Temporal Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  Time. Only now did he realise how important this unique commodity was. He had always believed it was the bonds and minerals, the gold and oil that people traded every day in the city. No, time was the most valuable commodity, he thought, and worth so, so much more than the little, green figures on a computer terminal, or the long, black figures of a bank balance sheet.

  Not a commodity to be bought and sold, he mused. It’s something given in certain amounts to each of us, to do with as we see fit. To enjoy, to savour, to use up and squander without really knowing its true worth until it’s too late. Oh, how he wished he could change everything. How he wished he could go back and start again, with the knowledge of how short life can be.

  He thought again of that meeting with his doctor and what he had been told, earlier in the week. It still seemed like a dream, a hazy image of the specialist and the ridiculously sympathetic frown as the words were softly spoken: "I’m afraid I’ve got the worst possible news. It’s cancer, advanced and very aggressive."

  "How long have I got?" He had asked the question calmly, bluntly, as though he was in someone else’s body, talking of a friend or relative.

  The harsh sucking of teeth by the consultant had followed, and then the verdict, possibly three months, at best.

  Why hadn’t he gone to get checked out before? For almost two years he had known something was wrong, but he had shrugged his shoulders and carried on with his life. He had been an orphan since he was two years old, and so with no family to turn to, he had always relied on himself. That was his problem, he knew, with no-one to push him; no-one to lean on in good times or bad. He had naturally become introverted through his childhood, and the mould had been made for the rest of his short life.

  His life. What a joke. He had left school with no qualifications, walked onto a building site and got a job labouring, and for the next ten years nothing had changed. The local council had found him a bedsit when the kids’ home had turfed him out, and there he still lived. His only solace was his computer, with role play games where he took on a new identity and lived a whole new fantasy life. His computer identity was cool, quick witted and a charmer. He made computer money, drove virtual fast cars and visited the hottest places. In the real world he drove a battered Cavalier and girlfriends had been few and far between. He always preferred his own company, basking in his solitude, with his escapism being his alter ego on the internet. This ignorance in the basics of living life had shortened any budding romance, with him standing up anyone who got too close. It was a natural instinct he had developed in his formative years, a shield to protect himself when things changed or went wrong. So what was the point in it all? What was the point in going on?

  He took a step forward on the grassy verge, and leaned out trying to look over the edge.

  “Got a fag, mister?”

  The sudden voice startled Jack, and he thrust himself back, his heart hammering in his chest and his arms cartwheeling backwards, clawing at thin air.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered. He took a deep breath and composed himself, and then looked to his right where a young girl stood looking at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “Have you got a spare fag? I’m all out.”

  Jack looked at the girl, amazed. What the bloody hell was she on about? His eyes scanned her subconsciously. She was a teenager, dressed as though she had just left a nightclub, in a mini skirt and stilettos, with a thin cotton short-sleeved shirt flapping in the wind. Her teeth chattered in the cold as she hugged herself for warmth. She spoke with a London accent.

  “I’m sorry? Who’re you and what are you doing here? Why’re you dressed like that?”

  The girl looked at him, her eyebrows knotted. “What’s this? Twenty bloody questions? Forget it, I only wanted a fag.” She turned on her heels and started towards the cliff-top car park.

  “Wait!” he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a packet of Benson and Hedges. “Here, have the pack. I won’t be needing them anymore.”

  She turned and stared back at him, the wind whipping her long, blonde hair across her face. “Why don’t you need them anymore? You given up?”

  Jack looked down at his old Nike trainers, the rain gliding off them in rivulets. “Something like that.”

  He heard her walk back to him, and then felt her hand take the packet. Then he heard the rasp of a lighter being struck again and again.

  “Got a light?”

  He looked over at her and smiled, reaching for his Zippo windproof lighter.

  “Here, try this.”

  He watched as she thumbed the lid off and then flicked the flint strike. The flame hissed and flattened in the wind and he smelt the nicotine as she drew heavily on the cigarette.

  “You want one?” she asked.

  Jack looked out to sea and then back at the girl. “Why not, one more won’t kill me.”

  The words tore through him like a knife. Jesus Christ, how could he have just said that?

  “You gonna jump, then?”

  The calm way she spoke startled him. “No… No, I’m not one of those.” He didn’t know what one of those was, but he was sure he had been about to join their ranks. The denial stung his pride deeply, and at that moment realization dawned: he was teetering on the edge of life itself. Oblivion was only four steps away. Was his time up right now? Was he truly ready to end it all? He had felt the urge to walk towards the edge, one foot after another, until there was nothing there, and then he would only have a few seconds of falling, and then nothing. No more pain, no more sadness, the painful childhood memories of always wanting a mummy and daddy like the other kids, the constant regrets eating away at him. He had wasted so much of his life, was he now wasting what little was left of it? Why was everything so complicated? He took a cigarette and she held the flame to him as he drew deeply.

  “You look like one, a jumper. I’ve seen ‘em before, up here, getting ready like you. You know, to jump.”

  Jack turned to her. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, skinny with a pretty face. He let a weak smile cross his lips. “So, what’s your story? What are you doing up here?”

  She gazed back with her head to one side, and tucked her flapping hair behind her ear. “Me?” Her sky blue eyes bored into him and then she shrugged. “I suppose life brought me here, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be, pretty shit, really.”

  Jack felt a big smile develop. “You’re smart for a kid, and yes, life is pretty shit.” Jack nodded back down the track to the car park. “Fancy a coffee? I’m Jack, by the way.”

  She maintained her stare, biting her finger nails and sizing up the young man before her. She nodded, her mind made up and then added, “I’m not a kid, though.”

  Jack smiled apologetically and looked her up and down. “No, you’re not, I’m sorry.”

  She smiled back. “OK Jack, I suppose we could have a coffee. I’m Holly, by the way. I ain’t got no money though.”

  Jack shrugged. “Looks like the coffees are on me, then.” He walked past her and she followed.

  At the car park he fished out his car keys and pushed a button on the fob. The central locking on the old Vauxhall Cavalier clicked open and they climbed in. As both doors clunked shut, blotting out the howling wind, the silence felt deafening to Jack. He had maybe three months left, and he had nearly thrown that away. Fuck it, he thought, start bloody living. He glanced over at her as he started the engine. She was turned away, reaching around to draw her seatbelt around herself, over her soaked cotton top, and he noticed the goose bumps covering her arms and legs. Very shapely legs in fact. He also noticed her nipples sticking proudly out, in the cold. He smiled, and reached up to the centre of the dashboard and turned on the heater. Yes, he thought, start bloody living.

  She clicked the seatbelt in and looked back with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

  “Might take a while to warm up,” he said cheerfully.

  She shrugged and tried to pull her mini skirt further down, as Jack gunned the engine
and the battered car moved forward towards the exit.

  ***

  Jack watched as she looked out of the peeling bay window, taking in the windswept esplanade of Eastbourne. She lifted her mug to her lips, cupped in both hands, and sipped her coffee. His eyes swept over her body, drinking in the sight of her bare legs and feet. Jack had only realised how truly stunning she was after she had sat down in his bedsit, and towelled her hair dry. He had become entranced at the way she flicked her hair, tucking it behind her ear and the way she curled up on the stained sofa with her legs tucked up underneath. She was warm and open, honest and straightforward. She even giggled at his attempts at humour. All this he had noticed in as many heartbeats.

  Maybe these last few months might not be so bad after all, if he had someone to spend them with, he considered. As they had driven from the cliffs, they had started a muted conversation which had them both opening up as they realized how much they had in common. She had been brought up in the east end of London, an orphan too. She had struggled to fit in wherever she had been sent and had taken to running away. She had fallen into prostitution, which stunned him when she spoke about it so freely.

  “I’m sorry,” he had offered.

  “Why? At least I was getting paid for it. In the homes I was abused anyway. You should know, it must have happened where you were. Being good looking can be a curse, and I know I’m pretty, Jack, but I wish I wasn’t,” she had countered.

  She had held out her forearm and he had noticed the thin scars. He had closed his eyes, feeling her pain as vicious childhood memories of girls screaming at night formed in his mind. She had moved next to him, sitting on the arm of the chair and put an arm round his shoulder. He had jumped at the unexpected touch.

  “It’s alright, Jack, things are stuck in my head too.” She had stood and walked to the window, again, deep in thought. After a short sigh she carried on with her story, explaining that six months ago she had got a job as a nanny, from a client, Bernard Cunningham. The trouble was, though, that he had thought he could have her anytime he wanted.

  “It’s a shame,” she had finished, “I liked his wife and kids.”

  “So where do you live now?” Jack asked.

  She looked at him with doe eyes, and then down at her coffee. She turned from the window and moved to look at a grimy painting on the wall.

  “That picture was there when I moved in,” explained Jack, embarrassed by the cheap print. He heard a slight sob and stood. He crossed to her and, unsure exactly what to do, placed his hands on her shoulders to reassure her. She tensed at the touch, but then relaxed, her shoulders slumped.

  “If you`re going to hurt me, just get on with it,” she whispered.

  Jack backed away, his hands dropping to his sides. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  She turned, tears streaming down her cheeks. Anger flared in her moist eyes and she glared at him. “Didn’t mean to what? Touch me? Every man wants to touch me… you all want to fuck me. Men, you’re all the fucking same!”

  “No,” said Jack, stunned. “No, I’m not the same. I’m sorry because I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know how to comfort you.”

  She stood with her hands on her hips, her nostrils flaring. “So you’re saying you don’t want to fuck me? Aren’t I good enough for you, then?”

  Jack half sat and half fell back onto the sofa. He was amazed at her transformation. But then didn’t he fire up when he was younger? It’s all the hurt and frustration coming out, he told himself. He could relate to that; what he had wanted when he was eighteen was nothing but the truth. That’s what she wants to hear, he assured himself, she wants to hear the truth.

  “Do I want to fuck you? No.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Do I feel sorry for you? Yes. Do I want to help you? Yes.” He paused to gauge her reaction, and noted a softening of her eyes. He swallowed and then spoke softly. “Do I find you attractive?” He looked away and mumbled, “Yes.”

  After several seconds' silence he looked back at her and continued. “Do I want to make love to you?” He looked down and after another silence looked back up at her, his eyes moist in the dim light. “I’ve known you only an hour, but one day, within the next three months… I hope you might want me to.”

  Her voice was brittle with emotion as she asked her next question. “Why in the next three months?”

  Jack closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, his brow a mass of wrinkles. He held the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and tried to hold on to his emotions. He took slow deep breaths.

  Holly stood still, her anger fading and she sensed a deep problem within him. Her intuition demanded an answer, and so she pressed on. “What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”

  He let go of his nose and looked back up at her, his eyes filled with tears. “Apparently it’s the reason I’m an orphan. My mother died two years after I was born… of cancer. She was twenty-five. I’m twenty-six, so you see, three months is a lifetime to me.”

  She stood puzzled, and then her hand shot to her mouth. “Oh my God, you don’t mean…?”

  He nodded, rubbing his face with his hands, and then stood. He walked to the window and drew back the nicotine stained net curtain with one hand and looked out, gazing at the sea. “Yes, I found out last week. That’s all I’ve got left, three poxy months. I think I’ve been putting off going to the doctor's for a while, denial I suppose it’s called. I finally plucked up the courage last week. Wish I hadn’t, actually. That’s my reason for the walk earlier, to finish it all quickly. But you appeared from nowhere, wanting a fag.” He barked out a single laugh, and turned back to face her, his smile warming her as he continued, “So you see, time is precious to me, you saved me and gave me some extra months to live, so I could never hurt you.”

  She was walking across the room, tears in her eyes, with her arms open before he finished speaking. She hugged him tight.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack,” she whispered in his ear. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He stayed locked in her embrace breathing in her scent, his arms engulfing her. “There’s one thing you could do for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Stay here for a while, move in. I won’t let you down or bother you. You’ll be safe here.”

  “Oh, Jack! You know I’ve got nowhere else to go, don’t you, and still you make it sound like you’re doing me the favour! Of course I`ll move in. I’ll move in right now!”

  “What about your stuff? Where is it all?”

  “Back at the Cunningham’s house. We could get it now, they’ve gone on holiday, but they’re back tomorrow, that’s why I was on the cliff. I couldn’t face him again. I was going to leave tonight, but somehow ended up there. It must have been fate!”

  Jack prised her off. “Come on, let’s go and get it now; life’s too short to hang about!”

  ***

  Holly unbuckled her seat belt and got out when Jack had stopped the car on the gravel drive. She waited by the front of the car as he climbed off his seat and then shut the car door.

  “We’ve got to go round the side, tradesman’s entrance for us,” she said cheerfully.

  She grabbed his hand as they crunched around the large house and she noticed Jack looking at the manicured lawns and grounds. The house was set in seven acres of beautifully landscaped gardens. She tried to keep her face neutral, she’d only been here for three weeks, and last night she had spent going over her plans with Dennis. This idiot, Jack, was so easy to fool. This performance was worthy of an Oscar.

  “This Bernard’s very rich then?” asked Jack interrupting her thoughts.

  She laughed, was that too theatrical? Play it cool, girl, she thought and then quickly replied, “Yes, very. The bastard.”

  They reached the back door and Holly took out a key. She slipped it into the lock and turned, then breezed into the house. She walked through a utility room, pulling Jack by the hand, and then into a large kitchen. She led him across the Spani
sh tiled floor and into a large hall. Dennis should be in the front room. She tried to peer in to catch sight of him, but saw nothing.

  She stopped at a large oil painting and turned to watch Jack study it. A bronze statue of a Greek god stood on an elegant Edwardian table in front of them, below the painting. Holly pointed to it. “Feel how heavy that is, it’s worth a fortune.”

  She watched him pick it up and examine it, turning it over in his hands. She smiled to herself, so bloody easy! Now his fingerprints are going everywhere. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the stairs. “Come on, there’s loads of stuff like that up here. Come and see.”

  For the next ten minutes she took him on a short tour of the house, where he examined the different antiques on display. Eventually they entered the master bedroom. She smiled at him again. “You’re alright, Jack. We’re going to have fun! Now make yourself at home, have a look around while I grab a quick shower and get changed.”

  Holly heard him mutter an agreement as she padded into the en-suite. She quickly stripped off and stepped into the shower, welcoming the heat from the steaming water. Ten minutes later she stepped back into the master bedroom, wearing only a short towel.

  Jack was sitting at the foot of the massive bed, an uncomfortable and embarrassed look on his face.

  She crossed the room and stood in front of him. “I wanted to show you something. Promise not to be upset?”

  Jack looked surprised. “Of course I won’t be upset. Nothing you could do would upset me.”

  Don’t you believe it! She thought to herself.

  Slowly, she let the towel drop to the floor, and studied his face. He sat, gawping at her nakedness, mesmerised. She had the body of an athlete, the result of four hours' gym work every day, and to the unexpected it could blow a man’s mind away. It could blow a man’s mind away if they were expecting it, for that matter, she knew. She lifted her right leg slowly, and placed her foot beside Jack.

  “Look.” She stood with her hands by her side, totally comfortable with the most intimate parts of her body on display. Pole dancing had put food on the table now and again, when she needed it.