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The doorbell had a small chrome arm. I pulled it but did not hear a ding. I tried knocking but my knuckles produced only a dull sound on the door’s wooden panel. I picked up an empty bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon and used it to pound the door several times. The sound was loud and had an immediate effect. I heard running from inside. The door was yanked open.
A tall man appeared in the doorway. He looked at me, blinking. ‘What?’ he said. His manner was unfriendly.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Mr Tanderhill?’
He nodded and then seemed to think better of it and shook his head. His eyes were large and bulbous, which made me wonder about the condition of his thyroid gland. I might have become preoccupied with this gland if I had not noticed another unusual facial feature. The area between his top lip and nose was expansive and made me think of Robert Mugabe. I took a step back and realised the man was dressed in a blue towelling bathrobe open in a V at the chest. My mother would have described the hair on his chest as a ‘thatch’. She believed that hair on a man was a sign of virility and was partial to Portuguese men for this very reason. It was her opinion that hairy men have classic good looks. I am not sure that I agree but body hair must be a comfort in winter.
‘I don’t live here,’ he finally said.
‘I’ve come for my treatment.’
‘Treatment?’ His expression changed. He glanced at a large gold watch on his wrist. ‘But you’re an hour early.’
‘Correct.’
‘I’m in the middle of a business meeting.’ He hesitated, noticing me glance at his bathrobe. ‘It’s a conference call. I’m an internationally busy man. You’ll have to wait in the vestibule until I’ve finished my affairs.’
I was led into the entrance hall and told to sit on a guest stool, which was a wooden box with several newspapers on top. Mr Tanderhill went out another door at the far end, leaving me alone in the dark. The hall was narrow and in the gloom I vaguely made out several other boxes and belongings stacked along the opposite wall. From the far end, I heard a door shut and then silence, and then the flush of a toilet. This was followed by footsteps, which moved in an arc to the room behind my back. I heard movement, a click and then a bang. It sounded as if furniture was being rearranged.
Five minutes later, a door opened to my right. Mr Tanderhill appeared with his hands in prayer and said, ‘Namaste’, which is a word derived from Sanskrit and a popular salutation among practitioners of yoga. He was dressed in a wrinkled grey Indian caftan with matching trousers. The grey did nothing to flatter his complexion, which had the puckers and dull veneer of a smoker. I averted my gaze and found myself looking at his feet. These were clad in sandals and on each of his toes was a bristling tuft of hair. Noting my interest in his appearance, he patted his chest.
‘I’m an Indian and a Hindu. This is my garb.’
I am no expert on the people and religions of the Indian subcontinent but Mr Tanderhill did not look like someone from that part of the world. His skin was pink and his eyes were murky blue. What was left of the hair on his head was sandy with grey around his ears. He did not speak with an Indian accent.
He tightened his lips in a determined, businesslike way. ‘Kindly follow me to the therapy room.’
I was waved into what must have originally been the house’s living room. It was furnished with a brown couch, a wooden chair and a battered vinyl massage table. There was nothing on the walls and no curtains. The room smelled of human beings and mentholated cigarettes. All the windows were closed. Outside I could see the Ford Escort and the warehouse wall with the graffiti. The car was not an attractive sight but it did block the view from the street, which was of some comfort to me. The couch rolled back and clicked as I sat down. Something blue was sticking out from under its base. It looked like towelling.
Mr Tanderhill remained standing with his hands behind his back. He bent in my direction and opened his eyes wide, revealing his irises in their murky entirety. I took this to be the look of a professional hypnotherapist and reminded myself that I had come to him with a purpose. My bad habits were interfering with my work. Something had to be done about them.
‘Tell me about yourself.’ He moved his hands forwards and up the sides of his legs as if drawing pistols from holsters. He pointed his index fingers at me. ‘Clear the air. Purge your chakras.’
‘I did already on the phone.’
‘It’s natural to feel embarrassed.’
‘I’m not embarrassed. I’ve come here because of Mr Chin.’
‘I bet you have.’ Mr Tanderhill smiled and closed his eyes, rubbing his hands together several times. He said, ‘Hmm, hmm, hmm,’ and then fell silent. He remained standing with his eyes closed, swaying on the balls of his feet for a full minute.
I coughed and his eyes flicked open.
‘Climb on to the massage table. We’ll get to the bottom of this Chin business.’
‘I don’t want a massage. I’ve come for hypnotherapy.’
‘I know that! I’m a certified professional. Royal Academy.’ He rolled his eyes impatiently and pointed to the table. ‘If you would feel more comfortable in less clothing, go ahead and remove it. I’m not averse.’
‘I’d prefer to keep my clothes on.’
‘It’ll make my work a lot harder.’ Mr Tanderhill sighed and held out his long fingers for me to view. ‘God has given me golden fingers. If you keep your clothes on I’ll have to send my healing rays through the layers.’
I did not want to displease Mr Tanderhill, especially not before receiving hypnotherapeutic assistance. Reminding myself that he was there to help me, I removed my cardigan and climbed on to the massage table, which wobbled in a disconcerting way. I then lay back stiffly with my arms at my sides. To take my mind off the possibility of the table collapsing, I imagined myself as a soldier on duty outside Buckingham Palace. These soldiers are called Grenadier Guards and wear a controversial headdress called the busby, which is made from the fur of the Canadian black bear. I was trying to guess the weight of one of these large, impractical hats when Mr Tanderhill told me to shut my eyes; he was going to perform a ‘Chakra Flush’ in preparation for hypnotics. As I closed my eyes, I told myself that all my bad habits would be flushed out of my system forever.
I remained still with my eyes closed for several minutes listening to the swish of his movements until the desire to know what he was doing got the better of me. I opened an eye and was surprised to find him making circular motions in the air over my torso. He could have been polishing a Ford Escort or, the thought occurred to me, doing an air massage over my chest. I opened the other eye and crossed my arms over my chest.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I was working your higher chakras but you’ve ruined it now,’ he replied with a sigh. His shoulders sagged. As he bit his top lip, I noticed that his teeth were stained and uneven. ‘We’ll have to skip the flush. I only hope you’ll be more cooperative with the hypnotics.’
‘You were standing very close.’
‘I’m a professional!’
‘That’s reassuring.’
‘When I look at you I don’t see a nondescript young woman in an unattractive woollen top and tartan trousers. I see unhappy chakras. I see spiritual blockage, corporeal malfunction, psychological disarray. To my professional eye, you’re a soul in a sac and your sac is leaking energy. It’s called soul fatigue.’
‘I do get tired in the evenings. I thought it might be iron deficiency. I’m a tea drinker and tea is known to rob the body of iron. Do you think you can help?’
‘Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Listen this time, for God’s sake! Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.’
‘We’re not friends.’
‘I’m thoroughly aware of that. Strict professional distance is part of my creed.’
‘Perhaps it would be better for me to sit on the couch.’ It was unsettling to lie on a table without a cardigan.
‘Stay right where you are. The soul is more receptive when the body is prone.’
He leaned over and stared with his bulging eyes into mine. A shiver travelled up my spine and tightened my jaw. My face became hot. Either I was alarmed or Mr Tanderhill’s hypnotherapy was taking effect. Again, I reminded myself that he was a certified professional and tried to relax.
‘I am now removing this valuable Hindu medal from around my neck. I want you to keep your eyes on it. Concentrate, and keep your eyes on the medal.’ His voice was firm and his movements were slow as he removed a chain with a metallic disc from around his neck. He began swinging it over my face.
‘Concentrate! You are going to feel sleepy, so sleepy that you will fall asleep. You will hear my voice and remember only what I tell you to remember. You will tell me all there is to know about this Chin and I will cleanse your mind of its psychic toxins. When I say, “Hello, anybody home?” you will wake up and feel that no time has passed. Now concentrate on the medal.’
I willed my body to relax and my pulse rate to slow. I concentrated on the disc swinging above my face. It was the size of a thumbnail and the colour of aluminium. My eyes moved up the chain to Mr Tanderhill’s fingers, which were thin and hairy. His nails were grimy and short enough to be those of a nail biter. I thought of Mr Chin and blinked before bringing my eyes back to the medallion, willing myself to concentrate on its movements. On its surface was an embossed pattern that made me think of Mr Da Silva. The butcher had been a serious Catholic who closed his shop on Fridays and kept plaster figurines of the Virgin in the meat display of his window. At Christmas, he would create a full nativity scene with mounds of sausages and rows of lamb chops as a backdrop. My mother was a big fan of these displays and called Mr Da Silva an artist. She also said it was a shame he was Catholic and a tragedy that he had married. He was a swarthy man with very hairy forearms. I brought my attention back to the medallion and reminded myself to feel sleepy.
Mr Tanderhill noticed my restlessness. ‘For God’s sake, just concentrate on the medal! I haven’t got all day.’
‘Sorry.’
‘The medal. Watch the medal. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’
Strangely, I did feel sleepy. My body seemed to sink into the massage table. As my eyelids fell shut, an image of Mr Chin flashed before me. He was sitting in his Komfort King executive chair, shouting. When I tried to work out what this unsettling image could mean, my thoughts would not align. I struggled to stay alert but sleep, like one of those enormous Hawaiian surfing waves, knocked me down and pulled me under.
‘Hello, anybody home?’ The words were like an alarm clock going off in the centre of my brain. This area is known as the third eye and is the seat of the pineal gland, a small endocrine gland shaped like a pine cone.
The question had come from a strange man in the doorway. He was of medium height and wiry, and had the sharp features of an operator of a sideshow shooting gallery. He was dressed in flared blue jeans, cowboy boots and a John Wayne hat. His checked shirt had press-studs and pointed pocket flaps. He could have passed for a country and western singer if not for the haloes of grease around his pockets. There were dark smudges on his hands and face, which made me wonder whether he was a bicycle mechanic. He winked at me. I looked away.
Strange!
I was no longer lying on the massage table but seated on the couch next to my handbag. Its zipper was undone and the bag was open. I could not remember opening it or getting off the table. I pushed my knuckles into my eyes and rubbed hard until neon points of light appeared. When I opened them again Mr Tanderhill was striding over to the cowboy.
‘How dare you!’ He was trying to whisper but the absence of furnishings gave the room excellent acoustics.
‘Didn’t know you were entertaining,’ said the cowboy. He called out to me. ‘Howdy tooty, darling.’
‘Get out, Shanks!’ Mr Tanderhill made a wild pointing gesture. ‘You’re interrupting a professional session.’
‘I can see that.’ Shanks howled like an American coyote, which was appropriate given his Wild West clothing.
‘Get out!’
‘Well, pardon little ol’ me.’ He winked at me again and flattened a hand against his greasy chest in the manner of an apologetic duke. He smirked at Mr Tanderhill. ‘I need your professional opinion on some merchandise. A van load of very nice Husqvarnas.’
Mr Tanderhill threw the balls of his palms on to Shanks’s chest and shoved him into the hall. Shanks was still protesting as the hairy hand of the hypnotherapist snaked around the door and pulled it shut. I could hear them talking loudly as I hunted for my cardigan.
‘You’re ruining everything!’ Mr Tanderhill’s voice was shrill.
‘They’re very nice Huskies. He says he’ll take them somewhere else.’
‘You’re not listening, you fool! I’m telling you, I’ve struck gold.’
I stopped moving, my stomach gripped by the urgent feeling that accompanies vomiting, an upward rushing sensation from my duodenum to the base of my tongue. I had to get out of the bungalow. I pushed myself to my feet and realised my hands were damp with perspiration.
Outside the door, there was scuffling.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Shanks sounded surprised.
‘Look at this. It’s a valuable Hindu medal.’
‘Looks like crap to me.’
‘Take a closer look.’
‘How can I look with you waving it about like that?’
‘For God’s sake, just keep your eyes on the medal.’ Mr Tanderhill’s words were followed by a slap.
‘Ouch!’
‘Concentrate. Keep your eyes on it. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’
I heard a loud thud followed by confused movements. A door opened somewhere. There was shuffling and dragging. I found my cardigan rolled up next to the arm of the couch and stuffed it in my bag. I could feel my heart beating in the back of my throat as I opened the door and peered into the empty hall before slipping out of the therapy room. Taking care not to make any noise, I pulled open the front door and stepped outside. The day was still overcast but the sun had moved higher behind the clouds. A chunk of time had elapsed. I felt disoriented as I stepped over the wine bottles and around the Escort to walk swiftly down the path.
At the gate, I glanced at the side of the neighbouring building and saw something I had not noticed before. ‘TRUST’ was only the first part of the message. Below in smaller letters were the words, ‘NOT THE FALSE PROPHET’.
A stocky man in overalls was leaning against a white van parked next to the warehouse. As I broke into a run, he called out: ‘Ten quid on the chestnut nag. Ha, ha.’ I did not look back and kept running until I reached the bus stop on Industry Drive. There I opened my bag and removed my cardigan.
Strange!
My purse was gone. I rummaged inside the bag, taking out my notebook and pens, two multigrain cereal bars, town map, lip balm, tissues, three hair clips and the large colourful handkerchief I carried for rainy days. My passport was still tucked in the side pocket but the purse had disappeared. There was only one place it could be but the thought of returning to the hypnotherapist’s bungalow made me feel nauseous.
I held out my hand as the number five Blue Line bus approached the stop. The bus door opened but I did not move. The driver gave me an impatient look.
‘I’ve lost my purse,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘You mean you’ve got no money,’ he said, revving his engine.
I nodded.
‘Take a bloody hike then.’ The door closed with a hiss.
As the bus pulled away I noticed a large banner advertisement printed along its side. It showed the head and shoulders of a man in a tuxedo resembling Sir Winston Churchill. He was holding up a hand and flashing Sir Winston’s famous V sign but instead of regular fingers he had two fried fish fingers. Coming out of his mouth was a speech bubble: ‘Nack’s Fish Fingers. The winner’s gold medal dinner.’
As I walked home, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Something had occurred between Mr Tanderhill’s massage table and the couch. Time had passed, at least half an hour. But the harder I thought, the more elusive this period of time became and the more uncomfortable I felt. There was a blank where there should have been a memory of events. I had no recollection of what had occurred or what had been said.
Industry Drive is a long road and I was quite disheartened by the time I reached my flat.
3
I have seen the man in the fuchsia trench coat every morning this week. He must be quite public-spirited because he always brings a plastic bag to pick up his dog’s droppings at the rose gardens. Many dog owners do not bother with such precautions, which is not very responsible. Excrement is unpleasant but in the worst-case scenario, it can kill. In France, thousands of people slip on it every year. Most victims are mildly injured but some actually lose their lives. The government of France publishes annual statistics on such tragedies. The figures do not speak positively about French dog owners.
For several decades, Laos was part of the French empire and probably had a problem with dog excrement until the Japanese arrived during the war and created other, more complex problems. Japan does not publish statistics on dog-related deaths and is by all accounts a very clean if not severe nation. I imagine the footpaths of Laos were reasonably clean until the French briefly reclaimed the country after the war. When the Americans started bombing Vietnam decades later, they also bombed Laos for good measure. From 1964 to 1973, the American air force dropped two million tons of bombs on Laos. This is twice the amount of bombs dropped on Germany during World War II, which is quite a lot when you consider the small size of Laos and the fact that the Americans were not actually at war with the country.
This morning, after cleaning up his dog’s business, the man in the fuchsia trench coat stood looking at the floral clock for a long time. The minute hand moved from seven to ten while he shuffled his feet and the dog sniffed at the flowerbeds.
The clock is a very attractive timepiece and a legacy of the Beautification Drive pursued by the town council during the Benevolent Years of the fifties. According to the information panels at the council photo display, it was during this period that many trees and flowerbeds were planted around public facilities to ‘enrich the lives of residents with verdant niches’. You can still find traces of garden structures near the old library building but very few of the original trees remain standing. Beautification was not a priority under Jerry Clench who was mayor throughout my childhood and adolescence and might have kept the post if he had not bankrupted the council. He was sacked last week for gross financial mismanagement. His black Range Rover was impounded and his personal financial assets were frozen.
This weekend an election will be held for a new mayor. The Cockerel has dubbed it the ‘Ballot of the Bloody Knight’ because of the ancient bylaw on which the town’s unique electoral system is based. The bylaw is the only one like it in Great Britain and dates back to the thirteenth century, which is quite a long time ago when you think about it. It gives the townspeople the right to hold a weekend election to elect their own mayor and was enacted during the ill-advised Crusade of 1271 when the local lord and all the churchmen rode off to the Middle East on the town’s finest horses. The bylaw was supposed to be a temporary measure but remained in place when the town leaders were ambushed and killed before they reached Jerusalem. Two of these unfortunate knights are featured on the town’s coat of arms. One has an arrow through his chest and the other is missing his head. Both are bleeding profusely.
For the first time in my life, I am old enough to participate in an election. But voting is a civic responsibility and I do not feel ready to accept this mantle. It does not seem right for me to participate in choosing a leader when I am not a bona fide member of the local society. Observing is not the same as engaging, as well I know.
At five minutes to nine, the man turned to leave, pausing as he passed my bench. ‘Time is a like a fowl,’ he said. ‘But does it fly towards us or do we fly towards it?’ He did not wait for a reply but turned on his heel and headed for the gate with the dog trotting after him and a delicate floral fragrance lingering in his wake.
As I stood and prepared to leave the gardens, I was surprised to find new graffiti on the pavement below the CCTV camera. The message had been scrawled around the base of the pole in green chalk. By now, I recognised the bold hand and capital letters. Removing the notebook from my bag, I copied down the words under today’s date.
This new chalk message and the man’s poignant comment about time were on my mind as I waited for Mr Chin to unlock the office door at the foot of the stairs. It is my habit to talk to him as he does this and I found myself repeating the man’s words. Since Mr Chin is not a native speaker of English and I did not want a misunderstanding, I substituted the ‘fowl’ with ‘chicken’ to avoid confusion with the word ‘foul’. I had not wanted to upset Mr Chin but that is exactly what occurred.
‘What you mean?’ he asked.
‘It’s a comment about time,’ I said.
