FRIDAY SERIAL- Duncan's Remembrance of Things Past ( Epi 4 )

Duncan decided not to respond to requests for contact. At least, not until he'd remembered what had gone on last night. Putting a block on their mobile numbers. Not answering any number he didn't recognise. He knew how to avoid being contacted, he'd had practice with the council housing department. In this alone he was an expert. 

So the day after the night before Duncan lounged about at home. For some well needed rest and recollection. Once he started the process of piecing things together it all got very nerdy, very quickly.  He divided a piece of paper into four quarters. One quarter for before the visit, one for during the visit, one for the missing bits in the visit and one for after the visit. Into each section facts and half conscious imagery were not just written, but colour coded. Red, was what he knew had occurred. Blue, what reasonably could be presumed. Black, what his wildest imaginings feared had gone on. Green, for out of context vague feelings. 

He didn't know where that methodology had come from, nor whether it would work. His memories and feelings were just all jumbled up, disjointed in time and sequence. Getting things down on paper had always helped before in clarifying things, putting all the associated imagery and snippets of information in some sort of perspective. The colour coding arose simply because he had a cheap four colour biro, nicked from the stationery cupboard at his former work.  The quartered paper rapidly filled up. So he started again, transferring the details to individual pages for each section. The earlier in the evening the more the red and blue. Once you approached the missing memory time period the greener it got and their were lots and lots of black Biro with exclamation and question marks circling around the page edges. 

However elaborately conceived, this seemed to help calm him. There were endless revisions as connections came to light.  Duncan found himself getting quickly tired and frustrated, so took regular breaks. Resting his head on the back of the armchair to half dose off for a while. Yet it was whilst in one of these inbetween states, not fully asleep, not quite awake, that he remembered precisely what had happened. Lost hours returning in one instantaneous transmission. He sat bolt upright in the chair, eyes wide, heart pumping, in a highly excited state, yet quaking in fear. Once he'd got it all down on paper he just cried, on and on and on.

*************

Every one had been waiting for the evening to start. The less experienced clairvoyant stepping up first. She was incredibly sweet natured, but infuriatingly vague, asking generalised, leading questions whenever she lost the thread. Duncan had begun to switch off. He noticed his temples were throbbing and his eyes felt noticeably heavier, as if he were coming down with flu. The woman finished, sat down looking as relieved and disappointed, as everyone else was. The chair of the evening stood up, politely thanked her. Recognising that the energy in the room had now fallen flat, she moved the evening rapidly on to introducing Malcolm Ritchie. He stood up, walked centre stage and spoke.

'Just for a moment could we all bow our heads. Put ourselves in a state of gratitude for what the world of spirit has brought, and will brings to us tonight. We thank Gisella Hausmann for the gift of her mediumship, open your hearts and minds, make yourself ready. Be receptive for whatever may emerge in this next period of time in communion with the spirit realm.'

Ritchie stood motionless, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped together humbly in front of him, for quite a few minutes. Then he slowly raised his head and spoke gently  -

'I have an old lady here from spirit. Quite small in stature, big and fiery in personality though. Gosh, she is a little hard to handle. A bit over eager, pushy you could say. Be patient, be patient please.' 

Malcolm Ritchie nervously giggled. 

'This one is stroppy. Swears like a trooper. Oh, too rude madam, temper your language or I'll sever the link. Who do you want to speak to?..... Oh, I need to come to a young man, hiding himself away somewhere near the back, by the left aisle she says. Are you Duncan? Is that you sir?' 

Gesturing in his general direction. He remembered feeling as if a spot light had now fallen down upon him, everyone else smiling at his good fortune, and turning to face him. He nervously raised his hand. 

'Could someone get a microphone to Duncan please? 

Hello, Duncan, can you take this lady? She tells me you know who this is. Its your Grannie, Beryl, Grannie Beryl. She's really enthusiastic to communicate with you. Her nickname for you was Donkey. she tells me, as in Don Quixote. I take it that's some family joke. Can you receive any of this? Speak to me please, it helps strengthen the connection.'

Uttering a feeble sounding 'Yes' in reply.

Duncan hated his Grannie Beryl big time. Hated the nickname, that had taken decades of playground taunting before being able to escape. Grannie Beryl was a tyrant, a sadistic bully who loved nothing more than to embarrass him in public. A game she apparently still relished playing, even from the afterlife. It had been a blessed relief to him when she'd died three years ago, and no longer interfering his life. Getting a message from her, from the dead, was not a pleasant prospect. Actually it was devastating, genuinely frightening.

'She really wants to tell you something Duncan. I have to give it to you verbatim, so she says. I  apologise in advance ladies and gents for any...colourful language.' 

Ritchie's voice subtly altered pitch, more aggressive, harsher and crotchety.

 'Fuckin get your life sorted out Donkey. Don't be so pathetic, that is typical of you. Namby pamby moaning pansy that you are. Your life is a bloody mess boy. Lost your job, can't pay the rent, don't want a girlfriend, but can't even keep a boyfriend because you're such a useless little cunt. A waste of fuckin space.

Malcolm Ritchie snapped himself out of this briefly, struggling to exclaim 

Sorry, sorry, if I'd known she was going to be like this I'd have not gone this far'

But Grannie Beryl obviously had more she wanted to say. Ritchie got a frightened look on his face, as if he was unable to stop something else coming through.

'If I was still alive I'd cuff you round the head and sort you out, like I always had to. You are pathetic, nothing but a perverted bum bandit, a totally shameless sodomite. Nowhere near resembling a real man. I can tell you, even your Mother is deeply ashamed of you.'

Ritchie broke out 

'Woah!.....stop! let go !  I deeply apologise Duncan. That.... was unforgivable.'

He dropped his head, looking a little shamefaced at having so publicly lost control. Once he'd begun channelling her he'd become powerless to censor anything coming through him. This had never happened before. But it was too late now, the damage had been done.

As this merciless tirade from Grannie Beryl had gone on Duncan's head had felt as though it was about to explode. Grannie Beryl had been left to bring him up. after his Mum died of cancer when he was eight. As these reproving words tumbled out, there was a corresponding upwelling of emotion coming up from so deep. He began to sweat feverishly and whimpered into the microphone

'Shut her up, please, shut her up, shut her up, shut her up, shut her up'

It was as if the reality of his entire life blew up in his face right there and then. Out of the emotional depths came an anger, real repressed explosive anger, that erupted and was now loudly given a voice 

'You hated me, made my childhood a misery you fascist cow. You beat me every day when I was little. You enjoyed it. Why would I want to talk to you? I never want to hear from you ever again. Not another word from you, about my Mother  or what you think about my sexuality, my life. Your dead, stay dead, I don't want any of your toxic opinions thrown at me again. You are a rotting corpse and I am glad about that. Just fuck off back to the hell from whence you came. I hate you! I hate you! Go away. GO... AWAY!

At which point he'd stood up, stepped into the aisle, feeling overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness. He knew he was about to puke and needed to get out of the building pronto. But before he could, he fell spinning to the floor, spectacularly spraying vomit over the audience and hit the ground hard, blacking out cold. 

*************

After the mixed relief of fully remembering what had happened, he'd fallen asleep. Startled awake half an hour later by a light knocking on his door. This wasn't the folk from the council's housing department, their knocks were harder, more assertive. Still, he cautiously opened his front door. There was Avril, dressed top to toe in black leather knickerbockers, Elizabethan style doublet and ruff. A bike helmet, shaped like an ant head, pertly tucked under her arm 

'Hello Duncan, I hope you don't mind. I just thought I'd pop round to check how you were doing' 

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Private Conversation ( Episode 5 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 30th September