Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Read online

  Since I am incapable of learning by past mistakes, I allowed my edgy curiosity to make me look closer. There was a thin scatter of dark and suspicious stains on the telephone, the cord, the container, even on the ground beneath my feet.

  These were drips from someone’s ice-lolly, I told myself. Really they were. My walk back to the car and Mr Disvan was exceedingly brisk.

  * * *

  While we were waiting for the AA, I told Mr Disvan about what I’d seen and thought on the hard shoulder.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s a lifeless landscape, Mr Oakley,’ he replied. ‘Not exactly. There’s life of a sort if you know where to look, and should want to. It’s just a bit out of phase with us, that’s all.’

  This idea seemed to hold his attention for a moment and there was a lull in conversation. The thunder roll of traffic continued unabated.

  ‘In fact,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’m not so sure that it’s not us who’re the out-of-phase ones here. After all, we’re the intruders.’

  I was looking round for any sign of this alleged life (and not expecting to find any) when my eyes fell upon a dark figure. Quite some way off, standing on a grassy rise, stood a man in a business suit. He held a briefcase in his hand and was observing the motorway with burning interest. I pointed him out to Mr Disvan.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ he said. ‘That’s the sort of thing I mean. And look over there.’

  I followed the line of his finger and saw, in the distance, three or four matchstick men standing beside a giant pylon. They were keeping very, even abnormally, still, their arms by their sides and doing, as far as I could tell, nothing at all. Had these people just arrived, or had I simply failed to notice them before?

  ‘What are they up to?’ I asked. ‘I can’t see their cars...’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Disvan. ‘Not all of them have cars. It depends on their individual circumstances.’

  I could take this either way and once again opted for the straightforward interpretation.

  ‘But if they’ve got no car, how did they get here?’

  As usual, Mr Disvan was the soul of patience.

  ‘I’ve just told you that, Mr Oakley. It depends on their individual circumstances. Take that chap in the suit there, for instance, he might have got here by...’

  At that precise, inconvenient moment, the AA van arrived. To be more precise, it arrived, slowed and then, to my chagrin, motored on.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Disvan, utterly unconcerned, ‘he won’t go far.’

  This turned out to be the case. The van stopped a hundred yards or so on from us and the driver got out. However, instead of coming straight to our aid, he deepened my lack of joy, by lingering by his vehicle.

  ‘We’re in good hands,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘He must be a veteran.’

  I just thought he was bloody annoying and said so. Disvan ignored my unpleasantries.

  The AA man raised his hands to his face and I caught the flash of sunlight off a glass lens.

  ‘Am I going mad,’ I asked, ‘or is he giving us the once over with binoculars?’

  ‘No. Yes,’ said Disvan concisely.

  ‘What’s he looking for?’

  ‘Your tax disc, I should imagine, to see if it’s current.’

  ‘What’s that to him?’

  ‘I suppose it’s a good indication of whether you’re a bona fide traveller, or something else. Perhaps there are other little signs he can spot as well.’

  I was tempted to hit the horn with my head. Work and the normal world seemed a long way away—but unusually attractive.

  We had apparently passed the long distance muster and the AA man reversed his van towards us. Mr Disvan sensed that I was not my usual happy self.

  ‘Don’t give him a hard time, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain it all to you later. In the meanwhile, just let me do the talking.’

  In the event, I wasn’t given much choice in the matter. Although it was me who was behind the wheel, the AA man spoke first to Mr Disvan.

  ‘Good morning, sir. What appears to be the problem?’

  Within minutes, a new fan belt had been fitted and tested even to my sulky satisfaction. Disvan and the AA man then set to chatting, seated happily on the bonnet of my car.

  ‘I see you still have to go through the full security drill,’ said Mr Disvan.

  The AA man nodded sadly.

  ‘Aye, it’s for the best, though some take chances.’

  ‘And do you lose many?’

  ‘A few—some of the younger men who won’t believe what they’re told. The rest of us get wise to the tricks and survive to a ripe old age. Like me, for instance.’

  Disvan managed to suggest, without such crudities as words, that he lived his life along the same principles. I was left the odd man out: a callow and clueless youth who ought to be at work.

  ‘Oh aye,’ said the AA man reflectively, ‘it’s a war all right—and we’re on the front line. I mean, you should have seen the mess at the emergency telephone down the road a couple of weeks ago. God knows what went on there.’

  ‘Actually,’ Disvan replied, ‘my friend noted the aftermath of that. It quite frightened him.’

  The AA man turned round and glanced at me.

  ‘Aye, it looks like it did,’ he said dryly.

  ‘Do you think it was them?’ asked Disvan, pointing to the stock-still, matchstick men in the distance.

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised,’ said the AA man. ‘Them or any of the hundreds of buggers like them. I spend my days trying to get in before they do or else cleaning up after them. It’s a war, you know.’

  They had gone full incomprehensible circle, and I was ready to brain both of them. The murderous moments in my life were getting more frequent...

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s been really fabulous meeting yo,u but I’ve got a living to make and Mr Disvan here has an appointment at the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘It’ll wait, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan.

  ‘No it damn well won’t!’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Actually, on reflection, perhaps it won’t. We must be off.’

  ‘A pleasure to assist you, gentlemen,’ said the AA man. ‘Safe trip.’

  Not a moment too soon, he passed out of our knowledge for good and we resumed our journey. Silence was maintained until we were crawling through a death valley of mirror glass and tan brick somewhere in south London. I turned to Mr Disvan.

  ‘Okay then, Mr D, explain or die.’

  Disvan checked to see that I wasn’t in earnest about this (he could be a very literal person) before replying.

  ‘We’re late, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘Our journey has been interrupted, has it not?’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘All right, I will. Consider all the interrupted journeys on this motorway, the thousands of them every day. Consider the permanently interrupted journeys—the accidents and crashes, sometimes fatal. Think about all those unfulfilled purposes.’

  I considered them as requested.

  ‘So what? I said.

  ‘Well, it all builds up, Mr Oakley. Builds up, accumulates and acquires a life of its own. Those tens of thousands of lost thoughts and plans meet up and join together. They get strong enough to reverberate through time and take shape...’

  I wasn’t liking the sound of this.

  ‘What are you saying, Mr Disvan?’

  ‘Well, think about it, Mr Oakley. Haven’t you ever wondered about all the cars and people you see on the hard shoulder? Surely it’s stretching probability a bit for them all to be breakdowns?’

  I duly wondered about this. We’d passed so many stranded vehicles on the hard shoulder—one for every three or four miles of road. Then I started to think of the people without cars. The man in a business suit, the figures by the pylon, the greyish person leaning over the flyover bridge, the hippie with a backpack we were overtaking at that very moment...

  As if hearing my thoughts, t
he young man turned to stare with glassy eyes as we went by.

  Mr Disvan could sense that my mind was moving more swiftly than the traffic.

  ‘Why do you think you see so many carrion crows on the motorway?’ he said. ‘I mean, you know what they’re a symbol of, don’t you?’

  Sadly, my reading had provided me with that information.

  ‘So many people use these roads,’ said Disvan, ‘that it was bound to happen over time. With so many souls adrift, is it any wonder that some of them still wait, their final journey broken here until... well, who can say? Judgement Day, I suppose.’

  The horrid sweet-smelling pipe was produced and wielded again. I was too preoccupied to protest.

  ‘Trouble is, you see,’ said Mr Disvan, in-between puffs, ‘that some of them get impatient. “No exit from motorway” syndrome, to quote a phrase. Then they turn nasty. If you should meet one of those, like the gent in sunglasses, for instance, well... often as not, there’s another broken journey, another car for the police to clean up and tow away—and maybe a new unquiet spirit.’

  The wheel shook slightly and I nearly clipped the car in the next lane.

  ‘But...’ I muttered, without really having anything to join on to it.

  Mr Disvan considered the evidence too strong to tolerate any doubt on my part.

  ‘Come on, Mr Oakley,’ he laughed. ‘What do you think happens to the thousands of folk who disappear each year—flying saucers?’

  * * *

  Ever since that day, I have been more appreciative of the services provided by British Rail. When I have to travel by car, I use B roads.

  ROLLOVER NIGHT

  ‘Jacob called his sons to bless them, and he said, “Gather together and I will tell you what will happen to you in the end of days...” ’

  – Rabbi Solomon Yitzchaki (‘Rashi’) : 1040 - 1105 AD

  ‘Marry me or else!’ said my fiancée—which left me with little option. Then, as she stormed off and out of my life, I sat and watched her go, spending half a minute, for decency’s sake, pondering the wisdom of my decision. This didn’t exactly constitute a ‘dark night of the soul’ and I continued to feel pretty relaxed.

  A romantic walk through the woods had seemed like a good idea at the time. In practice, our personal definitions of what romance meant proved to be galaxies apart. The ‘pleasant stroll’ had turned into the Retreat from Moscow, and just as chilly in its way.

  However, it was over now and the day still held promising possibilities. The sun continued to smile upon me, despite the disappointing turn of events. The world was continuing to go round. I had money in my wallet. All was as it should be.

  My perch on the field gate and stile served to confirm this. Sloping away before me was a panorama of neat fields and copses leading up to the abrupt start of Binscombe village. From a distance, the estate looked more orderly and prosperous than it actually was. I could just see the red roof of my house, sitting there, quietly appreciating in value. Nearby was the Argyll, which I might well visit that evening just to ‘cheer myself up’.

  Beyond them both, seen through a screen of trees, was the watery glint of Broadwater Lake and the silent, ceaseless motion on the Goldenford Road. Behind me, should I care to look, reared the wooded side of Binscombe Ridge, topped by its ancient barrow (of unfortunate memory) and penetrated by the bluebell-infested, rustic paths I’d just tramped. All in all, a familiar and comforting little world.

  By now, my decidedly ex-lady friend was only a brightly coloured matchstick figure thundering along the footpath at the side of the field directly below me. There was a hint of shimmer in the air around her which slightly puzzled me. Was the sunshine really warm enough to produce that, or was it a typical Binscombe mist prematurely rising? Alternatively, was she so angry that even the atmosphere retreated before her? I filed the question in a low priority section of my mind, alongside such fascinating topics as my unusually high gas bill.

  Looking round for alternative diversion, and wishing for once I was a smoker, I noticed that there was a large stone standing by the side of the stile. It was almost man-sized and covered in horizontal notches; some obviously old and worn, some seemingly more recent. I wondered what the stone might have been for (a tool sharpener?) and then placed it with the gas bill et al.

  The furious revving of a motor and the squeal of unjustly punished tyres announced the departure of what’s-her-name and signified that the coast was now clear for me to leave. This rural idyll was all very well but, on balance, I preferred to be up and running, making money and/or new female acquaintances. However, preparing to go, I looked up and saw that the scene before me had changed quite considerably.

  I no longer thought of leaving, and resumed my seat. Then, for an hour or so, I sat absorbed and watched something that gave me cause to doubt my sanity.

  * * *

  ‘Egyptians?’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m not sure,’ I replied, ‘and keep your voice down or the rest of the pub will hear you. All I said was that they looked like ancient Egyptians. Thousands and thousands of them, milling about over the hillside.’

  Disvan nodded and calmly looked me in the eye.

  ‘Yes, I understand. So what about them?

  For a second, I wished I was a child again so I could give up and have a good cry.

  ‘So what? So what! It’s hardly normal is it? Should I expect to see great mobs of ancient Egyptians in Binscombe, is that what you’re saying?’

  The sarcasm went to waste and I was stopped in my verbal tracks by Mr Disvan replying in the affirmative.

  ‘Yes, at this time of year you should—if you’re sufficiently fortunate.’

  My reply was mostly written on my face but I supplied a simple sound track as well.

  ‘Um... really?’

  ‘Yes, really. But to begin at the beginning, and I suppose you’ll insist on that, tell me exactly what you saw.’

  Being glad of a question I could answer, and slightly fearful of the possible answers to any of my own queries, I was happy to oblige.

  ‘They just appeared. One minute nothing, the next a multitude of...’

  ‘Ancient Egyptians,’ prompted Disvan.

  ‘Yes, only they were sort of cloudy and opaque to start with, but later on they firmed up enough that I could see them clearly.’

  ‘Only to fade back into invisibility in about...’ Mr Disvan screwed up his face and seemed to be calculating something, ‘an hour. Am I right?’

  ‘You are. How did you know that?’

  ‘A lucky guess. Carry on.’

  ‘Well, it was weird. I mean, I was seeing two landscapes, the fields and woods, and all that, of Binscombe, superimposed on a sort of idealised ancient Egypt. There were shadowy pyramids, a shadowy Nile, great temples—the full bag.

  ‘And the people?’

  ‘They were working, well, most of them anyway. You see, what wasn’t pyramid, Nile, or temple, was a kind of field, and the Egyptians were working away in it. A few were lolling around enjoying themselves on the sides but no one seemed to mind that. And I’ll tell you something else strange; some of the workers didn’t look quite human. They were kind of wooden and jerky, like puppets.’

  ‘You’re an observant man, Mr Oakley. Those were “ushabtis”, mannequin servants. Rich Egyptians had little model men put in their graves to do their work for them in the afterlife—hence the few people idling about that you saw.’

  ‘Did you say afterlife?’

  ‘I believe I did, yes.’

  ‘Are you saying those Egyptians were all dead?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. Leastways, I hope so, otherwise they’d be four or five thousand years old, and that would never do, would it?’

  ‘But why...’

  Disvan interrupted—which was just as well as I was only filling in till I thought of something to say.

  ‘Let me interpret for you, Mr Oakley, because we’re running on a tight schedule here,
if what you say is true. Those Egyptians were dead, yes. What your saw was their afterlife—or, if it makes you happier, since you’re a rationalist, their dying thoughts. They believed that when life was done, they would come to joyfully work in the “Field of Reeds” forever. Their heaven was situated in the land of the setting sun, “the Beautiful West” as they called it. Accordingly they came here.’

  That story had given my stumbling brain words.

  ‘They came to Binscombe?’

  ‘Evidently. It seems the rules allow people to go where they believe they’ll go.’

  ‘Binscombe is “the Beautiful West”?’

  Mr Disvan noted a tone of incredulity in my voice and took mild offence at it.

  ‘We think it’s beautiful, Mr Oakley,’ he said stiffly, ‘and it was good enough for you to choose to live here. Why shouldn’t the Egyptians, a culture renowned for its level of taste and sensitivity, make the same decision?’

  ‘Um... quite.’

  ‘More to the point, Mr Oakley, is the question of establishing where we are in the programme.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Consider: the supply of souls believing in that religious formulation would have lasted from maybe 3000 BC to around 500 AD at the very latest.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And you’ve said that those three thousand five hundred years took about an hour to play through, from start to finish, right?’

  ‘Er... yeah.’

  ‘Well, I grant you the process isn’t strictly linear but, by this evening, we should be well into the future, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Oakley, we’ll explain to you as it goes along. There’s an excuse for a party, thanks to you. Rollover Night isn’t always spotted so early on.’ He suddenly looked at me suspiciously. ‘Hang on, what were you up to in the woods anyway?’

  I found the question easy to ignore.

  ‘Rollover Night? What’s that?’ I asked.