Babbicam

by Rod Madocks

  This was turning out to be the mother of all bad trips I can’t say I had thoughts as such at the time, they were panicked flittering notions, fragments of thoughts. A dream? A phantasm? A heavy-duty neuro freak-out? Whatever it was I wanted it to stop. Man, I knew I should have kept on with the Gaba. I should never have left Fort Atkinson for that matter neither.

  The figure seemed real though. I shut my eyes and opened them again and it was still there. I tried opening only one eye, same result. The figure’s gaze shone back at me like coins under the ellipse of the hat brim. It seemed impatient, I think it was tapping something, a stick maybe, against its leg. The head kept moving and twisting as if freeing itself from a tight collar, making angry jerking gestures. It had a thick, strong-looking neck.

  You’ll say I imagined it all, I might have thought so too if it was not for the smell. I was about ready to crap myself when I caught a whiff of the distinctive acrid stink that came downwind off the figure. It was the sticky, sweetish, yellow smell of kerosene. I knew that cloying candle-burning stench well enough; Grandpa used it to light a lamp in his woodshed. That was it. After a whiff of that lamp oil I stood up, whatever it was I was pretty soon going to run from that horror show.

  All of a sudden I yelled out, “I don’t know what you want but I want you get the crap away from me!”

  “You’ve got it all back-ze-vore, boy, you wanted to see me didn’t you? And here I am.”

  “Back-ze-fore?” I repeated like a dumbass.

  “Ess, back-ze-vore, back ter front, you gert mump ’aid. You been lookin’ for somethin’ cauchy, something with no value to it. You’ve been lookin’ under stones everywhere. I’ve seen ’ee out on the beach there and trying to raise them dead Fey girls. There’s no point to it the secret is in yer hand already.”

  “I hold the secret?” I couldn’t believe I was conversing with the thing.

  “Ess, you paper-skulled mommet, Thee! Lord, Do I have to make everything plain? I’ve come to help. Tho I’ve got plenty o better things to do. You need to listen. You’re like a tawd in a bucket, boy. Stuck, in other words, unless you do what I say.”

  “Get da freakin’ shit away from me, you’re not real.”

  The figure took a step forward.

  “Not real! Yu’m an owdacious young ’un. This world still be full of knaw norts. I’ve come back and found one more. It’s thee who are cursed, don’t you see? Kaiser, that quack has laid it on. Ess, it’s thee who are mazed though you don’t know it. Just like it happened to me. Miss Keyse mazed me. Her breath came into me and brought me unrest all my life. She was a strange bird. I ate her sin and Kaiser ate mine. You’ve got to find someone who will take on your troubles in turn. It is the only way to help yerself. All I wants in return is for ’ee to go where I’m buried in that city across the seas. Go and see me every whips in a while. Take a dash of beer and slice o cake in my memory. If you do that, young tacker, I’ll think well of ’ee.”

  “It’s all crap! Get lost ya spooky murdering deadbeat!”

  The shape convulsed and rippled. It seemed to be glowing with fury, and one yellowish hand clawed out at me.

  “I’ll show ’ee. Come here, mump aid. This is what it is about…”

  I didn’t wait to find out anymore.

  I bounded off like a scalded dog. I was scared out of my pants, and had to get away from that Halloween crud. I hauled ass uphill. My legs were not working too good. I took a smash in the face from something spiky, fell, got up, went down again. Keep on moving, that’s all I thought, keep moving! I crashed on through the brush for an age it seemed, chased by all the demons I could imagine, straight up to that Victorian cast iron fence. Didn’t wait for anything there, just grabbed those big old spikes and twisted myself up an’ over. There was a ripping pain right through my leg, I hung there on the top for a moment then something gave way and I was falling slap down, bang into darkness.

  I came to somewhere on the circular path that skirts Babbacombe Down. (I only know this now). An elderly woman was bending down and trying to talk to me. There was something wet on my face. It was her Chihuahua licking me. Everything hurt and I couldn’t see right. The old woman was saying something about had I too much to drink, young man?

  “Call 911,” I murmured before fainting again. Wee-woo sounds bouncing off the bluffs, quite a fuss for Babbacombe. I still lay there. More dog walkers arrived. Lights. Someone asked me my name. Shit if I could remember it just then. Got lifted into the ambulance. More questions from a green-uniformed woman, and she attached a wire to my forefinger. A machine was bleeping somewhere; back in the land of the living. The ambulance woman’s fingers were on my arm, cool fingers of rationality,

  “Have you been drinking alcohol tonight?”

  “No, I’ve not been drinking, ma’am … no, I don’t have epilepsy neither.”

  “Tablets? Any medication?”

  “Uh, that’s a tad more tricky…”

  What could I tell the medical staff after they transported me to Torbay Hospital and put me on a gurney in a booth surrounded by vinyl curtains? What could I say? I’ve been living in a dead man’s shoes? I’d been building up a cairn from the broken things of the past? No, we stuck firmly to the somatic. I got some stitches for a scalp wound, left parietal area. Two broken fingers on the right hand were splinted together. A severely bruised and grazed left thigh was cleaned and lightly bandaged. I refused a skull X ray; I was scared of what radiation would do to what was left of my wits. Apart from that I seemed to have got away with it. I was the man they couldn’t hang, reprieved! Guess we’re reprieved every day. Only we don’t appreciate it.

  I limped out to an outdoor bay where they unloaded the ambulances. Some patients were smoking out there and using their cell phones. My pants legs were flapping from where the ambulance people had scissored them. I rang Hannah and asked her to fetch me. Said I was real sorry. It was just before midnight.

  Hannah picked me up. So great to see her lovely face coming towards me in the rackety emergency rooms. The harassed Asian doctor told her I must rest up after a blow to the head like that. He said I should take no alcohol and seek help if a severe headache developed. Concussion could be a serious thing, he said.

  I apologized again to Hannah and said she probably regretted meeting me. I told her that Miss Keyse was murdered this day. And Mary Ann Fey. I’d celebrated the anniversary by nearly getting killed myself.

  We drove away in her dinky car. I really owe her, she calmed me right down. I was still a bit scared of Babbacombe so we drove to the Torquay sea front, by the harbor. We sat and watched the lights gliding over a black sea. She held my hand. I told her I thought I’d met the ghost of John Lee in the Babbacombe woods and described how he’d told me to go to Forest Home cemetery and take food and beer at his grave. I said it seemed real. What did she think of that, huh? Was I having a psychotic break? Hannah kept a straight face, seemed to take it seriously. She told me she didn’t know what had happened to me but it was clear to her that ghosts could only tell you one thing—that they were dead. She said I had overdone it, my nerves were shot, I’d been working too hard. I was far from home and disorientated. She said daylight would bring sense.

  It’s then that I told her all the other stuff that’s been dogging me. All the bad crap I’d been carrying and never told anyone. How as a kid I had been a holy terror, breaking stuff, running away, lying, making up stories, setting fires in the yard, punching other kids, hurting the pets and playing hooky from school. How I was abusive to my parents—gentle folk who had struggled every day to help me. How I’d worn out legions of psychiatrists and psychologists. They had put me on all sorts of regimes: Adderall, special diets, hugging therapy, behavior mod. I kept on playing hell whatever. I harrowed them and it all got worse as I got older, stronger, more resourceful and destructive. Then, about this time of year, a week short of my 14th birthday they were trying to give me boundaries. I wanted to go out and Pa said I couldn’t. He told me I was grounde
d. I turned on him and punched him hard, far harder than I ever had before. He fell backwards onto a glass-fronted bookcase. I’ll never forget the hurt look on his face. He cut his wrist in his fall and while Ma was bandaging it I ran away outdoors, just hiding. Don’t know what was in my head. It got dark as night came on but I thought I’d punish them by staying out. I’d teach then for trying to ground me. Apparently they went out driving around, shouting my name, going round the neighbors and calling the cops. In the end they drove out to a junction on the highway. Guess they were too busy looking for me; they got hit by a big rig which flattened their vehicle and they were both killed. I’ve lived with the guilt of having been responsible for their deaths ever since.

  I found my face wet after telling Hannah all that. I’ve never cried about anything before, so perhaps I’d got concussion. Lachrimae sunt rerum, Latin bullshit, tears for things. I told her how I went to the wreck site and found my father’s eyeglasses, you know, by that roadside still there a year later along with all those chunks of plexi in amongst the roadside grasses. Felt I could never be trusted again, could never really have a life.

  Hannah said I shouldn’t say ‘never’. Life might be kinder than I thought.

  I said there sure was going to be one ‘never’ for me.

  “What’s that?” she said,

  “I’m sure as hell never eating no cake or beer over John Lee’s grave.”

  We both laughed. I told her then it was late and she’d better get me back.

  It’s real late now. I’ve had the realization I’ve been sick, literally sick for a long time. I’ve been the lord of my own desiccation. Decided now to take things as true only if they guide me in this inhospitable world. Everything else was just a bunch of old crams.

  I’ve not figured out what happened in those woods, but it’s a resurrection of sorts. Now I’d better find something to quell this throbbing head or maybe get some sleep. You know I just realized something, I never told Kimmie I loved her…

  16th November

  Dartmouth to Newton Abbot, stopping train.

  Not looking for endings any more; only looking for beginnings. I left the library picture of John Lee in the hotel guestbook when I was checking out and wrote “Thanks for the stay. Wishee well, sincerely yours, John Lee.” Just kidding them but I do believe that Lee will keep on dogging me. I still don’t fully understand the meaning of our connection. Love is a kind of possession also, ain’t it?

  Now what?

  In Torre Station I waited for the Exeter train. A windy morning rattling the plastic bags caught up in the track-side sycamores. Pale sunlight, the Victorian metalwork of the station once painted a garish salmon pink and now going flaky and gray. Weeds flourish in the planters. The platforms are deserted apart from one woman waiting for the Exmouth up train. There are a few cycles left locked to the railings. Looking south, you can see the sea glinting in Torquay Bay as it must have shone for hopeful John Lee coming here to start this story. We are invited to an execution every day of our lives. What we so admire about life is its calm disdaining to destroy us just yet. There’ll be no hanging today then. We Yanks like a positive ending but mainly I’m relieved that things haven’t turned out worse than they could have been. Maybe John Lee’s world has won out in that sense.

  Cumulus drift, rusting iron in the embrace of brambles. The rail lines curve away to the north then disappear round a bend in the track towards Edginswell. The smell of soot and spent oil. I imagined a big, oldtime, puffing, steam train cranking along that track. ‘Leaving Torre Station’, would be a good title for a book. It’s always been a passing place not a terminus. It will be the same even if they rename it “Torquay Central: Gateway to the Sunshine Coast” or something”. It will always be Torre. “Everything that has been shall be again”. Who was that? Yeah, W.B.Y., you have it right.

  Birch trees keep shedding off a yellow torrent of leaves. Weird how they fly upwards and not down. A diesel hooting, a flat English sound not the lonesome wail they make at home. I feel I’m ready to go home. That old sign for Torre has vegetation crawling over it: nothing persists, go with it, kid. The woman waiting for her train paused in her texting to watch me. I’ve been grounded long enough on this rocky outcrop. Now I’m moving off.

  Hannah gave me a ride to the station. Sweet of her to have done all that for me. She plans to drive home to London later. I’ve delayed her work with all my crud and she has a report to write. We hugged. I said I’m still searching for Torre Station, still looking right to the end. She said maybe the secret is that life is the train not the station. Damn, she is so darn sensible and with a beautiful soul. Said she’d got me a gift and handed me something wrapped in pink tissue I’ve just looked at it in the carriage. It’s something she must have bought from the Exeter Cathedral shop when we visited. I saw them there, polished stones with an inspiring word incised on them like “Courage”, “Faith” or whatever. Hannah had bought me one which says ‘Forgiveness’ on it. I was strangely moved by it. The stone is gray Devon granite. I’m holding it, warm and solid in my hand.

  The smell of this train and its molded seats; the scent of sealed space, vinyl, acrylic and fabric cleaner with a base tone of old shoes and body odor. An amplified voice tells us the next stop is Newton Abbot; refreshments are available. I can see my huddled reflection in the window. There is a blond girl across from me. She has earphones on and her lips keep parting as she soundlessly sings along to something. We cross a river, must be the Teign, tawny reed beds, gull drift. Fare thee well, Sarah and Mary Ann. Green fields flicker past, a sign for ‘Nissan’, young birches sprouting on the railside gravel, red earth and white houses. November rain flecks the dirty windows. The blond girl is texting furiously. Her fingers are a blur. Maybe my generation can’t feel direct experience any more. Stupefactibus. A deliberate dulling of the senses. Maybe I’ll give Latin a rest now. Don’t need to be outré any more. Go with the flow, son.

  What am I carrying back to my life? I have Hannah’s stone, my research notes and a crack on the head. I hope I’ve spat out all the mazy spells that have been put on me but I expect there are a few more. What was the secret of Lee? It wasn’t solving the murder but how he lived with it afterwards. Life only belongs to the survivors. All my moments are summations ready to be overturned at the next bend in the track. It Could Be You! Some sort of advertisement for a Brit lottery. I’m switching on my old Sanyo Talk Book micro cassette recorder. I’m going back to analog. That worn silver machine fits real comfortable in the hand.

  The train gathers speed. Whoosh, speeding thru those Devon fields trying to get ahead of John Lee. Perhaps I can start over. If Lee was not there it would be necessary to invent him. Think I’ll make a new version on tape. Let’s see, let’s get it right. It groans and rattles over a crossing. Gonna start it again and do it right this time, click: “Starts with Ma I s’pose. Ma was a scryer, see …”

  Author’s Note

  This book is fiction but it would not have been be possible to write without the work of those trail-blazing John Lee historians, Ian Waugh and Mike Holgate. Torquay Library John Pike archives have also proved to be an invaluable resource as has the Milwaukee Public Library Historic Photo Collection. I am indebted to Carole Broomfield and Nina Pickup for generously sharing family history relating to Adeline Gibb. Thanks to Nick Heard for researching the Fey sisters. I also thank Marsha Knightsmith for her photos of Wolborough, Celine Antier for her advice on French usage and Chris and Emma for help with contemporary Devon slang. This book has been greatly influenced by Jon McGregor. I owe much to him for his invaluable mentoring and advice. Thanks also to author and publisher, John Lucas. Amazingly, John’s father actually saw ‘Babbacombe’ Lee in person. John’s acute eye and sharp pencil have greatly shaped this work. Thanks to Henderson Mullin from Writing East Midlands for his early encouragement and help and to Robert Peett for taking a chance on this unusual book and for his decisive editing of the final draft. Most of all, to Sharon for her su
pport through the long years of the writing and for all those searches through Devon churchyards.

  Rod Madocks,

  Nottingham & Babbacombe 2015

  About the Author

  Rod Madocks was born in Broken Hill, Northern Rhodesia in 1952. Neither the place nor the country exist under that name any longer. Spent a restless youth wandering Europe and lived in Texas, U.S .A. Held down a wide variety of jobs including hypnotherapist and professional gardener. Completed a Phd in the work of the writer Vladimir Nabokov. Retrained as a mental health professional and became a forensic specialist within criminal psychiatry.

  Rod is based in Nottingham, England and is now a full-time writer. His novel No Way To Say Goodbye (2007) and short story collection Ship of Fools (2012), both published by Five Leaves Press, are centred on the world of mental health and high security institutions. He was nominated for the Crime Writing Association John Creasey Dagger in 2007.

  Babbicam is his second novel.