Stoned

by Graham Johns

  Neither Just nor Supré commented, instead just sharing a raised eyebrow or two in the direction of their cornflakes, and so Mick continued.

  “I guess what I’m getting at is that it’s quite poetic that you’re helping out. I’d like to think we’re building a bridge between us, even though you don’t say much.” Realising that nobody wished to speak of such things with him, Mick added, “Shall we venture out?”

  ***

  The cutting of the sod was rather awkwardly occurring just inside the historic border of Yorkshire and Lancashire. The villagers were instructed to gather on the Nether-Staining side of the perimeter of the Stewart farmstead, a safe distance away from the wall because swinging metal tools near an electric fence atop of said wall is not a very sensible idea. For Mick, Just and Supré, this meant having to walk through the centre of the village and out again. Everything was silent and still. They still had an hour to get there but there would ordinarily be people out and about at this time of day. It was eerie. Mick’s shower curtain rustled dramatically in a gentle breeze.

  As they neared the location, it was clear a crowd was gathering, in an ordered semi-circular shape around a central point. A news crew were on the periphery of the scene, in Lancashire, to hopefully capture the images for posterity over the top of the wall. A smaller crowd of interested onlookers had also gathered on the Lancashire side because news can often be hard to come by in remote parts of the British Isles so you may as well take it where you can. A large, yellow JCB was parked nearby and ready for action, although there were of course three construction workers, because whenever you encounter a digger, you also have to have two more people to stand around and watch it. The workers had no interest in the ceremony and were happily smoking and drinking hot coffee from a Thermos.

  Those from Nether-Staining, in addition to their white colours, were also in receipt of a white rose to adorn their clothes. They resembled a religious cult minus the chanting.

  At just before the scheduled time, a steadily loudening vibration in the sky revealed a helicopter approaching. The only people in Yorkshire who paid it any real mind were Bob, atop his newly erected hay bales, and Mick, Just and Supré. The rest of the villagers remained still. Mick had a good view of their backs in many cases but he was pretty sure he glimpsed hairless versions of Brough and Dickens in amongst the throng.

  “I think Brough and Dickens may be undercover,” he whispered to Just while subtly pointing.

  “Thank you, now please be quiet and still if you would so that we do not stand out from this crowd.”

  As the helicopter neared, a clear logo came into view with ‘JS Enterprises’ emblazoned down the side of the white exterior in bold red lettering.

  “Who’s JS Enterprises?” Mick asked quietly from the side of his mouth.

  Just ignored him.

  The helicopter landed a safe distance from the crowd to ensure people were not battered by the air displacement. The engines were killed and an imposing tall man in a dark navy suit and bright red tie alighted from within and onto a red carpet which had been laid on the field for the occasion.

  “Who’s that?” Mick asked to no reaction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, of Nether-Staining!” boomed Bob from his dais.

  There was no reaction. People simply stood still and watched but Bob pressed on, apparently undeterred.

  “Today is a great honour as we welcome significant investment into the economy of Nether-Staining. Something that will boost tourism and ensure a bright future for our nation.” Bob paused and watched the man approach the silver shovel, which was presently leaning on one of Bob’s bales. “Everyone, it is my great pleasure to introduce someone you’ve probably never heard of, someone you don’t know, given how he operates largely in the background of his huge business, please give your applause generously for Mr. Jack Schitt.”

  Appropriately, a golf clap spread around the assembly and Bob waved his arms in the air like a windmill to encourage a more vociferous reaction which he duly received, though the Lancashire observers watched on unimpressed from their side of the wall.

  “I’ve never heard of him, have you?” Supré asked amidst the din.

  “I am afraid not,” Just replied.

  “I don’t know him either,” Mick added.

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you don’t know him, you’ve not done a great deal to suggest otherwise since we met you,” Supré said.

  “I have the feeling that I’ve just been the butt of a bad joke that has been building for a while,” Mick commented rather sourly.

  Jack Schitt ascended to the microphone and paused to allow the applause to subside. He was a big man with very large hands and small feet, although the most notable aspect of his appearance was undoubtedly his hair. It looked not unlike a strawberry blond Mr. Whippy ice cream had been sculpted into hair and placed upon his head. No amount of gel could surely craft such a coiffured thatch. A slight smile graced his rather orange-looking face as he began to talk in his American accent.

  “Thank you everyone! Your welcome is hugely appreciated. I sincerely look forward to our having a great relationship over the years to come. Nobody knows more about having great relationships than I do. I’ve had great relationships across the world over a great many years and now I am so privileged to help begin a new nation of Nether-Staining with a luxury hotel and golf course!”

  This said, Bob flailed his arms again as he stepped back upon the bales to encourage more applause which drew the desired response. Jack descended and collected the silver shovel which he hefted up in advance of planting into the Stewart field. But something gave him pause. That something was a slowly increasing musical cacophony.

  It really is rather rude to play music in places it is not wanted. Music has divided opinion since time immemorial and this day was no exception. Think about those people who persist in playing their own dreadful music rather loudly to the whole neighbourhood on nice summer days. Those are the sort of people of whose stereo systems you wouldn’t really mind taking a sledgehammer to, although these days you just need to steal their smartphones and victory is yours…although you can no longer just drop it in a puddle in the hope that rice isn’t as effective as people claim…more extreme subsequent violence may be called for. Alternatively, you could politely ask for a volume reduction which could also be effective, assuming of course that the person actually gives a toss about your opinion.

  As the music slowly rose in volume, an ice cream van came into view, bouncing across the Lancashire side of the field at a rather leisurely pace. ‘Greensleeves’ was the music and the good people of Lancashire who had assembled to watch this occasion suddenly acclaimed their good fortune as refreshments were imminent. They would certainly be succumbing to the signage which proudly stated they should ‘Stop Me and Buy One’. By contrast, the people of Nether-Staining were still and focussed on Jack Schitt. Only Jack and Bob appeared flummoxed by the scene.

  “Pray, continue with your shovel,” Bob suggested to Jack, though Jack remained motionless as if transfixed by the hypnotising refrain. Perhaps he had an unrequited love called to mind or maybe he just couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Ice cream vans were not made for travelling over bumps.

  ***

  Inside the van, all hell was breaking loose. Wafer cones were flying around everywhere that they were not somehow secured and Nigel delighted in catching and crunching them as they did. Thankfully the ice cream had not succumbed to such issues but the Cadbury flakes were teetering on the very cusp of disaster. Gordon was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white as he wrestled the van manfully across divot after divot, though it felt like they were cresting mountains given the rather inadequate nature of the vehicle for the terrain. By contrast, Selina sat calmly and surveyed the scene ahead with her excellent 20:20 robotic vision.

  “There’s a crowd gathered, many of whom are wearing white, except for Bob and someone I don’t know,” she said cooll
y, “on the other side of the wall at least. This side appears like a group of regular people.”

  “I can’t quite see them just yet, how do you do it?”

  “Being synthetic has major advantages sometimes. My eyesight is pretty powerful.” She smiled at him.

  “Hmmm, OK, anything else?” Gordon asked, that deeper knowledge could wait until later.

  “They’ve got no hair.”

  “What, all of them?” Gordon took his eyes off the field for a moment at the shock of the bald truth and the van bucked sharply.

  “Almost, yes, Bob still has a beard and there is a man with hair holding a shovel but I’ve not seen him before.”

  “Well, worry not, I’ll park this van soon and we can get on with resolving things, I don’t suppose you know how to switch off the music, do you, dear? I feel like Henry the bloody eighth charging into battle in an ice cream van complete with a romantic tune, it really isn’t the done thing!”

  Selina reached overhead and pressed a small button which had no markings on it whatsoever to indicate what it was or even if it was a switch at all. The music stopped. Gordon wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask before and also how on earth she could know what to press without fiddling with everything in the vehicle.

  “Thank you,” was all he said, with a degree of admiration.

  In the chaos, the ice cream man had managed to spit out Gordon’s sock and was gasping for air on the floor while using his feet in trying to stop the peanuts and strawberry sauce from falling onto the floor.

  “Can you please stop the van? This is killing me!” he shouted.

  “Won’t be a moment, my good man, we’re nearly there and then you can get ready to sell some ice creams, though I fancy this could be a lolly crowd but you never know,” Gordon replied.

  “Please just stop!”

  Gordon did indeed brake hard, bringing the van to a halt within spitting distance of the border wall. The braking catapulted the ice cream man forward and he slid into the side of a freezer. Thankfully the Cadbury flakes were safe.

  “What’s your name anyway?” Gordon enquired.

  “Geoffrey,” said the man.

  “Well, thank you for the rental of your van, Geoff, can I call you Geoff? You may now go about your business once I’ve done one more thing and can depart the confines of your vehicle. Would you mind averting your eyes for a minute, please?”

  Geoffrey, as we haven’t asked to call him Geoff ourselves, did as requested and muttered, “No you may not call me Geoff,” while Gordon began grunting and shuffling about. Nigel thought it was great fun and hopped about while Selina collected their things, including Gordon’s rather moist sock, together for departure. Only when they were ready did Selina give Geoffrey back his freedom and untie him.

  As they alighted from the van, Geoffrey flicked the music back on for a few seconds while he briskly tidied up the mess and opened the sliding window, announcing that he was now open for business. The Lancashire crowd looked delighted and began to drift towards the promising jingle.

  ***

  As the cacophony of the van had ceased, the people of Nether-Staining had finally allowed themselves a look at the goings-on. It was almost like ‘Greensleeves’ had a magical trance-inducing quality that, now over, left them rather bewildered and looking for whoever had the audacity to turn it off.

  The door to the van opened and a sheepdog bounded out of the interior before relieving himself on the rear tyre to mark his territory. This drew a single call of alarm from Lancashire, along with associated mutterings pertaining to food hygiene. It didn’t stop the person from ordering an ice cream later. A woman calmly stepped out next and finally a large man wrapped in a large brown trench coat, also sporting wellingtons, a mask and a pork pie hat. The three of them ambled towards the ceremony with barely discernible haste.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, of Nether-Staining!” Bob exclaimed. “Please give your attention to our friend, Mr. Jack Schitt, once more!”

  The crowd dutifully turned back as one and responded with a ripple of applause. Maurice Bickerdyke had arrived and could be seen circulating the crowd handing out leaflets to remind everyone of why they were there which seemed to calm people down somewhat. He didn’t get as far as Mick, Just and Supré.

  “Without wishing to repeat myself,” he cast a mean glance towards the ice cream van, “nobody knows more about having great relationships than I do. I am so privileged to help begin the nation of Nether-Staining with a luxury hotel and golf course! Nobody knows more about good hotels and golf courses than I do! This is a huge boon for your community and I trust we will make it a success together.”

  Jack symbolically hefted the shovel way above his head and began the descent.

  “Stop right now!”

  Jack paused again and sighed. This was supposed to be the start of a great day.

  The large man who had come out of the ice cream van was currently trying, with a reasonable amount of difficulty, to heave himself over the stone wall. The presence of the electric fence wire wasn’t helping and he received a shock which sent him reeling backwards momentarily before he positioned the base of his coat around the wire and yanked it free of its moorings. “Stop right now!” he repeated.

  “Who are you? What on earth gives you the right to disturb proceedings?” Jack asked with rising annoyance.

  The man threw down his coat and a gasp ensued from the Lancashire side of the wall. If you are expecting Gordon, then you are sadly mistaken. Where Gordon may have been earlier now stood an imposing and quite ridiculous figure. A local legend emerged, clad in a pink Lycra jumpsuit with a large black ‘H’ scrawled on the front, wellingtons and half a sky blue shower curtain billowing out from behind him in a gust of wind that had theatrically just whipped up.

  “I am Hippo Man and you will halt this nonsense! You will not defile Nether-Staining or indeed Yorkshire with your wealth!”

  The crowd looked on as Hippo Man slowly hefted his body over the wall. There was a moment when it looked like he might land on his backside in the dirt but he showed remarkable agility for a big man and landed on his feet. He wore a determined expression.

  Jack hefted the shovel again, albeit with momentary pause, “I am Jack Schitt and I will not let some interloper disrupt this ceremony!” His ice-cream-haircut moved slightly against the breeze as he then looked at Bob and pointed with his free hand, “Get him out of here!”

  Bob reacted by stepping down from his bales and approaching Hippo Man himself, but before he could get close he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, “I can’t let you do that, Bob.”

  Bob paused. Jack had lowered the shovel again and said, “Who the hell is this? I thought you had the village under control?”

  Bob wore the look of the desperate and shrugged using just one shoulder as the other was being depressed firmly downwards. Bob looked at the body on the other end of the restraining arm. The man was sporting a mask under a white hat, which was suddenly cast aside, hitting Verity Smythe in the face, eliciting no reaction at all. The man had hair! This was not good news! He then whipped a huge white shower curtain aside to reveal a blue Lycra outfit with a backwards ‘BB’ on the front, and the other half of a sky blue shower curtain as a cape. The super-outfit was complete with ballet shoes and a pair of grey leg warmers.

  “I am Blue Boy! And you will not proceed!” Blue Boy nodded at Hippo Man, who nodded in reply. Sometimes no words were necessary to convey ultimate manliness and heroism.

  There was no fanfare and no dramatic thunder or lightning as Jack reacted to this by pounding the shovel blade into the earth with a deep squelch, he extracted a load of sod and tossed it towards the crowd, where it smacked into the front of Verity Smythe’s top. Poetic justice is hard to beat. “The sod is cut, now let’s get on with this and get the construction started!”

  “How dare you slice through the earth of this beautiful land, you foul fiend of a bastard!” Hippo Man shouted. “You’ll pay for th
at!”

  “I doubt it. You might be surprised to learn that superheroes don’t exist and that you’re just a fat man in pink Lycra.”

  “Don’t call him fat!” shouted Blue Boy. “He’s just big-boned!”

  Jack turned away from the scene and made for his red carpet and the escape route of the helicopter, “Get the construction started,” he barked in Bob’s direction.

  With his back now turned, Hippo Man advanced with surprising speed, Jack noted this and began to speed up but was too late. Hippo Man launched a devastating rugby tackle around Jack’s calves and brought the man crashing to the carpet. Blue Boy grinned and momentarily forgot about Bob who stamped on his toe. He began to shout and wave his arms to clear the crowd, while Blue Boy clutched his foot and winced in pain.

  “Go back to your homes! Construction can now begin!”

  The workers reacted only slowly, as is their given pace, crushing cigarettes in the mud and throwing the dregs of their coffee onto the grass. The villagers turned, in something of a daze, and moved away, Maurice Bickerdyke among them performing shepherding duties.

  “Oh no, you do not continue in this way,” Just Master said into Bob’s ear, having arrived there suddenly on his blindside.

  Bob turned in his direction at the very moment that a fist connected with his nose which sent him dropping into the mud with a wet thud and a gush of blood which clashed badly with his purple sequins. Just held his fist gingerly. “That felt rather good,” he said, almost with a smile, to Supré who had joined him.

  “I think maybe I’ll go and speak to those workers and send them on their way,” Supré commented.

  “I shall come with you,” Just said.

  Bob, though dazed, was not out for the count and took the chance to head back to his pub, tail firmly between his legs.

  Hippo Man was still wrestling with Jack on the carpet, both determined to get on top and pound the other man into submission, but all the while trying not to roll off the carpet into the mud. Mud and pink Lycra really don’t mix. And mud wrestling is not a sport typically plied by males. Jack was a large, tall man, but Hippo Man was a heavy, big-boned man and both had moments on top. The balance of the scales tipped as Blue Boy regained his composure and collected a small stone that had dislodged from the wall as Hippo Man had scaled it earlier. He made his way hastily to the fight and, stone in hand, took careful aim and smacked his hand into Jack’s forehead which forced any remaining resistance from him.