedroom. Always a good man he never seemed to look at anyone else's. She had the best leg's, he'd told her so, not ever saying that even about film stars.
Cafe Roma was a coffee shop down the street from Abraham's old bank. This was one of the new ones with noisy Italian espresso machines. It was all the rage. Rachel was sick of the taste of the froth, the milk, the whole Italian experience. She'd been in the cafe for more than three days, buying one cup every hour or so, reading a book or pretending to read a book. All the time she watched the street, watched the bank. She'd been in London for more than a week. Mila knew her purpose and argued at length about her unhealthy obsession.
“You weren't there! You don't know! Support me.” This was Rachel's argument. Her sister tired of the arguments and reluctantly vowed support for her younger sister. Her older sister was at a loss as to what she was going to do. Report him to the police, or face him to discover that she was wrong, deluded and confused into thinking he was Maximilian.
After several long days Rachel was losing faith in her commitment, and this man may turn out to be genuine, not the man she sought with such desperation. This Swiss man might be an honest Swiss businessman. She had to see him⦠she had to!
Rachel was freezing cold. She couldn't remember if the weather was cold or something was running through her soul making her cold. She had changed tactics moving down the street to another location. This meant she had to be outside hour after hour, with nowhere to sit down, no rest for her tired feet. The change of location came about when she realised the more affluent regions of London were located in the other direction, and sitting in that steamy coffee shop the passing crowd were going to a lower level of life. She needed to be located for people going up to the city.
The Swiss gentleman didn't use that branch. He'd only come in on that fateful day because the other one was full. Poor Rachel could have stood in that street for a thousand years and never seen him. She returned to the tube station each day more and more dejected, broken on the wheel of misfortune. She was in the last gasp of any hope. She had to go home tomorrow. She had to go back to the north, and she had no chance of ever finding this man. All those days looking, all those millions of faces and not one of them remotely like Maximilian Haussler. It was all over and her feet didn't want to move, reluctant in their every stride, with the tube station creeping towards her. Once she went down into that tunnel, and jumped onto a claustrophobic train she was lost. This was the last trip back to Mila's before returning home.
Two stations had passed. Each time the train juddered to a halt, small parts of her spirit died, and as the yards of tunnel became miles the more wretched she felt. Each passing station diminished her. The train had been stood for some time with Rachel staring without seeing the passing crowds. She'd seen so many passing crowds, now they now all looked like a blurred colour. If it wasn't for Louise and her lovely Abraham she could quite easily climb from the train and throw herself to burn on the electric rails. To find this man and learn she'd been wrong would've been enough, but not everything. To learn that she'd been correct would release her from the dark past. He would be brought to justice for his crimes.
He was on the escalator, she could see him. Was this him?
As the door started to close she made for it through the packed carriage. Rachel stamped on a man's foot and pushed another man reading a newspaper hard in the face throwing him backwards. To make the door she pushed a woman with a child off the train. Rachel steadied the woman and child on the platform making excuses, glad in her heart they hadn't fallen. She wasted no time, her kind words lasted short seconds before she threw herself into the crowd towards the escalator.
Luck was finally with her. All she had to do was catch him before he disappeared. On the escalator Rachel pounded up the left-hand side, the people on the right stationery. The people on the left were rushing home, and some not fast enough for Rachel. These unfortunate people were pushed to the right as Rachel ploughed on upwards, all the time she was looking ahead, all the time the blond head was nowhere in sight. Head down, glancing up occasionally, she ploughed on upwards, certain he'd unknowingly escaped her, this was a last chance and she'd missed it. She would run on regardless until fatigue stopped her.
Another stupid person stood in her way and she grabbed this teenage commuter and thrust her to the right pushing one of the slow commuters forwards almost making him fall. The commuter cried, “Hoy!” As he stumbled forwards clawing at the man in front to gain some balance. Fortune shone for Rachel. The man didn't fall. He'd grabbed out at a coat in front of him and clutching at it managed to stay upright. Rachel herself was losing balance and she also clawed at another commuter to keep balance. She couldn't go on like this. She'd been pushing too hard. She wasn't going to find him with this crazy chase.
“Can I help you, young lady?” the man said. Rachel was almost on her knees in front of him. The only thing stopping her from damaging the new stockings on the metal plating of the escalator was this man's jacket she clutched with fierce grip. She was out of breath and out of luck. She had come to a shuddering halt behind a crowd of people.
“Sorry, sorry, I'm in a rush,” Rachel said. She looked up into eyes that had stared down on her naked body many times.
Three seconds passed, a long three seconds, followed by a fourth then a fifth. Rachel's heart was beating so hard she thought her chest would explode.
“Are you all right? You looked shaken.” Maximilian enquired.
“Yes I'm good, very good,” Rachel said, knowing he didn't see his toy, his young girl. He saw a beautiful, mature woman.
Making quick apologies she broke eye contact and pushed on ahead into the street forcing herself into a small crowd in a newsagent's doorway. She watched him cross the road towards some very smart apartments, a place where rich people could live a contented quiet life. She followed at a distance. All the time she couldn't keep a smile off her face. The muscles in her face were locked in place by what she felt inside. Was the rigid smile one of joy or insanity?
Mr Jackson, Mr Jackson, Mr Jackson were ready for you! Oh yes, I was dark daydreaming. I was in the bright light of a lead lined day at the radio club.
My tattoos were ready for the laser beams.
Perhaps it was thinking of Rachel waiting for hour after hour in an aromatic coffee bar, or I was starting to feel well at some background level. In hindsight I think it was peculiar to that day alone, but I decided I could manage some breakfast, a big breakfast. Full English that's what I wanted. A proper honest to God big breakfast, and it came courtesy of Bert and Edith. They owned little enclave of Englishness in a big Spanish city and provided in all its greasy glory, the gastronomic delight, full English for the lowly sum of 4.99 euros. This was a bargain not to be missed, a mistake, I should have! Due to my illness I hadn't eaten anything other than porridge for
months. A big breakfast would be a wondrous culinary moment to linger in the memory. It did.
Bert and Edith produced a magnificent breakfast which I wolfed down along with extra fried bread. The whole thing reminded me of fatter times. I tipped them, it was that good, and I left the small cafe bar with a jaunty step. I think the trouble kicked in halfway back to my weekday therapy flat when my weakened stomach revolted. I was lucky to make it home without disgracing myself in the street. “Never again, never again,” I uttered this in between diarrhoea and vomiting. By the time I was empty, one hour or more had passed, and I was so exhausted I could hardly think. It was 11.15am and definitely time for bed. I could've been a small child.
Sleep came as my head touched the pillow, then a train passed, and a few moments later a train passed. This was followed by sheep, a donkey, and a cow. Though in retrospect I think it was a bull, and the final apparition, a large green crocodile. Then it all started again, first with the train. I could feel the electric motor driving the spectacle, not inside the train, the one driving the merry-go round. I could smell ozone, electrical discharge. Trains were featuring, and all my senses were on fire. I knew in that instant the dimension I was living in. This was the real world.
The merry-go-round was at the edge of a village green for the entertainment of local children. The green a perfect swathe of grass was bordered with picture postcard cottages, a church, and a pub nestled in the shadows beneath some large ash trees. This was a perfect village green. The centre of the green was given over to playing a gentleman's game, cricket, in all its leather on willow glory. In the middle of cricket pitch the wicket was perfect. Even the stumps were set, but no match was in play.
The only person out there other than a bemused me was a little umpire crouching at silly mid-on. He was wearing two or three hats, four jumpers and a large white coat. All the while this strange little man was scanning the pitch as if the game was in progress. I was standing a yard inside the boundary with the roundabout rumbling behind me like a large oversized music box. The umpire's chubby face with eyes hidden behind sunglasses looked at me square on. He was pointing past me towards the roundabout. So fierce a command I turned to see something unexpected. I was expecting to see the woman who was becoming the love of my life.
The roundabout continued to turn and standing on the back of a donkey was the little umpire unchanged from one second before clad in far too many clothes. I spun round to stare at the spot where he'd stood only moments ago. It was empty. Returning my gaze to the roundabout I half expected the umpire to now be missing. He continued to circulate remaining steady on the back of a moving donkey. The animal had real movement and I started to notice that most of the animals on the roundabout were moving, not in the sense of going round and round, they were live animals! I am certain they weren't alive when I first looked, but they were now.
My concentration had gone. I no longer watched the umpire. My eyes had been dragged away by the fascination of watching the parade of animals passing my eyes. The roundabout came to a shuddering halt, the animals did not. They climbed down off the circular platform and walked towards me, led by the donkey carrying the little fat umpire. The little man bounced like a ball of jelly on the donkey's back, his clothes started to fall from his body, shedding spare hats and spare jumpers. The sunglasses had fallen from his face. They bounced on the donkey's shoulder and fell to the floor to be crushed under hoof. If he continued like this there would be nothing left of him. He would be rattled to pieces or be naked. As the strange procession got very close the little man was wearing a gossamer ballet dress, and the smile of a pixie. I might have known.
“No Jennifer?” I asked.
“She's outside the bag in the pavilion watching, a spectator,” the Lylybel said.
I scanned the ground and there she was, sitting just to the left of the screen wearing a ridiculously large, white trilby, and very enormous dark sunglasses. She gave me her biggest smile and an enthusiastic wave.
“I'm in the bag?” I asked.
“Yes and Jennifer is a spectator.”
“A spectator to what?” I asked.
“It certainly isn't cricket! It's not cricket when you call me a pixie, and that's not cricket either!” the Lylybel said. She was pointing first off to the left then off to the right. I thought she was indicating a boundary. Six runs! “What's not?” I enquired.
“This isn't normal even here. It's⦠especially for you!” She laughed and laughed and laughed.
Each laugh came with its own pulse of molecular happiness, and between I could feel another pressure building. This sensation contained a much more solid presence, a feeling of latent power. Then I realised it was an onrush, a bow wave of aggression.
I didn't have time to think about what wasn't cricket. This game was run faster than a crocodile, or was it the bull? Both these roundabout animals were now very much alive and attempted to charge me down coming at me from different directions, so I did the only thing possible. I ran and ran and ran! In the original dark universe of the cancer Demons, driven by adrenaline I could run faster than humanly possible. In this universe I'd never had the adrenaline until this moment.
I was running at great speed towards Jennifer hoping to hide behind the screen, or leap over the small picket fence and make for the top of the small stand. I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing other than running. Don't think for one minute I was leading the animals towards Jennifer. She was beckoning me to run in her direction. I was running hard towards her offered sanctuary. As I approached she started to point to her left and down behind the screen. I thought there must be a players' tunnel or something hidden behind it.
The cricket screen was innocent blank white boarding. What it was concealing was something else. It was the briefcase, open, ready and waiting for me.
“Jump in feet first, feet first!” Jennifer cried.
I obeyed the instruction and was waist deep when I stopped dead, the open mouth of the briefcase too small to take my upper body. I could hear the approaching animals, the thunder of the bull's hooves, and a slippery rush through the grass of the crocodile's deadly body. They were almost on me.
“Don't worry they won't pass the boundary. Unlike some people they know when to stop,” Jennifer said. She then kissed me passionately on the lips. It was full of every sensation the sensual body could understand. I was enraptured. Putting both hands on my head she pushed down very hard and I began plunging downwards gaining speed every inch of the way.
“Land feet first and you won't come to any harm, not until you break the bubble!” Jennifer's voice faded to an echo as I plunged hundreds of feet into the bag.
Below me was a sea, black and illuminated by moonlight. It was glistening and rolling with a long lazy swell. All the time I was falling towards it, I struggled to keep my balance and remain feet first, waving first my arms then my legs to keep some precarious equilibrium. There was no wind rushing past me, only the vision of the sea coming up towards me. It looked like a sea of pain that would shatter my body as I hit it. This strange, glistening, rolling blackness never got any closer. I wasn't falling. I was suspended above it, not miles above it as I thought, but to my amazement only one inch, one tiny, insignificant inch.
I stretched my toe downwards pointing my foot, stretching to touch the surface. The very moment I touched it I could smell urine, strong pungent urine. The stench was so strong my eyes were watering. I had to clench them shut until the acid had been washed from them by my own tears. Would I dare to open them? I knew I was no longer on the cricket pitch. I smelt bad things the other me had experienced and chosen to forget.
This was a sea of blackness and I was inside it. The smell was more than urine. It was pungent, so disturbing I could taste it. If I opened my eyes I was going to be a spectator to something I didn't want to experience. I wasn't in control, the other me was. Another forgotten horror was about to bite me more viciously than any crocodile, and hit my emotions harder than a charging bull. Then, I realised, I was the foolish donkey!
“No, No, no, Please no!” I was saying. It was more of a pathetic keening sound than real speech. As a spectator I could hear it, as the protagonist I don't even think I knew I was speaking. I opened my eyes to discover I was hiding in a disgusting alleyway in the centre of town. Bright lights filled the night in the main street only feet away. Everything was shining brightly on the 2am night-time bustle of early Saturday morning. Happy voices sounded, some shouts, even the odd argument. Some couples passed silent in embrace, no other person was cowered in filth crying into the back of their own rough, dry throat.
As I moved I could smell my dirt stained clothes, and a pervading smell of urine. Had I pissed my pants or was I dragging the stench of the alleyway with me. People in the street stared at me as I hustled along. I didn't know if it was my terrible street manners barging my way through the thinning crowds, or how I looked.
Somewhere behind this vile stench I could smell the great smell of Brut for men aftershave. The smell forced open a door in my mind. This was the night in August 1971 after we'd left The Cauldron. The fragrance had awakened me to this one fact: this was later the same night. I'd managed to live for forty years with no memory of these tormented times, buffered by my psychosis of wilful amnesia, successfully protected me from myself. If I was honest did I want these memories back? I had no choice here in my new dimension but to sit on the shoulders of a fool and watch the horror show.
Where was I going, and what was I looking for? My other self was running and pushing his way through some of the knots of stragglers. My head was moving left and right watching every single road junction, and every street corner became a threat. This paranoia continued and all the passing alleyways were dark dungeons where evil creatures could be hiding. I was moving with a purpose I didn't understand. Sound was supplied, however internal emotions seemed to be hit and miss during my playbacks. Sometimes I could feel all the angst, all the joy, and all the anger. Other times it was vague, and tonight it was particularly thin. Perhaps on some level I was still blocking it out. I knew what was happening and what was said, but not why.
I was pressed hard against a wall in another filthy alleyway, and I was concentrating on the bright yellow sodium lit street only a few feet away. Moments later a small panda car passed. I'd forgotten how funny they were. A blue and white minivan with a single rotating blue beacon in the middle of the roof, small, twee, vulnerable and ridiculous by today's standards. This comic apparition heightened my fear to a point where hyperventilation was now the normal state of breathing.
I was hiding from the police for some reason, it was obvious. Perhaps the filthy clothes were a product of some escape, climbing over fences, dashing through industrial properties. Whatever it was, the police figured large in my flashback. I was very careful looking out into the night-time street. I was very wary I might be trapped by a couple of regular bobbys on foot patrol, or another panda car close on the heels of the first. I hustled back out into the streets now becoming quiet as late stragglers disappeared into their homes. I was in another alleyway pressed hard against a cracked rusty downpipe that poured cold grey water down my arm. I didn't move. I was keeping myself tight in the shadows.
Now I was watching a nightclub across the Street .This venue was for members only allowing the proprietor to keep it open until 4am if he had enough customers. Sometimes in the summer this place would be closed up by midnight. Sometimes in the winter near daylight would greet the revellers. Tonight it was open and I was waiting. It was at that moment I realised what the other me was waiting for.
Across the street there were several motorbikes and scooters parked front wheels to the kerb. They were segregated into two distinct groups. No mixing between the hard grease of the motorbike and the soft-handed users of the scooter. I was segregated from humanity because I'd broken the rules and wasn't part of any group you'd want to be a member of. I was the leper hiding in dark shadows, keeping the segregation complete, not soiling humanity. I waited overburdened by some horror to seek the help of Lenny the Helmet.
Rain, why was it always raining as you waited? God only knows what time it was when Lenny appeared, staggering, full of drink. He'd started the night in The Cauldron with several pints. Now he was full to the point of falling over. Lenny made straight for his scooter, drunk beyond thinking of the police with their now dreaded breathalyser bag. Green crystals, no licence! Then again, who knew if Lenny even possessed a licence, or the will to take the test? I was out of the alleyway so quickly I thought I was going to leave myself behind. No such luck. I was glued to the other me, the Peter I don't want to remember. At least the emotion was dulled, almost non-existent.
“Lenny! Lenny!” I shouted.
This didn't seem to register with the big fella. He was working away at the kick-start as I prodded him in the shoulder from behind. His fist hit me squarely on the jaw sending me sprawling to the wet street, adding to my misery.