by Sean McMahon
There was nothing inherently peculiar about the way Fearne took to the podium. Excluding the fact that she was about to bust out a eulogy for a man that Hal wasn’t entirely convinced was actually dead, given that he had spoken to him on the phone less than a week ago.
But nonetheless, something about her demeanour was putting Hal on edge. He looked back at Kara, and could tell she was experiencing the same degree of emotional disconnect.
Fearne breathed heavily into the microphone, then pulled herself together, her words starting innocently enough, but ultimately achieving little in the way of easing his understandable concerns.
‘Thank you all for…coming here today,’ said Fearne. ‘Or should I say for coming here then,’ she added, more than a little manically, giggling creepily to herself in the sort of way that someone did right before a Xenomorph burst forth from their chest. ‘Peter is…was, everything to me. We were partners in everything. Which is precisely why I need you all to listen very, very closely to what I’m about to say.’
Hal’s spider-sense flared violently as Fearne continued, causing a sickness in his stomach to rise up which was so intense he not-so-casually started to take stock of his surroundings, just in case he needed to make a sharp exit to the nearest bathroom.
‘Peter isn’t dead,’ said Fearne, the words landing like three independently cast Hadouken blasts into the faces of every person lining the pews before her. All except one of course. And, unbeknownst to Hal, one other person sitting a few rows behind him. ‘He’s alive, I just…I just need to fix it and I need all of you to help me with this because I can’t do this on my own! I need you all to help me get back to–’
The Reverend hosting the sermon intervened, ever so gently placing a hand on Fearne’s shoulder, but enough so that she could work towards reclaiming ownership of the microphone.
‘I think what Fearne is trying to reiterate is that Peter lives on in all of you. His kindness and compassion for others has left a mark on–’
Fearne grabbed the microphone back, tears rolling from her eyes and streaming down her face, her running mascara giving her a look of wildness and unpredictability, as she frantically gripped her long brunette hair in a fit of both frustration and unadulterated exasperation.
‘No, I mean Peter is alive! I need you all to hear me! Why is no one hearing what I’m say–’
The Reverend whirled a finger in the direction of Rhiannon, the wholly under-appreciated organist, as if to indicate it was time to play Fearne out.
Noting that now was truly her time to shine, the musician – who ran a very under-exposed website and was available for other events such as weddings and b’nai mitzvah, whilst being equally open to private messages being sent to her via the Holy Trinity of social media platforms – dutifully obliged.
Fearne clenched her fist, mumbling to herself, and ran down the centre aisle, colliding with the double doors to the church with such ferocity that Hal wondered if the church’s building insurance was up to date.
The room was filled with hushed tones, as the echoes of the chamber doors slammed behind her, with Rhiannon doing her best to maintain the flow of music, despite the irregular distractions. Not for the first time in her life, the organist contemplated why she hadn’t just sacked this one off to go home and watch the latest episode of The Bake Off.
Ever the professional, their host cleared her throat and attempted to exorcise the swamp of awkwardness that Fearne had left in her wake.
‘I know you will all understand and respect this is an extremely difficult time. A loss like this is always heart-breaking, especially the loss of someone so young, their whole life taken from them so unfairly, in such tragic circumstances.’
Hal seized his opportunity, taking a cue from the organist and piping up.
‘And…what were those circumstances exactly?’ he said, recoiling at how loud his voice travelled across the acoustically-traitorous room, even over the music that was playing throughout.
Everyone turned in their seats to face him, a deafening slide of arses all working in unison, causing Hal’s face to flood with a colour not that far off from beetroot purple.
‘Ya know…’ said Hal, his voice now a high-pitched squeal that he attempted to rectify with an equally ill-timed throat clearing that sounded like his dog Shelby when she was regurgitating a hair ball. ‘You know,’ he tried again. “Better”, he thought. ‘I just thought hearing the manner in which Peter…erm…died, would help…with…the grieving?’ he added, as if vindicating the ridiculousness of his words.
“Nailed it,” thought Hal.
“Fucked it,” thought Kara.
The Reverend patted down her gown, utterly at a loss for the manner in which the young man was determined to derail her flow. She had practised her presentation countless times, seriously regretting her decision to take on this particular funeral just so that her fellow Reverend, Roger, could attend a beer festival in Chelmsford.
‘Perhaps now,’ she said in a tone that was clearly gearing towards a non-negotiable rhetoric suggestion, ‘would be a good time for our next speaker to take the podium. Hal Callaghan, if you’d be so kind?’
A tidal wave of shifting bodies in seats once again echoed throughout the room, as Hal stared blankly back at her, a lopsided smile complementing his thousand-yard stare which was aimed directly back at her. The Reverend appeared to suppress her irritation upon realising the next guest speaker was the very person she was attempting to keep from derailing things further.
‘Hal has kindly written a poem lamenting his friendship with Peter,’ she added, gesturing towards Hal, then back towards the podium.
‘I have?’ asked Hal, as terror gripped him.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ whispered Jess frantically.
‘I don’t…I haven’t written anything?!’ he snapped, attempting to whisper, but ultimately loud enough for everyone to hear.
Jess nudged him in the stomach, forcing him to stand up, and he frowned at her as if he found the gesture to be nothing less than a mutiny, before making his way to the microphone.
Taking a deep breath, he looked back out into the eyes of his expectant friends. Kara in particular was leaning in, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her palms. Hal felt she looked a little bit too enthused with curiosity to see how this was going to pan out for him.
Adjusting his suit jacket, he reached into the interior pockets of his blazer, his sub-conscious hoping to graze against an old friend; that of the filter box he used to store his cigarettes prior to quitting six weeks ago, echoes of his addiction resulting in its presence being sorely missed.
Instead, he felt a thin sheet of paper, which he pulled out quickly, scanning the text that was typed upon it. Hal exhaled in relief, realising the poem he couldn’t remember even writing was etched across it in handwriting that looked far too neat to be his own. Shrugging, he figured it best at this point to just roll with the chaos.
*
‘Great poem Hal,’ said Rachel as they made their way through the corridor of the glamourous, chic barn which had been hired to house the wake. ‘Honestly, who knew you could write?!’
‘Not me, that’s for sure,’ said Hal, his words far more literal that his friend could ever know. As beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, his eyes darted around the room as if he had just entered bat country and was auditioning for a part in the sequel to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
‘You want a drink?’ asked Rachel. ‘I’ll get the first round in, the bar’s about to open.’
‘Yeah, great, whatever, JD and coke please,’ said Hal absently. ‘Actually, better make it neat,’ he added.
‘Wow, start as you mean to go on!’ said Rachel, utterly perplexed by Hal’s uncharacteristic dismissiveness and choice of alcohol. ‘Are you okay? I mean…I know none of us are okay exactly, but you seem a little…’
“Like I’ve slipped into an alternate universe?!” he thought to himself. ‘I’m fine, Rach, honest
. A drink would be lovely,’ he added as an extra convincer.
Hal took a deep breath, but midway through exhaling he felt a hand reach out from nowhere, pulling him entirely off balance, as he was dragged into darkness.
He tried to yell out, but a hand clasped around his mouth, turning his shout into a lamely-muted mumble. Hal struggled as he was pushed towards the rear wall of wherever the hell he now was, as the sound of a door clicked shut behind him. He spun around to face his attacker, hands ready to dish out some Judo chops.
‘Oh. Hey, Kar’,’ said Hal.
‘We. Need. To. Talk.’
‘What about? Who wore it better?’ said Hal, as the sliver of sunlight from the window behind him ricocheted off of her blue dress, which almost looked metallic in this light, not to mention being almost identical in tone to his own blue attire.
‘Tell me I’m not losing my mind here,’ said Kara, attempting to pace up and down but instead spinning on the spot due to the lack of room. ‘And me, obviously,’ she added, referring to her outfit.
Hal hummed a high-pitched tone, seemingly in disagreement. ‘Hmmm debaaaateable.’
Kara dispensed her trademark scowl.
‘Why did you pick blue anyway?’ asked Kara.
‘No idea. You?’
‘I don’t remember picking it at all. Can’t be a coincidence, surely?’ said Kara contemplatively.
‘How do you have wine? The bar isn’t even open yet?’ said Hal, noticing as she picked a large glass of vino from the poorly erected shelf, feeling slightly concerned, but primarily just jealous.
Kara replied by taking a swig as if it were little more than thirst-quenching water as Hal, in an action not that time-consuming given the dimensions of the small cubby hole they were occupying, drank in their surroundings in lieu of a beverage he could call his own.
‘Where even are we?’ said Hal, trying to get his bearings. ‘You couldn’t find anywhere a little roomier? What is this, a wardrobe?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Kara sarcastically. ‘You’re right, my bad–’
‘Kara.’
‘Maybe we should just head to the bar? In front of all our friends? Then we can–’
‘Kara,’ Hal tried again.
‘–discuss how Peter, who Greg and I had dinner with literally two weeks ago, apparently died six weeks ago? Yeah we should definitely–’
‘KARA,’ shouted Hal. ‘Will you calm the frack down, you’re giving me heart palpitations!’
She took a breath, realising her own blood pressure was so high it was giving her a mild ice-pick migraine.
They looked at each other, the dank broom closest filling their nostrils with the aromatic scent of stale beer and cheap bleach.
‘So,’ said Hal, ‘how have you beeeen?’ he hummed, unable to come up with a more creative opener.
‘What?’ said Kara. ‘Fine. Busy. I’m fine. You?’
‘Good,’ said Hal. ‘So, elephant in the room time. You feel it too, right?’
She knew exactly what he meant. The sensation of lost time, the blackouts, the newsfeed on her own social media accounts that showed photos of places she couldn’t remember going, status updates she couldn’t remember writing, clothes such as the very dress she was currently wearing that she couldn’t remember buying. And lastly, but most importantly of all, the death of a friend she couldn’t even remember losing.
‘Yeah,’ said Kara. ‘I feel it too. It started earlier today. A wave of nausea hit me. Some weird fog. Next thing I know, Greg’s dragging me to a funeral for Peter! For Peter, Hal! He tells me he died at the lodge six weeks ago. They think he was murdered!’
‘Murdered?’ said Hal. ‘Seriously? By who?’
Kara took a deep breath, and scrunched up her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in an attempt to collect her thoughts.
‘Thank God, I thought it was just me,’ said Kara. ‘Greg thought I was insane, I thought it was a wind-up at first.’
There was a knock on the door and Kara turned to face the unexpected intrusion, as Rachel popped her head through to check on them.
‘Oh, hey,’ said Rachel. ‘You guys…okay in here?’ she added, surveying the cramped enclosure they had contained themselves within.
Hal leaned to the right, so he could see Rachel’s face.
‘Oh, hey Rach’,’ he said, trying to diffuse what must have clearly looked a little weird. ‘Just, erm, you know, it’s so sad. About Pete. We just needed to get away for a second.
‘Riiiiiight,’ said Rachel, not looking entirely convinced, on the basis she had eyes, ears, and more than a bare minimum level of experience when it came to human interaction. ‘’Well, your drink’s on the bar, see you in a minute?’
‘Yup,’ said Kara.
As Kara slowly but awkwardly shut the door in her friend’s face, Hal and Kara dropped their fake smiles that they knew Rachel wasn’t even remotely buying.
‘We can’t talk here,’ said Kara urgently.
‘I can’t even stand up straight in here,’ added Hal.
Kara scowled.
‘Meet you tomorrow? Coffee in town?’
‘Sure,’ said Hal.
‘Right. Bye then,’ said Kara, straightening her dress out, opening the door and slamming it behind him.
Hal stood there in silence, wondering how long he needed to wait before he could reasonably exit the storage cupboard, trying to judge what the perfectly measured length of time was for a situation like this.
‘Right. Good talk,’ Hal whispered towards the space Kara had formerly been occupying.
After clucking his tongue to fill the sudden quietness, he decided five seconds was long enough, and exited the glorified wardrobe, gearing himself up to interact with a timeline that he was almost certain he didn’t belong in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Storm in a Coffee Cup
Saturday, October 6th, 2018, 10:59am
Hal met Kara outside the local coffee shop, and held the door open for her as she stepped inside. They didn’t feel the need to fill silence with pointless chit-chat, and instead queued quietly until it was their turn to order.
They had chosen this particular coffee shop as it was central to both of them, and whilst deceivingly humble in size from the outside, the place was like a Tardis within. What it lacked in width it made up for in depth; the narrow entrance opening up to reveal plenty of nooks for private conversation beneath the post-modern art that lined the walls.
Hal fixed his gaze onto the glass shield that protected the sugar-based cornucopia, and as he stared at the overpriced baked-goods he made a mental note to seriously consider eating breakfast from now on.
Kara ordered her skinny latte, and Hal ordered a full-fat equivalent. Everything was going swimmingly until the barista asked what size he wanted. He always froze when asked this question. His head told him to ask for a medium, but in his heart he felt conflicted over if he should instead be casting one of the three designated Harry Potter spells; Primo, Medio or Massimo.
He settled on a compromise.
‘Accio Medium, please,’ he said confidently.
‘What?’ the staff member asked, her expression not a million miles away from sheer boredom.
‘He’ll take a medium,’ said Kara. ‘This is why I never take you anywhere,’ she added in a playfully agitated whisper.
As they took their seats in a quieter section, they surveyed their surroundings to evaluate if they could talk without too many people overhearing. Kara slipped off her coat and slung it over a chair, an action which Hal mimicked, noticing that Kara was wearing an uncharacteristically monotone ensemble; a dark-green v-cut khaki shirt offering a negligible flash of colour against her black jeans.
His attention was unexpectedly drawn to a woman in her mid-twenties sitting several tables away, totally immersed in whatever entertainment she was indulging in on her expensive looking tablet. Her shoulder-length, vibrantly-purple hair covered the majority of her face, due to the angle she was sitting
at, and cascaded down the back of a rather garish red leather jacket. But it wasn’t the decidedly rebellious seizure-inducing colours she was sporting that held his attention. It was more the fact that even from the dimly lit corner she was occupying, and with half of her face covered, she looked incredibly familiar.
‘Hey Kara, check out the girl behind you, don’t you think she looks a bit like–’
Before Kara could turn to look, the woman jotted something down in the journal resting next to her coffee, hastily collected her things and promptly departed, running her fingers through her dazzling hair, turning her head away from them as she walked, making it impossible for them to see her face.
Hal blinked, shrugging off the nagging feeling that he had seen her somewhere before, finally indicating he was satisfied that the hustle and bustle would afford them a degree of cover, but it was Kara that actually got the ball rolling.
‘So, I’ve been trying to reach Fearne all morning,’ she said in a tone befitting of a conspiracy theorist.
‘Yeah,’ said Hal. ‘After her speech yesterday, she’s clearly feeling what we’re feeling too. Any luck?’
It was no secret. Fearne had literally shouted that she believed Peter was actually alive somehow.
‘That’s just it,’ said Kara, leaning in closer to him. ‘She isn’t answering her phone.’
‘She’s got a lot on her plate, to be fair.’
‘Anyway, I did some digging into Peter’s death, it turns out he was found murdered in a house a short distance away from–’
Hal pulled his phone out from underneath the table, the screen vibrant with life, and plonked it down in front of him.
‘Settle down Nancy Drew,’ said Hal. ‘I’ve got Google too. Down the road from Fir Lodge.’
Kara shot him a look of disappointment. She had been rather proud of the information she had uncovered and he was totally stealing her thunder. Hal could tell she was hurt, and raised his hands apologetically, gesturing for her to continue.
She smiled and carried on.
‘The guy who did it, Kevin Barker, is currently locked up.’