Wednesday 9 December 2015

The House


Today I was a bit rushed, I published something I was not very happy with, I've managed to rewrite it a little and record it. I am happier now. For posterity the original is below. 

For audio click here
The middle of nowhere - Cliff’s least favourite place. Some people liked it, liked being in the wilderness but Cliff had a sense of unease, he didn’t like being so far away from civilisation. That was the point, of course, splendid isolation, miles away from prying eyes and ears. Isolation, even the word felt cold, lonely, desperate. He longed to be back in his little flat in Islington, not stuck half way up a Welsh mountain with a group of stuffy men stuffed into stuffy suits for company. They all said the house was haunted, but it wasn’t; it was just an old mansion in the back of beyond and old houses always have ghost stories and none of them were true. He stared out of the window and watched the rain fall and the sheep nibble at the lush green grass. He turned and reluctantly made his way downstairs. 
The room was crowded and noisy, filled with smoke. Cliff took a sip of tea and inspected the wood carving on the wall. It was a queer old thing; a dragon’s head holding a man’s hand in its teeth. It was intricately done, the fine detail of the teeth and scales made Cliff shiver and there was something about the eye that was mildly disconcerting. He wanted to touch it, but hewas scared that the dragon might bite his hand. Cliff became aware of someone standing next to him.
“How’s the batting average old chap?” the man said. Cliff was confused. 
“I don’t play cricket, sir.”
“Oh, but I heard you were doing rather well, so well in fact, I was wondering if you’d like to bat for my team.” 
Cliff turned his head and caught a glimpse of the man talking to him. He saw the edges of the unmistakable moustache quiver in the draught. 
“A few old boys have had to, how shall I put this? Retire, so we need a couple of able batsmen.”  Major Fotherington said, putting his pipe between his teeth. “Thought you might be just the ticket.”
“I don’t...” Cliff was just about to say play cricket again when the penny dropped; this wasn’t about cricket; this was going into bat against Queen and country. Was this conversation really happening here, right in the middle of everyone? “I don’t know, sir,” he finished his sentence. 
“Well have a think about it,” the Major said and sidled away leaving Cliff alone with the carving and his thoughts. 
The evening grew dark quickly, Cliff stared out of the window, ignoring the lecture on Soviet military movements. His mind raced, was this a trap or was it a genuine offer? Why had he been approached? What clues had he given that gave the impression he might be ripe for turning? Was Fotherington really one of them?
A blue flashing light cut through the darkness, Cliff watched it approach the mansion. Were they coming for him? But it was an ambulance, not a cop car, Cliff relaxed a little.  Men got out and entered the building carrying an empty stretcher. Very quickly they returned, trudging across the gravel with carrying a corpse. Cliff knew straight away it was Fotherington under that blanket.
That night he lay in bed still confused by the turn of events, where did this leave him? Was the offer still on the table? Was the Major’s death a coincidence? He took a deep breath; could he smell pipe tobacco? Maybe this place was haunted after all. 



The original
The middle of nowhere, Cliff’s least favourite place, some people liked it, but Cliff had a sense of unease, he didn’t like being so far away from civilisation. They all said the house was haunted, but it wasn’t; it was just an old mansion in the middle of nowhere and old houses always have ghost stories and none of them were true.  That was the point, of course, splendid isolation, miles away from prying eyes and ears.  Isolation, even the word felt cold, lonely, desperate. He longed to be back in his little flat in Islington, not stuck half way up a Welsh mountain with a group of stuffy men stuffed into stuffy suits for company. He stared out of the window and watched the rain fall and the sheep nibble at the lush green grass. He turned and made his way downstairs. 
Clifton held his teacup and stared at the wood carving on the wall, it was a queer old thing, a dragon’s head holding a man’s hand in its teeth. It was intricately done, the fine detail of the teeth and scales made Clifton shiver and there was something about the eye that didn’t look quite right.  Clifton became aware of someone standing next to him.
“How’s the batting average old chap?” the man said. Clifton was confused. 
“I don’t play cricket, sir.”
“Oh but I heard you were doing rather well, so well, in fact, I was wondering if you’d like to bat for my team.” 
Clifton turned his head and caught a glimpse of the man talking to him. He saw the edges of his moustache quiver in the draught. 
“A few old boys have had to, how shall I put this? Retired, so we need a couple of able batsmen.”  Major Fotheringham said, putting his pipe between his teeth. “Thought you might be just the ticket.”
“I don’t...” Clifton was just about to say play cricket again when the penny dropped, this wasn’t anything about cricket, this was going into bat against Queen and country. “know sir,’ he finished his sentence. 
“Well have a think about it,” the major sad and sidled away leaving Clifton to stare at the carving and consider the biggest question of his life. 
The evening grew dark quickly, Clifton stared out of the window ignoring the lecture on Soviet Military movements. His mind raced, was this a trap or was it a genuine offer? Why had he been approached? What clues had he given that he might be ripe for turning? 
A blue flashing light cut through the darkness, Clifton watched it approach the mansion were they coming for him? But it was an ambulance, not a cop car.  Men got out and entered the building, then very quickly returned to their vehicle with a corpse on a stretcher. Someone had died. Clifton knew straight away it was Fotherington. 

That night he lay in bed still confused by the turn of events, he’d been approached by the Major, and then the Major had died. He took a deep breath; could he smell pipe tobacco? Maybe this place was haunted after all. 

2 comments:

  1. Petra Goláňová13 December 2015 at 10:31

    My 💙 lines:
    ... this wasn’t about cricket; this was going into bat against Queen and country...
    “Well have a think about it,” the major sad and sidled away leaving Clifton to stare at the carving and consider the biggest question of his life.

    ReplyDelete