Simon Clark - The Fall

As she walked toward the tree, she scanned the edge of the wood, wondering what other marvels it would spew out. What next, after the man with eyes in his stomach? Cavorting men with goaty legs and hooves? Centaurs with the bodies of horses, yet with the smooth-muscled torsos of men? And why not mermaids frolicking in the river, splashing everyone on the bank with their fishy tails?

She knew it all could happen. No matter how surreal or bizarre; they were falling into a world full of wonders, miracles and monsters. The conviction was rooted as solidly in her as the two eyes were rooted in the man’s stomach.

Oh, crap…

She needed that sit-down in the shade. That long sit-down, with the earth rock-solid beneath her. The world was turning grey around her; her tongue felt as if fur had grown over it.

She sat with her back to the tree trunk. But not before she noticed that the front wheel and handlebars of a bicycle protruded from the solid timber.

A bike that wanted to be a tree?

Or was it a tree that wanted to be a bike?

Never mind, bikes fused with trees were small fry. She could handle that easy as ABC.

She drank deeply. Then she closed her eyes and waited for her self, the inner ‘her’, to find its centre once more.

Then perhaps the world wouldn’t look so crazy when she opened her eyes again.

When Sam walked back into Casterton he couldn’t believe his eyes.

‘Well, will you just take a look at our Mr Carswell,’ Jud said heavily. ‘Doesn’t he look the proper English gentleman?’

Part-way along the High Street stood an old cottage set back from the road. In the front garden were half a dozen tables covered with tablecloths that were gleaming white in the early-evening sun. A sign nailed to a tree in the garden ran:

And chalked underneath was the stern command: Ration books required for full meals. Sugar subject to availability. Gentlemen who spit will not be served.

Red writing on a piece of card hanging from the gate stated: YES! WE HAVE BANANAS! (ONE PER CUSTOMER ONLY) : the whole tone of that particular sign screamed with a giddy excitement. And when Sam looked at the customers sitting at the tables, he saw they were indeed all eating bananas, a fruit that would have been scarcer than Dodo eggs during the war. Now, in post-war Casterton, still grimly shackled to tight rationing, eating a banana was a serious business. They were served finely sliced in dishes. The clientele, wielding forks, ate them carefully one morsel at a time, the expressions on their faces peculiarly intense as they savoured the unusual flavour.

Carswell, however, ate sandwiches made from equally-thinly-sliced bread that was much closer to grey than white.

He waved a hand, inviting them to sit with him.

‘These are unfeasibly disgusting; the cucumber has the texture of recycled latex,’ he said, dropping the sandwich back onto the plate. ‘But you’re welcome to take tea with me.’ He clicked his fingers at a girl of around 14 in a white apron. ‘Two more cups and another pot of your tea. Thank you very much, Jenny.’

As she quickly hurried away, he gave one of his tight little smiles that was as cold as a January morning and murmured, ‘What I can say, unequivocally, is that the service is as keen as the tea. I recommend you take it with plenty of milk. There’s no sugar, I’m afraid. The girl was telling me that the ship carrying the sugar into Scarborough harbour hit a stray mine. Consequently the ocean is a sight more sweet than this Victoria sponge cake.’

Jud frowned. ‘We don’t have any 1940s currency. How did you—?’

Carswell held up the little finger of his left hand. ‘I pawned my pinkie ring. Don’t worry, it’s hallmarked 1906 so it won’t alert the man to the fact that we hail, in fact, from the latter part of this century.’ He spoke in that nonchalant way of his, not caring if he was overheard or not. ‘Have you two completed your own mysterious assignment?’

‘Yes,’ Sam said.

‘Nothing too outrageously purple, I trust? No WAAFs ravished senseless?’

Coolly, Sam said, ‘Jud wanted to see his parents.’

‘Oh? Sweet .’ Carswell said the word ‘sweet’ softly but somehow managed to infuse into it enough sarcasm, disdain and contempt to make Sam grit his teeth. Carswell made it clear enough that he dismissed the pair of them as over-sentimental imbeciles.

Sam was tempted to tell Carswell in short bludgeoning sentences that not everyone was a flinty-hearted emotional retard, but he stopped himself. It would be wasted on the cynical Carswell.

As the waitress set the cups and saucers in front of Sam and Jud, Carswell said, ‘While you were involved with your own doubtlessly important mission, I’ve been making enquiries among the locals.’ He dabbed his mouth on a cotton napkin. ‘Specifically, I’ve been asking about any tramps who might frequent the area.’

‘And?’

‘And there are three. They rejoice under the names of Muddy Joe, Toad Gilbert and Mr Sixpence. God knows what their real names are. The townsfolk gave them those colourful nicknames years ago.’

‘Did you get any descriptions?’

‘I’ve done better than that. Tea, anyone?’

Carswell poured the tea, his eyes boring furiously into the brown liquid that streamed from spout to cup.

‘Remember, gentlemen,’ Carswell said, ‘plenty of milk, otherwise your eyes are sure to water, I’m afraid.’ He sipped his own tea. ‘Now… Casterton’s three vagrants. Toad Gilbert is actually just across there in the market square. You can see him foraging in the market for spoilt fruit and vegetables.’

Jud craned his head to see.

‘Don’t bother,’ Carswell said. ‘He’s not our man. He looks around 70 and is clearly as senile as the day is long. And we can dismiss Muddy Joe as well. He’s of African descent and bald as a badger.’ Carswell mused as he sipped his tea. ‘Muddy Joe? Clearly no-one in 1946 was ticklish about being accused of racial prejudice.’

‘Well, that leaves the one called Mr Sixpence. Have you found him?’

Carswell clicked his fingers and the waitress ran obediently across to him. ‘Jenny. Mr Sixpence. What does he look like?’

‘Oh, him again, sir?’ The girl smiled shyly. ‘Why on Earth do you want to hear about him again, sir?’

‘This is for my friends here. I’ve already explained we’re a team of doctors researching the terrible, terrible conditions these gentlemen of the road have to endure. Now… Mr Sixpence, Jenny?’

‘Well, he wears these bright orange overalls, or flying suit, I’m not sure which. Galoshes. He’s got ginger hair – all this way and that.’ She gestured near her head to describe someone with wild, stuck-out hair. ‘They call him Mr Sixpence because whenever you see him he says, “Sixpence. Got a sixpence?” And you hear him babbling away to himself and he says…’

The waitress continued talking as Carswell looked at Jud, then at Sam, and raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘We’ve found our man.’

It didn’t take long to find Rolle. They saw him walking along one of Casterton’s side-streets with a large brown paper bag in his hand. His red hair was a tangle of corkscrews and the knees and elbows of his orange boiler suit were green with grass stains. Sam wondered if the man had been enthusiastically prostrating himself before the Almighty in a meadow somewhere.

Carswell didn’t bother with niceties. He simply grabbed Rolle by the elbow as he walked by. He could have been a plain-clothes detective arresting a suspect.