“How much?” Drood struggled to see the small black and green screen of the cash machine properly in the morning brightness. He shielded it with his hands and pushed his face as close to the tiny inadequate screen as he could. It seemed to be saying that his bank account, normally as empty as Paris Hilton’s brain, was now chock full of money to the tune of…
£1,000,528 CR That had to be wrong, surely? The machine now asked if he needed another service. A small queue of three people stood behind Drood, tutting quietly to themselves but never quite getting up the courage to actually complain about how long he was taking. Drood reckoned a little cash might be a nice idea, so he tentatively withdrew £250, the most he had ever got out of a cash machine at any one time. Turning to the small irritable crowd behind him, he made a big show of slotting that many notes into his normally starved wallet. Feeling almost giddy with power he walked away from the machine. What to spend his ill gotten gains on first? Beer seemed like a splendid option, even with his constitution still a little fragile after last night’s episode. Could he face the “Flag of Nations” so soon? No, not really, so he turned on his heel and marched smartly down the High Road, turned right into Moffatt Street and headed towards the “Bakers Arms”. This wasn’t a bad little pub, as far as town pubs go, relatively unspoilt and still serving a reasonable pint. Drood hadn’t been in for a while, so hopefully no one inside would know of his embarrassments from the night before. The main bar was nicely empty and surprisingly dark and cool after the piercing sunlight and heat of outside. An old clock struck twelve noon with tremulous chimes as Drood ordered a pint of Directors and settled himself up at the bar on a stool. It was good. No one in here knew who he was and no one was going to bother him about last night. He could quite happily sup his beer and work out what the fuck was going on in his life at the moment, as everything seemed to be going a bit mad.
“Excuse me.” The barmaid interrupted Drood’s train of thought. “This may sound stupid, but is your name Drood?” He sighed heavily. Perhaps his performance last night had been so spectacular that the pub jungle drums had been hammering out their own headlines already.
“Yes” he finally admitted. “I am the said drunken prick, if that’s what you mean.” The young lady looked at him a little perplexed.
“I don’t know anything about that, but there’s a letter here for you.” She handed him a small sealed white envelope. There was some writing on the front, namely “Drood” and “when he comes in at noon”, and today’s date on the back. “I just noticed it while I was cleaning. Wasn’t there yesterday. So, is it for you?” she asked. Drood nodded, almost dumbstruck.
“I guess so…” Who on Earth would leave a letter for Drood in this pub? He could scarcely remember his last visit here; it must be months ago, at least. The barmaid wandered away as Drood slipped silently into his thoughts. He opened the envelope slowly, discovering inside a neatly folded piece of paper of quite high quality with the same immaculate handwriting from the piece of paper in his wood burning stove. Again, its message was equally perplexing.
“Finish your pint, then I’ll see you at the Priory. North walk.” And again, that was it. Perhaps a visit to the Priory might be in order, just to try and make sense of this morning. If someone had some answers then Drood certainly had plenty of questions. He drained his pint and placed the glass on the bar.
“Another one?” Asked the barmaid, reaching for a clean glass without waiting for the answer. Drood stood up sharply.
“No thanks, but buy one for yourself.” And he left a five pound note for her, the most he had ever offered a bar person for a drink. She took the note silently. Drood paused by the door. “And you are now supposed to say ‘thank you’.” She looked at him with Doe eyes.
“Why?” Mumbling to himself, Drood walked out into the dazzling light again.
“Say goodnight to the folks, Gracie…”
The Priory sat in its pleasant green surrounds and almost glowed in the baking heat of this fine summer day. Odd groups of people disported themselves around the well tended lawns that swept down from the High Road, and entertained themselves, either energetically playing endless games of football or knocking a tennis ball about with a cricket bat, and there was even the odd couple spotted about here and there, limbs entwined, oblivious to the outside world and just there, for that moment with each other. Drood looked on, with only a little envy, as a rather handsome young man in a pair of desperately fashionable sun glasses, ran his hand up and down the shapely thigh of a rather nice looking blonde lady. That was how he should be spending his Saturday, in a nice intimate grope with a nubile young lady, not staggering around the periphery of life in Hulke chasing what appeared to be some sort of elaborate practical joke. Just for a second Drood became quite angry, waiting for someone like Bryan or even either Tara or Claire, to leap out of the rhododendrons and go “GOTCHA!” and thus inspiring even more guffaws from everyone else at his expense. But they didn’t. No one appeared. He walked slowly along one of the low crumbling walls, his fingers tracing gently over the ragged tops of the broken masonry. Drood stopped and looked right round, 360 degrees, his hand shading his eyes from the sun, but nothing obvious presented itself to him. His hand slipped into his pocket and removed the envelope from the “Bakers Arms” again. Re-reading the note might help. “The north walk”? Where was the north walk? Perhaps reading one of the fading signs put up by the council some years ago might be a good idea. For once he was right, the sign very helpfully pointed out that the section he was currently standing next to was known as the “west walk”. If he wanted the “north walk” he would have to go about 50 metres forwards and turn right. This was also not as bad as it took him next to some lush green trees that towered over the Priory and offered cool shade. Drood thankfully moved into the dappled darker recess of the north walk and perched himself on what was once probably a very impressive pillar, but was now a not very impressive stump. His feet, now off ground level, kicked gently against the stone of the pillar with the rubber heels of his boots. And then it happened.
There was a crackling noise, distinctly electronic in origin, and something akin to someone trying to tune an unwilling radio. Almost as soon as it started it stopped. Drood looked around with some alarm, but there was no one else in close proximity and everyone in Hulke, even those in the distance, seemed to be going about their everyday business as per normal. Silence. Then it came again, only this time much louder. Even the air seemed to crackle with static. Directly in front of Drood, the foliage on the shade-giving trees seemed to shimmer as if in a heat haze. This seemed to intensify until a faint, almost fluorescent light began radiating in the air before Drood. This formed into a shape, and a very nice shape it was too. A lady, aged about 30, shoulder length brunette hair, pulled back off her face, wearing cute spectacles over big brown eyes and wearing a white laboratory coat, just seemed to materialise in front of Drood and hung a worrying 6 inches above the ground. There was what appeared to be a light aura around her, almost like the old description of St Elmo’s Fire. She looked Drood directly in the eye and smiled, and it was a smile worth waiting for. She started to speak, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. She was obviously aware of this and mouthed the words “for fuck’s sake” quite brilliantly while feverishly pushing buttons on what appeared to be a very snazzy looking mobile phone in her hand. She was still trying to speak, but still no sounds came through. Drood shook his head.
“I can’t hear you…” he mouthed, miming putting fingers in his ears and shaking his head at the same time. She rolled her eyes in a sort of “no shit, Sherlock” kind of way. This was followed by more feverish button pushing on her mobile phone and no doubt lots of swearing. Suddenly he heard her.
“…stupid bollocking machine…ah!” She looked at Drood directly, scraped an errant strand of hair from her face and smiled dazzlingly. “Can you hear me now?” A dumb smile spread across Drood’s face.
“I can…” And he gave a rather lame thumbs up sign. Those big brown eyes…
“Sorry about all the subterfuge and bizarre messages, but we wanted to make sure this time.” Drood wasn’t really sure what she was talking about and the look on his face must have got through to her. “Never mind, not much time and lots to tell you.” She put the mobile phone thing in her coat pocket and addressed Drood directly. “Now then. The meeting place…” and with a loud backward sounding popping noise she promptly vanished away into nothing. Drood realised that in the past he’d been known to have a bad effect on some women, but they had never just vanished in front of his eyes with a strange popping sound before. This day had begun strangely, had got a lot more bizarre and had now gone straight off even the “weird shit-o-meter scale”. Drood jumped gently down from his seated position on the pillar/stump and gazed as to where the nice lady had been. There was not a trace of her, save for a small, perfectly formed circle of grass that had been trimmed to exactly the same uniform length all over. He squatted down next to this patch of grass and ran his hands through it. It was slightly warm, but nothing more than that. Standing up sharply, Drood nodded to himself. There was only one person he knew who could possibly answer all the bizarre questions that this day was throwing up - the only man in the whole of Hulke who was in tune with the more eccentric elements of the make up of our cosmos. Drood was going to have to go and see a hippie called Bryan Camfield.
£1,000,528 CR That had to be wrong, surely? The machine now asked if he needed another service. A small queue of three people stood behind Drood, tutting quietly to themselves but never quite getting up the courage to actually complain about how long he was taking. Drood reckoned a little cash might be a nice idea, so he tentatively withdrew £250, the most he had ever got out of a cash machine at any one time. Turning to the small irritable crowd behind him, he made a big show of slotting that many notes into his normally starved wallet. Feeling almost giddy with power he walked away from the machine. What to spend his ill gotten gains on first? Beer seemed like a splendid option, even with his constitution still a little fragile after last night’s episode. Could he face the “Flag of Nations” so soon? No, not really, so he turned on his heel and marched smartly down the High Road, turned right into Moffatt Street and headed towards the “Bakers Arms”. This wasn’t a bad little pub, as far as town pubs go, relatively unspoilt and still serving a reasonable pint. Drood hadn’t been in for a while, so hopefully no one inside would know of his embarrassments from the night before. The main bar was nicely empty and surprisingly dark and cool after the piercing sunlight and heat of outside. An old clock struck twelve noon with tremulous chimes as Drood ordered a pint of Directors and settled himself up at the bar on a stool. It was good. No one in here knew who he was and no one was going to bother him about last night. He could quite happily sup his beer and work out what the fuck was going on in his life at the moment, as everything seemed to be going a bit mad.
“Excuse me.” The barmaid interrupted Drood’s train of thought. “This may sound stupid, but is your name Drood?” He sighed heavily. Perhaps his performance last night had been so spectacular that the pub jungle drums had been hammering out their own headlines already.
“Yes” he finally admitted. “I am the said drunken prick, if that’s what you mean.” The young lady looked at him a little perplexed.
“I don’t know anything about that, but there’s a letter here for you.” She handed him a small sealed white envelope. There was some writing on the front, namely “Drood” and “when he comes in at noon”, and today’s date on the back. “I just noticed it while I was cleaning. Wasn’t there yesterday. So, is it for you?” she asked. Drood nodded, almost dumbstruck.
“I guess so…” Who on Earth would leave a letter for Drood in this pub? He could scarcely remember his last visit here; it must be months ago, at least. The barmaid wandered away as Drood slipped silently into his thoughts. He opened the envelope slowly, discovering inside a neatly folded piece of paper of quite high quality with the same immaculate handwriting from the piece of paper in his wood burning stove. Again, its message was equally perplexing.
“Finish your pint, then I’ll see you at the Priory. North walk.” And again, that was it. Perhaps a visit to the Priory might be in order, just to try and make sense of this morning. If someone had some answers then Drood certainly had plenty of questions. He drained his pint and placed the glass on the bar.
“Another one?” Asked the barmaid, reaching for a clean glass without waiting for the answer. Drood stood up sharply.
“No thanks, but buy one for yourself.” And he left a five pound note for her, the most he had ever offered a bar person for a drink. She took the note silently. Drood paused by the door. “And you are now supposed to say ‘thank you’.” She looked at him with Doe eyes.
“Why?” Mumbling to himself, Drood walked out into the dazzling light again.
“Say goodnight to the folks, Gracie…”
The Priory sat in its pleasant green surrounds and almost glowed in the baking heat of this fine summer day. Odd groups of people disported themselves around the well tended lawns that swept down from the High Road, and entertained themselves, either energetically playing endless games of football or knocking a tennis ball about with a cricket bat, and there was even the odd couple spotted about here and there, limbs entwined, oblivious to the outside world and just there, for that moment with each other. Drood looked on, with only a little envy, as a rather handsome young man in a pair of desperately fashionable sun glasses, ran his hand up and down the shapely thigh of a rather nice looking blonde lady. That was how he should be spending his Saturday, in a nice intimate grope with a nubile young lady, not staggering around the periphery of life in Hulke chasing what appeared to be some sort of elaborate practical joke. Just for a second Drood became quite angry, waiting for someone like Bryan or even either Tara or Claire, to leap out of the rhododendrons and go “GOTCHA!” and thus inspiring even more guffaws from everyone else at his expense. But they didn’t. No one appeared. He walked slowly along one of the low crumbling walls, his fingers tracing gently over the ragged tops of the broken masonry. Drood stopped and looked right round, 360 degrees, his hand shading his eyes from the sun, but nothing obvious presented itself to him. His hand slipped into his pocket and removed the envelope from the “Bakers Arms” again. Re-reading the note might help. “The north walk”? Where was the north walk? Perhaps reading one of the fading signs put up by the council some years ago might be a good idea. For once he was right, the sign very helpfully pointed out that the section he was currently standing next to was known as the “west walk”. If he wanted the “north walk” he would have to go about 50 metres forwards and turn right. This was also not as bad as it took him next to some lush green trees that towered over the Priory and offered cool shade. Drood thankfully moved into the dappled darker recess of the north walk and perched himself on what was once probably a very impressive pillar, but was now a not very impressive stump. His feet, now off ground level, kicked gently against the stone of the pillar with the rubber heels of his boots. And then it happened.
There was a crackling noise, distinctly electronic in origin, and something akin to someone trying to tune an unwilling radio. Almost as soon as it started it stopped. Drood looked around with some alarm, but there was no one else in close proximity and everyone in Hulke, even those in the distance, seemed to be going about their everyday business as per normal. Silence. Then it came again, only this time much louder. Even the air seemed to crackle with static. Directly in front of Drood, the foliage on the shade-giving trees seemed to shimmer as if in a heat haze. This seemed to intensify until a faint, almost fluorescent light began radiating in the air before Drood. This formed into a shape, and a very nice shape it was too. A lady, aged about 30, shoulder length brunette hair, pulled back off her face, wearing cute spectacles over big brown eyes and wearing a white laboratory coat, just seemed to materialise in front of Drood and hung a worrying 6 inches above the ground. There was what appeared to be a light aura around her, almost like the old description of St Elmo’s Fire. She looked Drood directly in the eye and smiled, and it was a smile worth waiting for. She started to speak, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. She was obviously aware of this and mouthed the words “for fuck’s sake” quite brilliantly while feverishly pushing buttons on what appeared to be a very snazzy looking mobile phone in her hand. She was still trying to speak, but still no sounds came through. Drood shook his head.
“I can’t hear you…” he mouthed, miming putting fingers in his ears and shaking his head at the same time. She rolled her eyes in a sort of “no shit, Sherlock” kind of way. This was followed by more feverish button pushing on her mobile phone and no doubt lots of swearing. Suddenly he heard her.
“…stupid bollocking machine…ah!” She looked at Drood directly, scraped an errant strand of hair from her face and smiled dazzlingly. “Can you hear me now?” A dumb smile spread across Drood’s face.
“I can…” And he gave a rather lame thumbs up sign. Those big brown eyes…
“Sorry about all the subterfuge and bizarre messages, but we wanted to make sure this time.” Drood wasn’t really sure what she was talking about and the look on his face must have got through to her. “Never mind, not much time and lots to tell you.” She put the mobile phone thing in her coat pocket and addressed Drood directly. “Now then. The meeting place…” and with a loud backward sounding popping noise she promptly vanished away into nothing. Drood realised that in the past he’d been known to have a bad effect on some women, but they had never just vanished in front of his eyes with a strange popping sound before. This day had begun strangely, had got a lot more bizarre and had now gone straight off even the “weird shit-o-meter scale”. Drood jumped gently down from his seated position on the pillar/stump and gazed as to where the nice lady had been. There was not a trace of her, save for a small, perfectly formed circle of grass that had been trimmed to exactly the same uniform length all over. He squatted down next to this patch of grass and ran his hands through it. It was slightly warm, but nothing more than that. Standing up sharply, Drood nodded to himself. There was only one person he knew who could possibly answer all the bizarre questions that this day was throwing up - the only man in the whole of Hulke who was in tune with the more eccentric elements of the make up of our cosmos. Drood was going to have to go and see a hippie called Bryan Camfield.
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