James Herbert - Fluke

Have patience now, my story’s nearly done.

Do you still disbelieve all I’ve told you? I don’t blame you — I’m not sure I believe it myself. Maybe I’m a dog who’s just had hallucinations. How is it you understand me, though? You do understand me, don’t you?

How’s the pain? You’ll forget it later; memories of pain are always insubstantial unless you actually feel the pain again. How’s the fear? Are you less afraid now, or more afraid? Anyway, let me go on: you’re not going anywhere, and I’ve got all the time in the world. Where was I? Oh yes…

Dawn found me, full of self-pity again, confused and disappointed. But, as I keep telling you, dogs are born optimists; I decided to be constructive about my plight. First I would find out a little more about myself — like exactly when I died — and then the circumstances of my death. The first would be easy, for I had a good idea of where I would find myself. You see, now I was in familiar surroundings, memories had started to soak through. Well, perhaps not memories, but — how can I put it? — recognitions were soaking through. I was on home ground. I knew where I was. Hopefully, memories of events would soon follow.

The second part — the circumstances of my death — was more difficult, and because I felt familiar places would begin to open memory valves, a visit to my plastics factory might help.

First, though: When did I die?

The graveyard was easy to find, since I knew the location of the dominating church (although the inside wasn’t too familiar to me). What was hard to locate, was my own grave. Reading had become difficult by now and many of these gravestones were poorly marked anyway. I found mine after two hours of squinting and concentrating, and was pleased to see it was still neat and tidy in appearance. I suppose to you it would seem a macabre kind of search, but I promise you, being dead is the most natural thing in the world, and it disturbed me not in the least to be mooching around for my own epitaph.

A small white cross marked my resting-place, and neatly inscribed on it were these words: ‘NIGEL CLAIREMOUNT’ — I’m not kidding — ‘NETTLE. BELOVED HUSBAND OF CAROL, BELOVED FATHER OF GILLIAN. BORN 1943 — DIED 1975.’ I’d died at the age of thirty-two, so it seemed unlikely it was from natural causes. Below this, two more words were carved out in the stone, and these made my eyes mist up. These simply said: ‘NEVER FORGOTTEN.’

Oh yes? I thought bitterly.

The plastics factory was easy to locate too. In fact, as I trotted through the town, I began to remember the shops, the little restaurants, and the pubs. How I would have loved to have gone in and ordered a pint! I realised it was now Sunday, for the High Street was quiet and in the distance I could hear church bells start their guilt-provoking ringing. It was still early morning, but the thought that the pubs would not be open for a few hours yet did not lessen their attraction; I remembered I had always enjoyed my Sunday lunchtime drink.

The sight of the one-floor factory itself, almost a mile beyond the town, stirred up old feelings, a mixture of pride, excitement and anxiety. It was small, but modern and compact, and I could see a fairly substantial extension had recently been added. A long sign, itself made of plastic and which I knew lit up at night, stretching along the face of the building, read: ‘NETTLE & NEWMAN — ADVANCED PLASTICS LTD.’

Nettle & Newman, I pondered. Newman? Who was Newman… ? Yes, you’ve guessed it. My killer had been my partner.

It all began to take shape, all began to fall into place; and the thing that hurt most of all was that he wasn’t content just to take my business — he’d taken my wife too. I remembered him clearly now, his face — his person — clearly formed in my mind. We had started the business together, built it up from nothing, shared our failures, rejoiced together in our successes. He had the shrewder business brain (although he could be rash), but I had the greater knowledge — an almost instinctive knowledge — of plastics. It seems crazy now, a silly thing to be proud of, but proud I had been of that knowledge. Plastics! You can’t even eat them! We had been good partners for a time, almost like brothers, respecting each other’s particular flair. It was often I, though, as smart as my partner had been, who had a hunch on business matters and, as I remember, could be very stubborn if I considered a certain direction was the right or wrong one to take. I believe it was this stubbornness which began to lead to our disagreements.

The facts of the disputes hadn’t swung into focus yet, but the image of heated arguments in the latter days of our partnership clung heavily to my mind. It had seemed our disagreement would lead to the breaking up of the company at one time, but then what had happened?

Obviously I’d been murdered.

Newman. Reginald Newman. Uncle Reg! That’s what Carol had said to Polly when she’d asked about keeping me — ‘Wait till Uncle Reg gets home’. Something like that! The creep had really crept in! Had I been aware of his intentions before I’d died? Was that why I was different? Was I like one of those unfortunate ghosts I’d seen, tied to their past existence because of some grievance, some undone thing holding them? Had I been allowed (or had my own natural stubbornness caused it?) to keep old memories in order to set things right?

I stood erect, vengeful, defiant of the odds. I would protect my own. (There’s nothing worse than an idiot ennobled by revenge.)

The factory was closed for the day, but I sniffed around the outside wondering about the new extension built on to the back of the building. Business must have been good since my death.

After a while I got bored. Strange to think that an interest which had been a large part of my life should seem so uninteresting, so trivial, but I’m afraid after my initial stirring of emotions it all seemed very dull. I went off and chased some rabbits in a nearby field.

I returned to my home later on in the day and was surprised to find it empty. The car was gone from the drive and no noises came from the house. It seemed an empty shell now, just like the factory; they had both lost their meaning. Without their occupants, without my direct involvement, they were just bricks and mortar. I don’t remember being conscious of this sudden impersonal attitude in me at the time, and it’s only now, in times of almost complete lucidity, that I’m aware of the changes which have taken place in my personality over the years.

Starvation became my biggest concern — at least, the prevention of it — so I trotted back to the main road through the village and the ever-open grocery store. A lightning raid on the ‘all-flavours’ secured me a small lunch although a hasty departure from Marsh Green.

I took to the open fields when a blue-and-white patrol car slowed down and a plod stuck his head out of the window and called enticingly to me. After my attack on dear Reggie the night before, I knew the local police would be keeping a sharp lookout for me; you’re not allowed to attack a member of the public unless you’ve been trained to do so.

A romp with a flock of longwools (sheep to you) passed a joyful hour for me until a ferocious collie appeared on the scene and chased me off. The derision from the sheep at my hasty retreat irritated me, but I saw there was no reasoning with their canine guardian: he was too subservient to man.

A cool drink in a busy little stream, a nibble at a clump of shaggy inkcaps — edible mushrooms — and a doze in the long grass filled out the rest of the afternoon.

I awoke refreshed and single-minded. I returned to the factory and began my vigil.