Showing posts with label Short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short story. Show all posts

Dixie Elliot  continues in short story form.


Newly-weds Peter and Marie O’Hagan were travelling north from Dublin airport on the M1 motorway. The couple had just returned from a two week honeymoon in Florida. It was six o’clock in the morning and a grey light was creeping up on the dark sky. There was very little traffic on the motorway at that early hour and only the occasional lorry or delivery van passed them.

They were tired after the long journey and when they saw the flashing lights, cones and roadwork signs they both swore. A diversion sign directed them off the motorway and onto a secondary road. This road was dark and winding and it took all of Peter’s concentration to stay awake and out of the ditch. He noticed Marie had dozed off but was glad that at least one of them had the luxury of sleep, hopefully they would be back on the motorway before very long. Now and again his headlights caught a diversion sign so he knew that he was travelling in the right direction. He turned yet another bend and the road became very straight.
 
The early light of dawn was sweeping across the sky when Marie woke. She looked at Peter in surprise.
“Are we not back on the motorway yet?”
 
“Clearly not,” he answered.

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she replied. “How long have I been asleep?”
 
Peter looked at the clock, it was fifteen minutes past six, which meant he had only been driving along that road for little more than ten minutes, but it seemed to have been a lot longer. He hadn’t bothered to watch the time because he had been on the alert for other diversion signs. 

“About ten minutes,” he said.

“Did you take a wrong turn?” asked Marie.

“No I did not, there were no other side roads and I haven’t seen another diversion sign in a while.”

“Then you must have gotten us lost.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? There were no other side roads.”

“No need to shout I’m sitting right here.”

“I didn’t shout.”

“It was your tone of voice. It sounded like shouting from where I’m sitting.”

“Give me patience.”

“And what is that supposed to mean, eh?”

“Try the sat nav.”

“You’re driving, you try it.”

Peter sighed and leaned across to turn on the sat nav. “It’s not working.”

“Let me try. Keep your eyes on the road in case you crash the car and get us killed as well.”

“As well as what?”
 
“Getting us lost.”
 
She tried the sat nav. “It’s not working.”

“I suppose that’s my fault as well?”

“You insisted on buying this bloody car.”

“You liked it as much as I did. Anyway it’s only six months old, the sat nav should be working.”

“Well it’s not working now, is it?”

The rising sun was soaking the clouds in hues of red by the time they came to the brow of a hill. Peter stopped the car, the road ahead went straight down the hill and disappeared into the distance in a perfect straight line. There was an expansive raised bog on both sides of the road, which stretched away into the early morning mist.

“Turn this car around and go back the way we came Peter.”

“Go back to where… to those roadworks? And what do we do then Marie? Do we simply drive towards Dublin on the wrong side of the motorway?”

“There you go again.”

“What?”

You’re shouting at me.”

“I’m not shouting Marie.”

“Raising your voice then, that’s the same thing.”

“I’m only trying to explain that we have to keep going in the hope that we’ll find a turn off soon, or someone who’ll give us directions.”

Peter eased the car into gear and moved off down the hill gradually picking up speed.
 
“This is our first argument as a married couple dear,” he said after a moment or two.

Marie turned her head to look at him in disbelief. “It is not. Have you forgotten about that argument you started in Disney World… when you wanted to take a selfie with Micky Mouse?”

“You said we were too old to take a selfie with Micky Mouse.”

“Little kids have selfies with Micky Mouse.”

“It was you who wanted to go to Disney World in the first place.”

“You can’t go to Orlando and not go to see Disney World.”

“You can, if you want.”

“There you go again, it’s all about you isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Oh, and what about Universal Studios . . . the Wizarding World of Harry Potter? You just had to start telling the guy directing the queue things he might not know about Harry Potter. You might not know this about Harry Potter. You might not know that about Harry Potter.”

“I was simply being informative.”

“It’s his job to know everything about Harry Potter. People in the queue started staring and talking about us.”

“Because you kept shushing me out loud.”

Marie turned her attention to her phone. “Be quiet I’m going to phone Mum.”

“It’s about half past six in the morning.”

“She’ll be awake, she always gets up early… there’s no signal.” Marie looked at her phone in horror. “And there’s no wi-fi connection.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” said Peter. “I haven’t seen a house since we turned onto this stretch of road.”

Marie was still checking her phone. “What happened to my photos?”
 
“Huh.”

“Most of my photos have been deleted, except for the ones of me and you. Do you think that’s funny Peter? Some of them were taken at our wedding.”

“Why would I want to delete your photos?”

“Well someone did.”

“Let’s listen to some music,” said Peter. He turned on the radio.

‘Well, we know where we’re goin’
 
But we don’t know where we’ve been.

And we know what we’re knowin’
 
But we can’t say what we’ve seen…’

“Road to Nowhere by Talking Heads,” said Peter. “And of all places too. Anytime we hear this song in the future we’ll laugh about it.”

“Do I actually look like I am laughing… do I? Most of my photos have been deleted, there’s no phone signal or wi-fi, but you can get tuned into some stupid radio station.”

“That is strange,” said Peter.
 
They sat in silence and listened to the song. At least it was a distraction. Then it ended. There was a brief pause and…

‘Well, we know where we’re goin’- But we don’t know where we’ve been...’

“It’s started again,” said Marie in annoyance.
 
‘And we know what we’re knowin’- But we can’t say what we’ve seen…’
“Maybe it got stuck and the guy’s trying to fix it,” said Peter.
 
It had turned into a bright sunny morning, but there was still no sign of life or a house of any sort along the road.
 
The song ended, but it began again.
 
‘Well, we know where we’re goin’- But we don’t know where we’ve been…’

“It must be stuck on a loop,” said Peter.
 
“Then turn it bloody off before I go crazy!” Marie was beginning to lose control of herself.

Peter switched the radio off. Then he spotted something up ahead. “Look there’s a town,” he said. “We’ll get directions back onto the motorway.”

“The sooner the better,” said Marie.
 
They drove straight into the middle of the town and the first thing they noticed was that vintage cars were parked along both sides of the road. They passed a green Morris Minor, a red Ford Capri and a silver Volkswagen Beetle which were clearly well looked after.
 
“There must be a vintage car rally on in the town,” said Peter. He was relieved to see that Marie’s spirits were beginning to lift again. It was a picturesque town, the houses were all stone built and of varying sizes. As they neared the centre of the town they came to a T-junction where another road went westward in a straight line for as far as they could see. Other stone houses and a church built from sandstone blocks went the length of this road for a distance. There was a stained glass window on the gable-end of the church and on the side which fronted onto the roadway there were sandstone images of two figures holding hands surrounded by lacework, much like the design one would see on a Celtic cross, these were set in relief within a circular frame. There was a pub in the middle of the row of stone houses on the opposite side of the road, it wasn’t yet open to the public.
 
They pulled in behind a 1960s black Ford Zephyr, which was parked on the left hand side of the main street and got out of the car. There were some people who appeared to be couples out for an early morning stroll, they looked at Peter and Marie in the way one would at the appearance of strangers. At the end of the row of stone houses on that side of the street there was another sandstone building with similar images in relief of figures holding hands on the wall facing the road. There were numerous oak, Scots pine and ash trees growing in and around this town, which seemed to be an oasis in the middle of a vast raised bog.
 
“There’s a supermarket,” said Marie clearly excited at the find. “And it’s open.”

The supermarket was at the foot of three stone steps which went down off the main street and there were two windows above it, clearly where the owners themselves lived.
 
A bell tingled above the door as they entered the supermarket. It looked just like any other supermarket in any town or city.
 
“I need to get some drinks and something to eat,” said Marie as she disappeared among the rows of shelves.
 
Peter went straight to the man who had appeared behind the counter from a doorway. He didn’t seem pleased to see them in his shop. The man looked to be in his seventies, he was unkempt and clearly hadn’t shaved in days.
 
“Can you tell me where we are, I didn’t see a sign with the name of this town on it when we drove in?” said Peter.

“Because there is none.”

“OK then, perhaps you can give me directions? We need to get back onto the motorway.”

The man snatched what appeared to be a road map from a rack on the counter and opened it out. He took a pair of spectacles from the pocket of the grimy shirt he wore to look at it. Peter was shocked to see that it was a map of Ireland but there were no cities, towns nor villages marked on it. One straight line went down the centre, from the north coast to the south coast and halfway down another straight line went towards the west coast. In each of the three sections there was a single word, ‘Bog’. The man poked his finger on the line near the top and then he poked it on the line near the bottom.

“You’re neither here nor there,” he said looking Peter in the eye.

“Then where are we?” asked Peter.
 
The man poked his finger on a dot in the centre where the two lines met. “You’re right here… in the middle of nowhere.”

Peter snatched another road map from the rack and opened it out. It was the same as the one on the counter.
 
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.

“There’s no brand names.” Marie had arrived at his side with two cans of cheap cola and several bars of chocolate in a wire basket. “Is what some kind of joke?”
 
A lady appeared at the doorway behind the counter. She was around the same age as the man and she also clearly cared very little about her personal hygiene. “What’s the matter Sean?”

“It’s a couple of lost souls, Mollie Kate.”

“Tell them to go to the reverend then, that’s his line of work.”

“What’s happening Peter?” Marie looked pale.
 
“Nothing dear, nothing at all.” Peter took the basket from her and turned to Sean. “How much do we owe you for these?”

The man looked at him as though he were joking. “There’s no prices on anything here, everything’s free, always has been.”
 
“Free?” said Peter.

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? If it’s free then people won’t go stealing it.” He grunted twice which appeared to be some kind of mocking laugh. “I expect I’ll be seeing you in here a lot,” he added.
 
“We’ll be gone as soon as I get the car started,” said Peter.
 
“Gone where?” replied Sean. “There isn’t anywhere to go. Drive down that road as far as it goes and you’ll come to the ocean, nothing else. Wait for as long as you want and you’ll not see as much as a fishing boat, never mind a ship of any sorts. There’s nothing out there except seagulls and whatever’s under the waves.” He leaned closer to Peter. “It’s the same if you go back up the road north or take that road across to the west coast. Everyone here has tried it more times than enough and found nothing. That’s the reason they’re still here.”

“Lets go Peter, these people are making fun of us,” said Marie.
 
Peter gathered up the drinks and the bars of chocolate and put them into a plastic shopping bag. He reached the door, then a thought hit him. “Who delivers your stock?”

“We never run out of anything,” replied Sean. “The shelves are always full… ask me how and I don’t rightly know… but the reverend tells us that the lord provides so I expect that’s where it comes from.” He grunted twice again.

“You’re crazy,” said Peter.
 
“You’ll be crazy yourselves before long,” said Sean. “Isn’t that so Mollie Kate?”

Peter and Marie were taken aback at the look of pure hatred the woman gave Sean before she stormed off in a rage.

When they got to the top of the steps outside the supermarket they were met by two men who were clearly waiting on them. They also saw that people were milling around on the main street obviously curious as to who they were. One of the men was well over six foot tall and of stout build. He wore a blue three piece tweed suit with a high-necked waistcoat. This man was dark skinned with thick black greying hair and a beard. They noticed he was wearing a clerical collar. His companion was medium height and thin with fair-hair and he had pale skin. He also wore a tweed suit which was brown.
 
“Good morning to you both,” said the taller man. “May I introduce myself and my companion? I am Reverend Howard and this is my life partner Bartholemew.”
 
He reached out a huge hand and Peter hesitated before he accepted the handshake. The reverend had a firm grip, but he took Marie’s hand as though worried that he might break it. Then it was the turn of his partner Bartholemew to shake their hands.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, before stepping back to Reverend Howard’s side.

Peter and Marie stood silent for a moment, then Reverend Howard gave them an inquiring look.
 
“Oh right, I apologise,” said Peter. “This is my wife Marie and my name is Peter... Peter O’Hagan.”

“Surnames,” said Reverend Howard. “Best forgotten. The quicker you forget yours the better.”

“Why would that be?” asked Marie. Peter was also shocked by the remark.
 
“After being here a while you will gradually forget everything from your past except your love for each other. You will no longer remember your families, friends or relatives. Your fondest and worst memories will no longer be memories, all will be forgotten, including whatever religion you might have practised.”

Peter was about to say something but Reverend Howard held up a hand to silence him. “As you see, I am a man of the church myself, that church over there. Given that the people in this town have forgotten whatever religion they once practised, I keep it simple and stick to the one god. That way there is no religious intolerance and we don’t fall out with each other.”
 
Bartholemew looked at Reverend Howard in awe, then turned to Peter and Marie nodding in agreement. They looked at each other in utter disbelief.

“I know what you are both thinking. You are thinking that this is a man of god and he is wearing a blue tweed suit. Black is so obvious don’t you think?”
 
“Well no actually, we weren’t thinking that at all,” said Peter. “We are wondering…”

“How we pass the time in this town?” said Reverend Howard. “A good question. Come walk with me while I explain.” 

He held a hand in the direction he wanted them to go in. They hesitated but the look they received from Bartholemew told them they needed to do as they were told, so they began to walk.
 
“That is our local pub,” said Reverend Howard pointing towards it. “It only opens once a week on Friday nights. Can’t have people sitting in a pub every day drinking themselves to death. Down here is our community hall.” 

He nodded towards the sandstone building at the end of the row of houses. “We have a weekly dance there every Saturday night. On the other nights it passes as a cinema showing old movies. Romantic movies of course, it helps in keeping the love for each other burning within our hearts. Doctor Zhivago is the most popular movie, it is shown every Wednesday night.”

Peter and Marie noticed a middle-edged man, who appeared to be in his mid-sixties and a pretty young woman, who looked to be no more than thirty years of age, standing on the opposite side of the road.
 
“That is Samuel and his wife Rosie,” said Reverend Howard.
 
“There’s a big age difference between the pair of them, how did they come to meet each other?” asked Marie.

“They can’t remember anything before coming here, like the rest of us,” said Reverend Howard. “But they arrived in that car.” He pointed to a Rolls Royce.
 
Seeing that they had become the centre of conversation, Rosie stomped off and Samuel scurried after her.
 
“The couples here tend to live a long life and for reasons unknown they die within a very short time of each other,” said Reverend Howard. “Isn’t that so, Bartholemew?”

“It is indeed Howard. Poor Rosie will depart this life long before her time just because she loved an older man. How sad.”

“Unfortunately that is true,” replied Reverend Howard. He seemed to notice the plastic shopping bag Peter was carrying for the first time. “You must be hungry, you need to eat a proper meal not that garbage,” he said and took the bag from Peter before handing it to Bartholemew. He directed their attention across the street to a cafe where two ladies in their fifties were standing at the door watching them. “Jia Li and Fiona will cook you an exceptional meal.”
 
The two ladies looked at each other, nodded their heads sadly and went inside the cafe.
 
“I don’t see any children about,” said Marie. “Why is that... are they not up yet?”

Reverend Howard studied her face for a moment, he seemed to be annoyed at the question. Then he broke into a forced smile. “This is no place to bring up children,” he replied. “Children can be a burden on a relationship so maybe it’s a good thing that our couples can’t have them.”

“Can’t have them… can’t have children?” Marie was shocked by his attitude. “Why can no one in this town have children?”
 
“There must be something in the water,” said Bartholemew smiling.
 
The look the reverend gave him quickly wiped the smile from his face. Then Reverend Howard smiled again. It was the smile of a shifty salesman. He spread his arms wide. “All you need is love.”
Peter and Marie looked at him incredulously. Peter seemed to snap out of it first. “The Beatles,” he said.

“What?” demanded Reverend Howard.

“That’s the name of a Beatles’ song,” said Peter.
 
“It’s the motto of our town,” replied the reverend, he was clearly aggrieved. “I came up with it myself.”
Peter was about to argue the point but caught the look Marie gave him.
 
“I’m certain that Sean has already informed you that you cannot leave this place,” said Reverend Howard. “He gets a sick satisfaction in doing that. He is correct and you will both eventually come to accept and to live with it when you no longer have any memories of a past life. The one thing we do not tolerate in this town is infidelity. The punishment for infidelity is banishment. Thankfully it has only occurred on one occasion which we know of and that was about fifty years ago. The victims of this infidelity were Sean and Mollie Kate. Their spouses were having an affair behind their backs. The adulterers were found guilty and banished from the town. They were told to drive away and to never return.”

“My god,” said Marie. “But that’s like a death sentence. Where did they go?”

“Unfortunately it is,” replied Reverend Howard. “I didn’t make that law, it was written down long before we both remember arriving here.” He looked at Bartholemew, who smiled back at him and nodded in agreement. “It is also the reason that crime is here is non-existent, especially murder. More importantly, no one has had an affair from that day to this. As for the banished couple, they did not return nor was their car ever found. We believe that they reached the coast and drove over the cliffs into the sea.”

“We can’t stay here Peter,” said Marie.
 
Peter looked resigned to the fact that there was nowhere else to go. “Where can we go Marie?”

“Exactly. There is no where else to go,” said Reverend Howard. “Now if you will forgive us we shall be off, as we have other matters to attend to.”

Reverend Howard and Bartholemew walked across the main street in the direction of the church leaving Peter and Marie staring at each other in disbelief. Marie’s eyes were filling with tears. “We can’t stay here. Do you hear me Peter? We can’t stay in this place.”

Everyone else simply dispersed, as though a public meeting had just ended. Peter and Marie noticed that one couple remained, they stood just a few yards away on the footpath. The couple weren’t much older than they were. The male was about five foot eight, solidly built, with a ruddy skin tone and he had a head of unruly thick red hair. The female was stunningly beautiful. She was black and slightly taller than her partner.
 
“She’s Afro-Caribbean,” whispered Peter, without taking his eyes from the girl.”

“What?” said Marie.

“The girl is Afro-Caribbean.”

“We got the same welcome to this town with no name speech, as did everyone else here,” said the red-haired man as the couple came towards Peter and Marie. “My name is Liam and this is my wife Roisin.” He held his hand out. He spoke with a Dublin accent.

Marie and Peter shook their hands. “I’m Peter and this is my wife Marie. Is it true that we will remember nothing?”

“You will remember nothing about your past life when you wake tomorrow,” said Roisin, she also had a Dublin accent, much to the surprise of Peter and Marie. “You will only remember coming down that road and your arrival here.”

“I’m certain that we will become good friends,” said Liam. He smiled at Marie which made her uneasy.
“Indeed, we will,” said Roisin. “But I must tell you one thing… one very important thing about the two in the supermarket, Sean and Mollie Kate. Something the Reverend Howard deliberately failed to tell you. It is believed that they set their spouses up, by accusing them of having an affair, so that they could be together. They were the guilty ones.”

“But how can anyone be certain they did that?” asked Marie.
 
“Sean came to this town in that car with his wife,” said Liam pointing to a 1940s Ford Perfect. “So they would have arrived here in the 1940s or the 1950s. Him and Mollie Kate might appear to be in their early seventies but in actual fact they have be in their nineties. The people in this town believe that they have been cursed to live together forever for their terrible crime. They believe that the town itself cursed them. Reverend Howard refuses to admit that a grave injustice actually occurred but the longer they live without getting a day older is proof that it did.”

Roisin noticed that Peter was staring at her intently and she quickly turned her head away in fear. Marie saw this as well.
 
“Peter, get in the car, we are not staying in this place one second longer.”
 
“And go where Marie?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“There is no where else,” said Richard.

“Let’s go Peter. Right now,” demanded Marie.
 
Peter knew that there was no where else to go to but he decided to let Marie see that for herself, so he got into the car and started it up. She got in and looked at him, then the road ahead. Peter shook his head in frustration before they moved off.
 
After a minute or two of silence, Peter spoke. “You heard them Marie, there is no where to go to except to the end of this road and nothing.
 
“You seen those people Peter, they might be together as couples but they are still not happy. They want more in life, not for each other, but for themselves.”
 
“Whether you want to admit it or not Marie, we are stuck here with them.”

“I’m damn sure we are.”

“Where will we go to then?”

“We’ll drive straight over those cliffs if we have to.”

“Jaysus but you’re thran when you want to be Marie,” said Peter.

“You’re one to be…”

Peter hit the brakes hard.
 
“What did you do that for?” asked Marie.
 
Peter was looking in the rear-view mirror. “How did I miss that?”

“Miss what?”

Peter quickly reversed the car back up the road and stopped at a side road with a diversion sign. “It wasn’t there a second ago.”

“It bloody well is now Peter O’Hagan, don’t sit there looking at it, lets get the…”

Peter didn’t need to be told, he hit the accelerator and with wheels spinning they roared off down the side road. Marie looked behind. There were rolling hills, hedgerows and fields instead of that road and the bog. They passed a house and then another one on the opposite side of the road.
 
“Slow down Peter before you get us killed.”

“I got us out of there, didn’t I?” he said, easing up on the accelerator.

“You wanted to stay, didn’t you? I got us out of there.”

Peter knew that he had to change the subject. “Do you think that’s what happened to the couple who were banished?”

“They found that road?”

“Yes. Maybe it opened up for them because they were innocent.”

“You could be right.”

Marie took her phone out and checked it. “All my photos are back.”

They could see the motorway just up ahead. “Thank god to see that,” said Peter.

The early light of dawn was sweeping across the sky when Marie woke. She looked at Peter in surprise then out at the motorway. There was a steady flow of traffic.

“Ah you’re awake,” said Peter. “That road was an absolute nightmare.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“About fifteen minutes or so.”

“I’ve just had the weirdest of dreams Peter.”

“Is that so Marie? You must tell me about it when we get back home.”

Marie fell silent and stared out the windscreen at the motorway.
 
“Is everything OK Marie?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you looked at that girl.”

“What girl?”

“Don’t try and deny it. The Afro-Caribbean girl from Dublin, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”

Peter looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a couple sitting in the back seat."

"Hi Peter, my name is Liam and this is my wife Roisin. We met in Marie's dream."

The car radio came back on. ‘We’re on a road to nowhere, Come on inside. Takin’ that ride to nowhere,
We’ll take that ride...’

Thomas Dixie Elliot is a Derry artist and a former H Block Blanketman.
Follow Dixie Elliot on Twitter @IsMise_Dixie


Road To Nowhere

Dixie Elliot continues in short story form.

A grim-faced news reporter stood on a country road in Armagh speaking to the camera. The sky was laden with rain clouds as he talked about the previous day’s landmine attack on a British army mobile patrol. The road behind him was blocked off but the twisted wreckage of a land rover could clearly be seen lying on its side in a ditch. He turned towards the clearing up operation and said that three British soldiers had died and three more were seriously injured. He added that the attack had been the work of the IRA.

Terry Whelan watched the six o’clock news until it ended, then he rose from where he sat on an armchair and turned the volume down on the TV.

“Do you want a cup of tea Terry?” asked his wife from the kitchen.

“No thanks, I have to go out now.”

“It’s going to be a bad night out there, take your overcoat.”

“I will,” said Terry as he went to fetch it.

His wife Theresa came over and fixed the collar of his overcoat. “Be careful tonight, the Brits will be out to get somebody for this Terry.”

“I know they will,” he said before he took his car keys and left without another word being spoken.

Theresa Whelan knew that her husband was a member of the IRA, a very prominent member. He rarely stayed in the one place and had only called in that evening for his dinner. She had grown accustomed to his life on-the-run, but it didn’t stop her constantly worrying that he’d be killed and would not be coming back to her and their two children. She knew about his nightmares from the few times that he managed to sleep with her. He often woke up in a cold sweat.

Terry stepped out of the front door into a grey mizzle and checked the street before got into an Austin Metro which was parked a few doors down from his house. He never used the same car for more than a week. He checked the rear-view mirror and pulled out onto the road, constantly on the alert for anything remotely out of the ordinary.

By the time the last of the street lights were behind him it was raining. His window wipers were beating a constant rhythm on the windscreen, which was having a hypnotic effect on him, as were the car headlights which approached and then passed. His mind drifted back to a night in an alleyway behind a row of houses. Jimmy O’Reilly was ahead of him carrying an Armalite rifle, Terry was twenty one at the time, two years younger than Jimmy. He carried a .45 pistol and they were about to ambush a British army patrol from the end of the alleyway. He would give covering fire with the .45 if needed.

The alleyway was dark but darker shapes seemed to emerge from the walls of the backyards and opened fire. He saw the muzzle flashes, heard the crack of the rifles and Jimmy fell back as though he had been struck by a hammer blow. It all happened in seconds, he had been lucky to escape with his life, but he did.

Terry turned onto a secondary road, there was less traffic but he started seeing things that were not there as the car headlights hit the hedgerows. He was sweating in the heavy overcoat and regretted not having taken it off before he got into the car, as he had to keep the heat on to stop the windows from misting over. He kept to the speed limit because of the weather conditions. Car headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror and flashed. He froze but it overtook him on a sharp bend and the tail lights quickly disappeared in the distance. That fool would be lucky to make it home, he thought.

He had to keep his mind on the road, it was narrow and winding, but his thoughts drifted off to an isolated farmhouse in County Cavan. They had been the only ones there, the owner, an old Republican, had stayed elsewhere for the week. A man knelt on the ground outside the farmhouse, there was a hood over his head and his hands were tied behind his back. His head was bowed and he was sobbing. He had finally admitted to being an informer and the penalty was death. As Terry and the others watched on a volunteer stepped forward with a revolver. He was hesitant and his hands shook. Then he stepped back unable to do it. Terry took the revolver from him before anyone else could act and he shot the informer in the back of the head.

Headlights appeared once again in his rear-view mirror and he pulled into the side of the road to let a Transit van pass before he moved on.

His status as a volunteer who would pull a trigger without question was assured, more so as he had done so on several other occasions. He moved up through the ranks of the IRA very quickly.

The road ahead was straight and he knew that he was nearing his destination, so he slowed to a crawl. The rain had eased but it was still difficult to see anything other than what was within range of the car headlights which he had on full beam. He saw the narrow laneway which was little more than a dirt track just as he passed it, so he stopped and reversed back, then turned down it. It was rutted and water logged which made this last part of the drive more difficult. Then the lights hit a long disused farmhouse, which reminded him of the one in County Cavan. That thought struck him every time he pulled up in front of it. The ghost of the informer seemed to be kneeling in the glare of the headlights before he switched them off. He kept the engine running and waited. He decided to take the overcoat off, so he struggled out it and tossed it into the back seat of the car.

The minutes passed like hours as he sat in absolute darkness, then he saw the headlights of another car in his rear-view mirror as it turned into the laneway. The car pulled up directly behind him. He could see the silhouette of a man approaching his own car, as the man got in beside him the headlights of the other car were switched off. Terry turned on the interior light, the man looking at him was clearly angry and he knew the reason why.

“How is your wife and family Jeff?” he asked.

“Damn you, why didn’t you let me know about the landmine attack?” Jeffrey Cruickshank, was clearly a military man but he was dressed in civilian clothes. “Do you realise how bad it made me look in front of the others as I was torn down a strip or two by the brass? Damnation man!”

“I hadn’t seen Joe Sweeney in over three weeks Jeff, he tends to go off with his unit without warning to plan and prepare for these type of operations.”

“That’s not bloody well good enough Terry. You knew what your choices were in that alleyway. Die right there and then with your mate or stay alive and work for us. You choose to stay alive. We looked after your back, turned a fucking blind eye or two and even fed you the name of that RUC informer. His usefulness was coming to an end anyway, but you certainly made a name for yourself when you put him out of his misery. The poor sod.

“I realise that only too well Jeff but…”

“But nothing. Let that unfortunate chap be a lesson to you. If your usefulness comes to an end then so do you Terry. You damn well better have something for me.”

“I do Jeff, but you must understand the risk I took to get it, I have to be careful not to expose myself.”

“What is it?” Snapped Jeff.

Terry reached under the car seat and produced an envelope which he passed to Cruickshank. “I managed to meet up with Joe Sweeney in Donegal after the landmine attack. He was hyped up and ready to go again. I told him that I wanted to meet him to discuss future targets, he said there was no need, he had it all planned ahead. Joe trusts me with his life, I have been close to him for years, but you know that already. I was best man at his wedding, we enjoyed a drink together when the chance arose.”

“I haven’t got all night. What in hell is it man?” Cruickshank clearly wanted to be on his way.”

“His unit has another landmine ready to be transported, a thousand pounds of explosives. The same bomb maker put it together, he’ll be there as well.”

“Where damn it, where is it?”

“It’s in a farmer’s shed behind his farmhouse in Fermanagh. The details are all in that envelope, the location, names and the target. They are going to hit a convoy outside of Enniskillen. Joe will be there as well. It’s being moved tomorrow night.”

Cruickshank was about to put the envelope into an inside coat pocket when Terry caught hold of his arm. “Joe will know this time Jeff, he’ll know it came from me.”

“He won’t fucking know what hit him, don’t worry about that. No one will be left alive to point a finger at…”

Terry saw flashes in the rear-view mirror, then heard the crack of rapid rifle fire. It was directed at the car behind them, Cruickshank’s car.

Cruickshank dropped the envelope and fumbled inside his coat while, at the same time, he opened the car door with his left hand. He had one foot out of the car when Terry, who was frozen to the spot with fear, saw a flash and felt something splatter in his face, at the same time he was deafened by a load bang. Cruickshank dropped backwards, his head came to a bloody rest on Terry’s lap. The car door on his side was pulled open and he was dragged out onto the sodden ground. He looked up at the man who had pulled him from the car and recognised his face.

“Ah god no,” he uttered.

“Get up… get fucking up!” said the man pointing a revolver at his head.

Terry had to be hauled to his feet by another man. He knew that they were members of the IRA.

“Move!” ordered the IRA volunteer with the revolver. The other volunteer pushed him forward and he almost tripped over his own feet.

He saw that the windscreen and side windows of Cruickshank’s car were riddled with bullet holes and as he stumbled past it he saw two bodies slumped over in the front seats. He began to whimper as he passed IRA volunteers carrying Armalite rifles. Other IRA volunteers held flashlights.

Desperation kicked in, he knew what lay in front of him. He had been there a good few times only he hadn’t been the one facing certain death. He looked at the barbed fence and the darkness beyond it. If he could run and dive over it, roll, get to his feet and run again, he could disappear into the darkness.

He twisted away from the IRA volunteer, who had his hand on his shoulder pushing him forward and lunged towards the barbed wire fence. A rifle butt to the stomach knocked the air out of his lungs and he dropped to his knees gasping for breath. He then felt the revolver pressed into the side of his head. He began to sob as he was dragged back up on to his feet.

The IRA volunteers manhandled him to the end of the laneway where a Transit van was parked across it with its lights out. Someone was standing at the side of the van.

Terry Whelan recognised Joe Sweeney immediately. His legs almost gave under him again but he was held upright by his captors. Sweeney stared at him, his face was expressionless.

“Put him into the back of the van,” he ordered.

An IRA volunteer came forward and handed Joe Sweeney the envelope which Cruickshank had dropped inside the car.

Terry Whelan’s arms were pulled behind his back and his hands were bound with rope. Joe Sweeney watched without saying another word. He put the envelope into his coat pocket.

A hood was then pulled over his head. Total blackness. Was this how it ended, a bullet in the back of the head and plunged into blackness?

Terry Whelan sobbed uncontrollably.

Thomas Dixie Elliot is a Derry artist and a former H Block Blanketman.
Follow Dixie Elliot on Twitter @IsMise_Dixie


A Recurring Nightmare

Dixie Elliot continues in short story form.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” ― Martin Luther King Jr.


He
opened his eyes and wondered why he was lying fully clothed on a steel bed. The mattress was hard and it stank, the pillow felt no better. He was in a prison cell, a very old prison cell by the look of it, with a barred window high up on the wall. But why was he there, in that place? There wasn’t much else in the cell other than a table with a plastic mug on it, a chair and a locker. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and tried to make sense of his surroundings. His shoes were on the floor beside the bed so he decided to put them on while struggling to come to terms with the fact that he could remember nothing. Not even his own name.
His thoughts were distracted by a key rattling in the lock of the cell door. Someone was opening it. Was this his jailer? Indeed it was. A tall thin expressionless man in a uniform stood at the cell door staring at him for a moment. The jailer took a metal tray of food from a trolley and held it out, nodding that he wanted the plastic mug. He took the tray of food and placed it on the table, then brought the mug to the jailer who filled it with a liquid which looked like dish water.
“Why am I here… in this cell?”
The jailer remained expressionless, nodded for him to move back and slammed the cell door shut.
He placed the mug of tea beside the food on the table and left it there. It looked disgusting. The cell window was too high up on the wall for him to reach, but he could see daylight through the filthy panes of glass.
Time passed slowly. There were no sounds of life outside of the cell. The silence was only broken when the jailer opened the hatch, looked towards the table with the meal still untouched, slammed it down again and left. He lay back and fell into a restless sleep, dreaming he had been in that cell for weeks. In his dream every day had been the same. The jailer would come, always the same one, collect the uneaten food and replace it with the same meal. Why wasn’t he feeling hungry?
He woke and sat up, then realised that the cell door was slightly ajar. Did the jailer not lock it properly? He quickly put on his shoes, went to the door, pushed it open and peered out into a long corridor. He had been expecting to see the wing of a prison, with rows of cell doors on each side but this looked like the corridor of a commercial building, one which hadn’t been used in many years. There were high windows, with frosted glass in the panes, running the length of the corridor on the side opposite the cell he had been in. Dust covered spider webs clung to the edges of these windows. The paint on the walls was dirty and peeling from age. He looked up and down this corridor trying to decide which way to go when he heard a faint humming sound coming from his left. There was a door at the very bottom of the corridor in that direction so he decided to see what was causing it. He moved down the corridor, looking behind every few steps dreading the appearance of the jailer. The doors on the same side as the cell he had been in weren’t steel doors, they were office doors which hadn’t been painted in years.
When he reached the door at the end of the corridor he listened but could only hear the humming sound. He knew he had no other choice but to open that door. He opened it and saw machinery, with people working it, on the floor of a huge factory. No one appeared surprised to see him. Some of the workers gave him a quick glance as he passed among the machinery but they didn’t speak, not to him nor to each other. He decided against asking any of these people for answers in case they would raise the alarm. He moved towards another door at the far side of the factory floor and looked back, half expecting to see the jailer but there was still no sign of him.
Behind this door was something entirely different, a hardware store. A storekeeper stood behind a heavy wooden counter serving a customer. He wore a fawn coloured coat like the ones worn by doctors. The storekeeper tore brown paper from a huge roll on the counter and wrapped something in it before tying it with string. The noise from traffic could be heard coming from outside the store but he couldn’t see past the cluttered window display. He did see himself in a mirror which was on sale. A young man in in his early twenties with brown eyes and thick black hair looked back at him. He wondered why there wasn’t a heavy stubble on his face. He had not, as far as he knew, shaved in days, maybe weeks. He decided that it was time to leave.
As he opened the door a bell tingled above his head. He turned around and saw that the storekeeper was furious.
“You haven’t paid.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
“You have to pay.”
He stepped outside the store into sunshine and found himself in a high street from the past with shops which had sun shades pulled down. The traffic passing in both directions was also from a different time, he knew that much but it only added to his confusion. A young man on a motorbike with a girl riding pillion passed by. This sparked something in his mind but he couldn’t think as to what it was. Then someone gripped his arm. An alarm was ringing, not from within the store but from further away. He turned and saw the person who was holding his arm. It was a young girl with fair hair, cut short like a tomboy. She was around his own age and wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans. He could not remember anything about himself, but he was certain about one thing, these had to be the most striking eyes he had ever looked into. He could see in them the colours of Autumn; brown, green and gold. The hypnotic effect they had on him lasted only seconds before she shook him out of his trance.
“You need to get away quickly.” There was an urgency in her voice. She spoke with an accent.
“Why?” He asked. “What have I done?”
“There’s no time for explanations. Go now.” She pointed down the main street. “Stay on this side and take the first turn you come to. Keep going, you need to find the oak tree.”
“An oak tree? You want me to find an oak tree… are you serious?”
“Do you want them to get you? They will if you stand here arguing with me. Now go. Find the oak tree.”
She pushed him away from her as the alarm continued to ring. He thought of that cell and moved quickly through the crowds in the direction she had pointed out.
The street was a place of dereliction. On one side there was a row of crumbling one-story houses, many of the roofs had collapsed in on themselves. The opposite side of the street was dominated by a disused warehouse with a high wall and a large wooden gate. A painted sign high on the side of the warehouse had faded into the brickwork and weeds grew from almost every crack and crevice in the high wall. Rusting cars were parked on both sides of the street. The whole area seemed to be in shadow even though the sun was high in the sky. At the far end of the street a motorway flyover was busy with traffic, beyond that high buildings with fading advertising signs dominated the skyline. Sunlight only seemed to be hitting the flyover while these buildings also remained in shadow.
He asked himself a question. Why would a complete stranger tell him to search for an oak tree? She didn’t appear to be crazy. She was beautiful, despite her tomboyish appearance. But was she crazy, or worse still, was she messing with his head?
As he passed under the flyover he noticed a homeless man standing beside one of the concrete pillars. He was rummaging through rubbish in a shopping trolley. The man lifted his head from his search as he approached. He scratched his matted beard as if he were trying to remember something or other.
“It has to be here somewhere,” he said.
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t rightly know. Are you looking for something yourself?”
“As a matter of fact I am. I’m trying to find a tree.” He felt like fool for having said that.
“A tree?” Inquired the homeless man. “Sure there’s no shortage of trees, they grows everywhere. There’s forests full of trees. All types of them.” He giggled insanely.
“It’s a particular tree, an oak tree. A girl with short fair hair told me to find it, but she failed to even tell me where I could find it. It was all too hurried.”
“Ah now, why didn’t you say so. I knows about that particular oak tree but I haven’t seen it myself yet. Ask me to point you in the right direction and I’d have to point in that direction, over there.” He nodded rather than pointed towards another street between the high buildings with the advertising signs. “Keep going. You’ll come to it sooner or later.”
“I don’t seem to have any change on me,” said the young man as he searched his pockets. He heard the traffic on the flyover above them. A distant sound of a siren gradually got louder and then faded off into the sounds of the traffic again.
“You don’t have to pay,” said the homeless man.
The young man entered a street with three-storey houses on both sides of it. Steep concrete steps led up to the doors of these houses. The houses were boarded up and, as in the other street, rusting cars were parked rather than abandoned. Weeds were growing wild everywhere. This street was also in shadow. The homeless man was the only person he had come across since he entered this shadowland and he was clearly no demon. In fact the only demons seemed to be inside the man’s head. At the end of the street he turned a corner and saw a road up ahead. When he reached this road he stepped out of the shadows into sunshine again. There was a row of neat detached houses with well kept gardens on the opposite side of the road. People were tending to the gardens or chatting with each other, while children played in the sun. One or two of them looked at him but showed no surprise at seeing a stranger. The occasional car or lorry passed along the road. He turned to look back and found that the street was no longer behind him. There were similar neat detached houses with gardens on that side of the road. He was even more confused than he had been when he woke in that cell. How long ago was that?
Confident that the road would lead into a town he followed it for about two miles until it became more built up and he eventually turned a corner into a town square.
Then he saw it. A monumental oak tree stood on a green in the middle of the square. While most of the branches were covered with leaves, one long branch, which grew out and up from the side of the trunk, had no leaves on it. It was as if the oak tree was holding up an arm to let him know that it was the one he had been searching for. He seriously doubted this as he believed that the branch had to be dead. A wooden bench faced the oak tree. He sat down on it wondering what he would have to do next.
Behind him, where the road entered the town square, was row of tall Georgian houses. On one side of the square stood a building with concrete pillars and steps, this was either a bank or a town hall. On the opposite side stood an official looking Georgian building with steps leading up to an impressive red door. Directly in front of him, between a row of well kept shops, there was a tree-lined shopping street on a hill. People went to and fro about their business, barely giving him a second glance. The usual volume of traffic one would see in any town centre passed by but this place seemed to be frozen in time.
Someone was standing behind him. He turned to see an old man dressed in a suit, with a trilby hat on his head, and holding a cane. This person came around and sat on the bench beside him. He had a neatly trimmed beard.
“I see that you found it. The oak tree that is.” He pointed to the tree with his cane.
The young man studied his face as he spoke. “I’ve seen you before, I’m sure of it.”
The old man rubbed his beard. “I trimmed it down and got all cleaned up.”
“You’re the homeless man I met earlier… below the motorway flyover. But that was barely thirty minutes ago.”
“That was myself alright, I finally ran out of time back there. Your time is still moving in a circle, but I cut through that circle. This is a different me now. The new me… and I eventually found what I was looking for.”
“What was that?”
“My sanity.”
“What have you two got to chat about?”
They both looked around and saw the girl with the short fair hair approaching them.
“This has to be your girlfriend.” The old man rose from the bench as he spoke. “Sit here and I’ll let you both be.” He tipped the cane to his hat before he sauntered off in the direction of the tree-lined shopping street.
The girl sat down on the bench and looked back in the direction from which she had come, as though she were excepting the arrival of others.
“Your journey is not yet over and you must be on your way before they come,” she said.
“Who is coming?”
“Those who want you to pay.”
“Pay for what? I haven’t taken anything from that hardware store.”
“You haven’t taken anything from the store but you have taken something very valuable.”
“What have I taken? I can’t even remember my own name.”
“That is not for me, nor they, to judge. It is for your own conscience to decide, Mark.”
“Mark?”
“Yes. Mark Farrell, that is your name.”
“And may I ask your name, given that you know mine?”
She reached out and took both his hands in hers.
“My name is Astrid Mark.” She smiled as she looked him straight in the eyes. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, we have no more time to waste. They will be here shortly.” She shifted her gaze away from him towards the tree-lined shopping street. “You must go to the top of that hill and go no further. There you will find a place of darkness which you must enter in order to find the light.”
“The light? Why must I find this light?”
“Because you cannot let it defeat you Mark.”
“Let what defeat me Astrid?”
“The darkness in here.” She touched the centre of his forehead lightly with her index finger. “That is where the real darkness is Mark, inside your own mind. You must not let it consume you.”
She happened to glance towards the row of Georgian houses. Three men stood on the footpath in front of them, the storekeeper and two policemen.
“There he is. Arrest that man… don’t let him escape again.” The storekeeper was pointing at Mark.
“Go Mark… go now.” Astrid rose and pulled him to his feet as the policemen came towards them. She urged him to get away with her eyes so he ran. He ran because he knew that she was right. He didn’t want to return to that cell, more so now because he might never see her again. There was no time for goodbyes, they were too close. He ran up the hill driven by the fear of being caught and found guilty of a crime he knew nothing about. He ran until he reached the brow of the hill. The street continued on down through the town on that side of the hill, beyond that was a wide bay with the sun shining on a sea which sparkled like diamonds. Distant show-capped mountains rose majestically skywards. He turned and saw that the two policemen were almost upon him with the storekeeper close behind. Then he saw the darkness Astrid had told him about. The darkness he must enter in order to find the light. It was a side street which appeared to be where the border between the light of day and the dark of the night began or ended. But how could that possibly be? The two policemen were within reaching distance of him so he ran into the dark street and kept running until he was certain that they were no longer chasing him. The policemen were still standing in the sunlit street and the storekeeper had joined them. They clearly weren’t going to enter this dark place.
It wasn’t entirely dark in that place, as the moon cast some light on it. He could see no other light, not even in the windows of the houses and shops which lined both sides of the street. As he walked he noticed that shadows were passing him by, going to and fro like crowds of people going about their normal lives. Shadows that weren’t cast by physical bodies. The street ahead merged into a dark void where even the moonlight could no longer penetrate, so he stopped at a corner where another street on a hill was still illuminated by moonlight. A church halfway up this hill dominated the skyline but there was no light coming from within it. Crows flew round the dark spire cawing aggressively. Mark believed that his presence must have angered them. He made his way up the hill and the shadows seemed to whisper to each other as he passed, maybe wondering why he was walking among them. A curtain twitched in a dark window.
When he reached the brow of this hill Mark saw what he believed to be the same view he had seen from the hill at the top of the shopping street. The same view only as seen during the night, but no lights shone in the town below him and the only light came from the moon above. It shone on the sea and it silhouetted the distant mountains.
Where was this light Astrid spoke of?
The cawing of the crows had become more incessant as they circled overheard. Mark decided that he needed to go back and find Astrid, as the desire to stay with her was stronger than the need to escape whatever he was running away from. As he began to hurry back down the street again he noticed that the crows were breaking off and flying down in front off him. The noise they made was nightmarish. A tall shadowy figure blocked his way and the crows flew straight towards it as it gradually took on a more solid shape. Mark then realised that the crows had been raising the alarm to make his presence known to whatever this thing was.
This dark man, if indeed it was a man, wore an ankle-length coat which flowed behind him like a cape. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat, from which long strands of fibrous hair hung down and over the high collar of his coat. His dark face had no discernable features. He wielded a heavy blackthorn stick, with a knob handle, like a weapon he was about to use.
As the dark man strode purposefully up the hill towards him, Mark looked desperately around for an escape route. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw a light coming on in a single window at the far end of one of the side streets. The window was at the end of a cul-de-sac and directly above a door. A flight of stone steps led up to the door. It was all or nothing so he ran towards the door. The dark man turned the corner as Mark stumbled up the steps in a desperate attempt to escape. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the dark man held the blackthorn stick out to the side and swiped it like a baseball bat. The crows flew around in a disorganised mass just above the rooftops of the cul-de-sac, they were cawing like an excited mob. The dark man continued to hold the blackthorn stick out to the side, swiping it as he got closer and closer to his intended victim. Clearly he was letting Mark know what fate lay in store for him.
Mark hammered on the door knocker frantically. He could hear the sound echoing throughout the house. The dark man was at the steps, Mark turned sideways and looked into his face. It was the face of a rotting corpse. He slammed his shoulder against the heavy door and felt it give a little. The dark man put a foot on the bottom step and tapped the side of his leg with the blackthorn stick. Mark continued to slam his shoulder against the door. The dark man held his head back and laughed like a cawing crow. Mark stepped back and threw the entire weight of his body at the door. It opened slightly and he saw light at the edges of it. The dark man also saw this and stepped back. His laughter had stopped. He sprang forward as Mark took one more desperate sideways lunge at the door hitting it again with his shoulder. It opened wide and light exploded, without sound, out from the inside blasting around him. He saw the dark man being torn to shreds by the light. Mark was swept up by the power of the light and had the sensation of being carried away by a rip tide.
He blinked open his eyes and saw, through a haze, that he was in a hospital ward with someone sitting at the edge of the bed he was in. His vision cleared and he saw Astrid leaning over him holding his hand in hers. She wore a white doctor’s coat. There was a name tag on it, Dr Astrid Pedersen.
“Doctor Peterson,” said Mark.
“Pee-der-sin. It’s pronounced Pee-der-sin Mark.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“I suppose I am.”
“That’s a strange answer.”
“Is it?” Astrid seemed embarrassed by the remark.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” It was Mark’s turn to feel embarrassed so he changed the subject. “You helped me get through this Astrid.”
“No Mark, no, you got through it yourself, I merely pointed you in the right direction. You fought the demon alone and you won. This time.”
“This time Astrid? What do you mean by this time?”
"The demon you fought doesn’t go away that easily but you have proven to yourself that you are capable of defeating it eventually.”
He looked concerned so Astrid leaned forward and kissed him. Then she sat back and smiled. “We’ll fight it together Mark.”
Mark smiled back at her. He then realised that he was wearing pyjamas, striped pyjamas. This caused him to blush.
“They look good on you, now lie back and rest, I must visit someone. But I’ll be back shortly.”
She got up and walked to the door where she paused. “I mean it, rest now.” Then she turned and went down the corridor.
Mark lay his head back and dared to dream. His memories were still lost to him but he had found new memories, beautiful memories. He didn’t feel like resting, in case he fell asleep and woke to find that he had in fact been dreaming. The sun was shinning in through the window. He wanted to stand in it’s warmth instead and look at the world outside this hospital ward. So he got off the bed and went to the window.
He saw it straight away. He could not help but see it. The oak tree stood in the middle of what appeared to be a park on a hill, with neat well trimmed lawns and pathways. The wooden bench faced it. How could this be possible? This was the same oak tree with the dead limb that looked like an outstretched arm. The same one which stood in the middle of a green in a town square. A man was sitting on the bench, he appeared to be a young man, maybe in his thirties. Then Mark saw Astrid walking towards this man. She wasn’t wearing the doctor’s coat. The man stood up and they embraced before they both sat down and got engaged in conversation. She took hold of his hand and rested her head on his shoulder.
Mark felt the cold hand of betrayal reaching inside his chest and tearing his heart out. He fumbled about the ward in search of his clothes and found them hanging neatly in a metal locker. Once dressed he staggered out of the ward like a drunk man. As he moved down the corridor in search of a way out, he noticed that the other wards were empty. There were no patients in them nor were there any beds, they were empty rooms. He saw the doors of an elevator at the far end of the corridor. He was nauseous and in a confused state by the time he reached it and pressed the button. It seemed to take ages to reach that floor. When the doors opened he stepped inside and hammered the button for the ground floor with his finger, in a combination of anger and confusion.
When the lift doors opened on the ground floor Mark stepped out and into the lobby of a luxurious hotel. He was seriously beginning to believe that he was trapped inside a surreal maze, from which there was no means of escape. People sat on sofas and armchairs around coffee tables, drinking from bone china cups or sipping glasses of wine or spirits. They were engaged in conversation or reading. A huge stone fireplace dominated the wall at the end of the lobby. High windows draped with heavy curtains gave a view of the outside world. Chandeliers hung from an ornate ceiling. There was a grand piano with a man playing a tune on it but Mark could only hear a faint beeping sound inside his head.
“If it isn’t himself again,”
Mark turned towards the bar area, the old man in the suit was seated on a high stool at the corner of the bar, his cane hung on a brass handrail which went the length of the counter. He was signalling to Mark by raising his trilby hat above his head.
“Come... come and join me in a drink. You don’t have to pay.”
Mark then noticed another old man rising from an armchair close to a window. This one had a look of pleasant surprise on his face as he came towards him with his arms outstretched. He caught Mark in a hug, then stepped back and patted his arms like a long lost friend. The old man looked around the lobby confused, as if he were expecting someone else.
“Where’s your granny Mark? And your parents and wee Katie of course. I can’t remember the last time I seen them. Wee Katie must be all grown up.”
Mark couldn’t remember who this old fellow was, or anything about his parents, or for that matter, this wee Katie he spoke of.”
“I’m sorry sir, I honestly don’t know who you are referring to… I can’t remember anything.”
“Don’t try and cod an old codder like myself Mark. I bet you didn’t forget to bring your motorbike. You go everywhere on that motorbike.”
“Motorbike… what motorbike?”
The old man looked around again as if he were still expecting the arrival of others. “I taught you to ride the motorbike Mark. Don’t you remember? Your mother wasn’t pleased. Not one bit but you insisted I teach you and she had to give in.”
Mark was confused, why would this old man be telling him these things? He must know something.
“That’s how I met your granny Mark and we got to courting each other. She saw me on my old motorbike in my leather jacket and thought I looked like Marlon Brando in that motorbike film. What was it called again? Anyways, she climbed on the back of that motorbike and she’s been on my back ever since.” The old man giggled at his own joke.
Mark could barely breathe, he needed to get air. He needed to see Astrid and get answers.
“Excuse me,” he said to the old man before he stumbled towards the door.
The old man at the bar raised his glass as Mark passed him. "Are you sure you won't have a drink?"
A man wearing a top hat held the door open as Mark stumbled outside. He felt nauseous again but was stopped in his tracks by a mixture of fear and wonderment. The cliff face of a mountain towered over the hotel and the parkland which was on a high hill. A pine forest grew down the side of the hill opposite the hotel. He could see a town with red-bricked rooftops and the spire of a church. The town nestled at the base of the same mountain range. A wide river flowed out into the sea and near the mouth of this river there was a cluster of islands. Snow-capped mountains rose up from the shore at the opposite side of the river.
“Where am I?” He called out.
Astrid was running towards him with the young man she had been sitting with close behind. She looked concerned as she took hold of his hands. “Please be calm Mark.”
Mark was looking over her shoulder at the young man and Astrid saw the confusion in his eyes. She released one of her hands from his grip and held it out to the man. “This is my father Mark. I told him all about you.”
Mark pulled his hand away from Astrid and stepped back a few steps. “He can’t be your father. He’s too young.”
“Mark…Where is your Granny Mark? Where is everyone?” The old man was coming towards him from the direction of the hotel.
“Gran… da?” Mark’s face was showing signs of recognition.
“There you are now, I just knew that you were trying to cod me.”
Mark heard the beeping sound in his head again. What was causing it? His vision blurred momentarily and when it cleared again he was in the middle of a road below a motorway flyover. Blue lights were flashing on ambulances, Garda cars and Fire Service vehicles. Medics were kneeling over someone who lay prone on the ground and nearby was the twisted wreckage of a shopping trolley with rubbish strewn about it. A lady was giving a witness statement to a Garda.
“The young lad on the motorbike was going too fast, far too fast. The old homeless man Jamsie, that’s the only name I know him by, pushed that shopping trolley out onto the road without looking. He was raving to himself about something. He’s a crazy old fellow, lives under the flyover.”
The wrecked motorbike was further up, on the opposite side of the road. There was a large dent on the side of a parked car. Medics were also kneeling over someone lying on the road near to the motorbike. When Mark got close enough to see who it was, he realised, to his horror, that he was the person they were attempting to revive.
Then he saw a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. The driver’s side was completely smashed in. Firefighters were using cutting equipment to remove the roof of the car. One of the firefighters stepped to one side and Mark saw another firefighter, who was inside the car, leaning over a young woman, she was unconscious and her face was covered with blood. She had fair hair, cut short like a tomboy.
“Astrid.” Uttered Mark. “It can’t be, I just spoke to you. Was I the cause of this?”
It was growing dark. Not naturally growing dark, but as if someone were turning down the dimmer switch on a light.
“You don’t have to pay Mark, it was as much my fault as it was yours.” The old man in the suit, wearing a trilby hat and carrying a walking cane, stood beside the medics who were attempting to revive the homeless man. They didn’t seem to be aware of him, neither did the Garda nor the lady giving him a statement.
Then he saw them. The storekeeper and the two policemen were moving through the shadows below the flyover. The two policemen began running towards him. It was getting darker still and Mark heard the cawing of crows coming from further down the road. It was almost totally dark but the emergency crews and bystanders were still clearly not aware of this. The dark man was moving quickly towards Mark with the crows flying just over his head cawing frantically. He was swishing the blackthorn stick to the side like a baseball bat. He put his head back and gave a cawing laugh as he came closer to Mark, who stood rooted to the spot in fear.
“Find the oak tree Mark. You’re almost there.”
Mark turned his head to see Astrid standing beside the wrecked Volkswagen Beetle. She seemed to be very much alive.
“Go now Mark, quickly. Go and find my oak tree.”
“But where Astrid… where will I find it this time?”
“Search your heart Mark. You’ll find it there.”
Mark remembered sitting with Astrid on the wooden bench facing the oak tree in the town square. He remembered how she touched the centre of his forehead with her index finger. He remembered how that felt.
The darkness was gone and the sun was shining. Mark stood at the end of a narrow strip of grass which went through a field of crops to an ancient oak tree with a branch sticking out to the side like an outstretched arm beckoning him. It was Astrid’s oak tree. He could see a river through the trees at the bottom of the field, and a pine forest which covered the hills beyond it, and wooden houses painted either red or white. The wooden bench was facing the oak tree but no one sat on it. Mark walked towards it but he didn’t seem to be getting any closer, even when he quickened his pace. He heard the beeping sound in his head again and a distant voice with an accent was speaking his name. He then saw Astrid and the man, whom she said was her father, sitting on the bench. She turned and smiled at him. But it was a smile tinged with sadness.
Mark realised that his eyes were closed. The beeping sound was louder, as was the voice speaking his name. He opened his eyes and saw a lady standing by the bed he was in. She wore a doctor’s white coat. The beeping was close to his head, it came from monitoring equipment. He realised that he was in another hospital ward. The lady smiled at him, her long fair hair was swept behind her head in a ponytail. She seemed to be in her mid to late forties. Mark saw something in her eyes that he recognised.
“You’re back with us Mark.” That accent again.
Mark looked at her confused. “I was in an accident.”
“Yes… yes you were involved in an accident just over two weeks ago. You gave us a scare when the alarm sounded on your blood pressure monitor, but you pulled through."
“The homeless man, Jamsie… is he?”
The doctor shook her head sadly but said nothing.
“And the girl in the yellow Volkswagen Beetle, with the fair hair… Astrid?”
The doctor turned pale, she was struggling to get her breath. Struggling to speak.
“How can you know about my Astrid? How?”
“Her car was right there, I saw it. The firefighters were…”
“No it was not there. It was not. My Astrid’s accident happened two years ago next month.” Tears were streaming down her face. “Astrid was returning to her flat after work. A drunk driver drove through a red light. She had no chance. This happened down at Eden Quay in the city centre, not where you say you seen her car.”
Mark read her name tag as she spoke, Dr Gretchen Pedersen. He saw Astrid’s eyes through her tears. This can’t happening. He was hoping desperately to hear about Astrid’s recovery as her mother spoke.
“Astrid clung to life for a week, but I knew. I knew that it could not be so. That our prayers would not be answered. I had to let her go. I had to let my Astrid go.”
Doctor Pedersen saw the anguished look on Mark’s face, the denial of what he had just heard in his eyes, which were welling up with tears, and she knew that this young man loved her daughter. But how could that be? She put her hand into her coat pocket and produced a small wallet. She took a photograph from the wallet and gave it to Mark.
“My Astrid.”
Mark stroked the photograph with his finger. Astrid’s eyes, that smile and her fair hair cut short like a tomboy. She was wearing a doctor’s coat, just like her mother.
“Astrid was a doctor?” He remembered her reply to him back in that ward when he put the question to her. ‘I suppose I am,’ she had said. Mark looked at Dr Pedersen. She saw the question in his eyes so he didn’t need to ask if that were the case.
“Astrid was a junior doctor. She came here to Dublin from Norway to work in this hospital. She loved Ireland. It has mountains like Norway but not as many, she would tell me. Astrid loved mountains.” Doctor Pedersen sat down on the side of Mark’s bed and took his hand in her own two hands. “You have fallen in love with Astrid, I see it in your eyes, you grieve for her as I do. But how can that be so? Your family are anxious to see you, but I need to know Mark. Please.”
Mark told her about Astrid guiding him to the ancient oak tree with the wooden bench in the town square, about the place of darkness and the dark man. The light she told him to find and how he got through it to wake up in a hospital ward. How she was wearing a doctor’s white coat and her reply to him when he asked her if she was a doctor. He told her about the hotel and seeing the same oak tree with the wooden bench again in the parkland outside the hotel. Then he asked her a question.
“Who is the young man she was with? She said he was her father, but he was too young to be her father.” He gave Doctor Pedersen a description of the young man.
Doctor Pedersen said nothing for a few moments, she was searching for her own answers. “He was her father Mark. And the father of my two other children. He was my dear husband Lars. He too was a doctor before cancer took him from us when he was only thirty five years old.” She paused for a while before continuing. “The ancient oak tree you speak of, that is our special oak tree back home in Norway, near our home in the village of Mollestad. They say that it is a thousand years old. We took Astrid there from the time when she was a small child. In later years our other two children would come too. I told them of the guardian spirit who protects the tree. They loved that story. I told them the same story every time we went there and sat on the wooden bench. Then my dear Lars was gone from us. We continued to go there and we would pretend that he still sat with us on the bench.”
She stopped speaking and stared, trance-like, at the monitoring equipment. After a few moments she turned to Mark again. “I am a doctor Mark, who works in an intensive care unit. People who have been in a coma are known to have been aware of what was being said around them while they lay in an unconscious state. Could it be possible that you heard me speak of my Astrid, and of her accident, while you lay in a coma? I did speak about it to my colleagues in this ward. I also spoke of my husband Lars and our oak tree Mark.” Doctor Pedersen was clearly overwhelmed that she was throwing doubt on Mark’s story. “I am also a mother who had my eldest child snatched from me Mark. I need to know if what I say is true?”
Mark seen the despair, at having shattered her own hopes, in her face.
“Before I opened my eyes, I was there. Astrid told me to find it again in my heart, so I searched my heart and I found it. I saw your oak tree in Mollestad. It stands in the middle of a field of crops. A grass pathway leads to it. I saw a river through the trees at the bottom of the field and beyond it hills covered with pine trees. I saw red and white wooden houses. I saw Astrid and her father sitting on the wooden bench, she turned and smiled at me. Then I heard your voice. How could I know that Gretchen?”
Doctor Pedersen squeezed his hand tightly. “Thank you Mark. I came to Dublin with my children to work in this hospital so that I could be close to Astrid, I did not want her to be alone. I now know that she is with her father. She wanted me to know that I could go back home, but she couldn’t tell me herself, so she acted as your guide and brought you back to me instead. I will return to Norway, to live in Mollestad again, and go our oak tree every day. Promise me Mark. Promise me that you will come and visit and sit with me on the bench. You can hear the story of the spirit guardian who protects the tree.”
“I will Gretchen. As soon as I am able to, I will come and visit.”
Doctor Pedersen kissed Mark on the forehead then she stood up. “Your family are really anxious to see you, especially your little sister Katie.” She seemed hesitant. “I must tell you Mark, for you will know soon enough. Your family has already been informed of it.”
“What is it Gretchen?”
“A toxicology test showed traces of drugs in your blood.”
The look on Mark’s face told Doctor Pedersen what he was thinking. She saw the shame in his eyes. Shame that he was no different to the drunk driver who had caused Astrid’s death. She saw that it was tearing him apart.
“You cannot let it defeat you Mark, you must fight it or it will destroy you. Don’t let the darkness consume you.”
Doctor Pedersen was speaking but Mark was hearing Astrid’s voice.
Epilogue:
The old man’s breathing was laboured. His younger sister, who was in her sixties, sat by the side of the bed holding his hand. Her husband stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. At the opposite side of the bed their grown up children wept tears of sadness for a dear uncle who was like a second father. An uncle who often told them a story they never tired of hearing. He had never married so he had no children of his own. A well-worn biker’s jacket lay across the old man’s chest, his other hand was rested on it. His eyes closed and he smiled before taking his final breath.
A young man with thick black hair, wearing a leather jacket and denim jeans, roared down a road on a motorbike past neat detached houses with well kept gardens. He overtook a lorry and continued on until he came into a town square. He pulled up at a green with an ancient oak tree in the centre of it. A young girl with short fair hair had risen from the wooden bench facing it. She rushed towards the young man on the motorbike and kissed him. Then she punched his shoulder in feigned annoyance.
"What took you so long Mark Farrell?”
“I couldn’t get here any quicker Astrid."
She climbed up behind him on the pillion seat and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Where do you want to go to?” Asked Mark.
“The mountains. Let’s go and see the mountains.” She rested her head on his back and looked towards the oak tree. “I want one of these leather jackets before we go there.”
“Then we shall find one on the way.”
They cruised around the green and up the tree-lined shopping street.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“You will find out soon enough.”
Mark pulled up at the brow of the hill. The road continued on down through the town, just as he remembered it had. Beyond that there was a wide bay with the sun shining on a sea which sparkled like diamonds. He saw the distant high show-capped mountains rising majestically skywards. He looked to the street where the dark place had been. It was like the other streets, with houses and shops and people going to and fro about their normal lives, not shadows.
“It was never a dark place Mark. That dark place was in your own mind and you escaped from it a long time ago.”
Mark opened the throttle and the motorbike roared off down the hill. They were going to explore a world he had waited a life-time to return to. A world where the girl in his dreams had waited for him.
Thomas Dixie Elliot is a Derry artist and a former H Block Blanketman.
Follow Dixie Elliot on Twitter @IsMise_Dixie

The Oak Tree