Paul McCartney's Coat

by Michael White

  “I too have words that have to be said.” I shouted at him, for this was the case. “It is the history.” He snarled at me and his sword hurtled towards me once again. Backwards and forwards we paced, always keeping his blade away from me. It was tiring work, though I knew this was his intent.

  “The history!” he snorted in derision, continuing to pace at the edge of darkness about me, seeking an opening. I continued to match his swordplay, blow by blow as they came.

  “The history.” I spat through clenched teeth as our swords clashed once more. “The great founder commissioned this work to be made of the great lord Pan” He snarled at this and continued to attempt to wear me down. “It was installed in the dead of night; this night, to ward and to contain. Seven there were made from the same metal, all forged to be as one. A guardian for each. The ward here is joined in London, in the Australias and Americas, two in Canada and another in the country of Belgium. One hour hence my fellow guardian mounted his defence as always on this night, and darkness was vanquished, or I would not be here now. Likewise some seven hours ago in the Australias. A fellow guardian in London stands before the darkness exactly as I do now, and in two hours and a half the Canadas shall take their stand, another in such a place in four hour’s time. The Americas at the same time as this last one. Thus it is as it always has been, and always will. The light of the great lord Pan shall prevail!”

  The shadows seemed to gather and he rushed at me. The formal words had been spoken, and all that was left was to fight. So we fought across and around the statue of Pan, our blades flashing and crashing against each other. The night drew in about him as our swords met, yet I was of the great lord Pan and so I met his every blow and returned them. It has always been this way. The founder of our order erected the first statue in London during the cover of night. He told all who dared to ask that he wanted it to seem as if it had suddenly appeared overnight as if by magic. That of course, was not his real intent. After that the other six would be forged from the same metal as the first and placed around the world. I remember reading in the London Times the letter that drew me to the order:

  "There is a surprise in store for the children who go to

  Kensington Gardens to feed the ducks in the Serpentine this morning.

  Down by the little bay on the south-western side of the tail of the

  Serpentine they will find a May-day gift by Mr J.M. Barrie,

  a figure of Peter Pan blowing his pipe on the stump of a tree,

  With fairies and mice and squirrels all around.

  It is the work of Sir George Frampton,

  And the bronze figure of the boy who would

  Never grow up is delightfully conceived."

  At that time I was more than a man but less than I am now. Yet I was drawn, and now I am one of the seven. A guardian of the Order of Pan. Yet still, as he does every year, my foe born of darkness and fear, anger and pain continued to harry me. I parried his blows at each turn yet still he seemed as strong as he always did. I was growing weary now. Yet my adversary seemed never to slow, never to relent. The barrage of sweeps and thrusts he set towards me seemed if anything to be increasing in speed, growing in fury. Several years before he had torn through my defence and damaged the base of the statue. Yet even then was I triumphant. After that I feel that there was a gap of years until our next encounter, but I could not really be sure. Yet on this night, as on all of these nights we did not speak to each other again. What was there to say? We had no time for talk, and as we fought I knew that the time was now drawing near. From somewhere across the park a clock began to toll for midnight. I did not need this to know that the time was upon us. Both my foe and I knew that this was the hour. The time in-between days. In-between worlds. What would happen to us now would happen each time we met for all eternity. As long as I permitted it. As the clock tolled the sixth beat of twelve I dropped my guard, dropping my sword to the gravel underfoot, releasing my grip on the hilt. My foe snarled once more and ran me through the heart without hesitation.

  Blood bubbled from my lips and I staggered backwards against the statue, my back now resting on the cold bronze. As my sight began to dim I noted the large metal woodland animals and attempted to secure a grip on one to hold myself up. This I did. Some seconds passed as I attempted to gather myself. Slowly my foe advanced towards me as if suspicious of my actions. Thus he always is. I wonder sometimes why he does not pay heed to this that has happened before. Perhaps his hatred for me can confound his reason. Perhaps he truly does not remember. Nonetheless. The clock beat eight of twelve. My foe moved towards me, seeming to tower above me now. His eyes seemed to blaze from yellow to orange, and then to red. The colour of triumph. Still the darkness radiated about him like a shroud. Now it seemed to be dragging my form towards it, into its hot red heart. Nine of twelve tolled coldly across the silence of the park. A wind began to rise from nowhere, rattling leaves about the statue.

  Yet I was more than just a man. When pierced through the heart I should have died instantly. I however, was a guardian of Pan. Then I knew what would happen next. What always happened next. The bell tolled ten beats of twelve and my foe moved forward, raising his dark shaded blade once again, perhaps hoping that would come to pass would, for just this once, fail. He hoped in vain.

  As the eleventh beat rang out the night seemed to flame golden. The wind withered and calm fell around me. Silence. My foe paused, hesitant and then backed away a step. Then two steps. Overhead the sky cleared, dark clouds parting and high above a single morning star shone in the northern sky, illuminating the statue. This was my reason for being. This simple moment made me all that I was, all that I am, and all that I shall ever be. For now a God would walk this cold earth.

  Leaning down from the bronzed trunk upon which he stood, the great Lord Pan stooped down towards me and handed me his pipe, waiting, and as the clock struck the twelfth chime of midnight I blew it with all of my might, and a single note tore into the darkness and brought with it life. It was the sound of wood and wind, of sun on a summer’s day, of snow and ice. It was the sound of mist, joy, laughter and life. My foe recoiled before its sound and the night stood still. Then he began to diminish, to fade. Still I blew the note. I continued to fill the air with the sound of joy until, as it shall be every year, he was once again gone.

  Releasing the note and gasping for breath I handed the pipe back to the great lord Pan who straightened, and assumed the pose he held before. The pose he always held. I dragged myself to my feet, a tear forming at the corner of my eye as high above the clouds gathered once again, and the morning star was gone. I was once again alone, and my work for another year was done. I staggered away from the statue, exhaustion and blood loss making my return to from where I came a slow process. Yet no blood did I leave behind me, or evidence of my passing, for I was not of this realm, and had not been for a very long time. It seems to me that as each year passes I never remember returning to this place. Nor do I ever retain the memory of leaving either. It always seems to end and begin as I leave the park. This is as it should be, and is as it happens now.

  There are secrets within secrets, paths hidden, most for good reason. The order of Pan knows this, and we watch and wait and listen. Look for the signs. We are good at that. Very good. There are seven of us, one of us to watch over each, and that has always been our number. Guardians we are, and we watch, and wait, and on one night of the year we defend what must be upheld across the world, for if we do not then great evil shall fall upon this earth, and all that we have made will be unmade.

  . I pulled my cloak tightly about and tipped the brim of my hat forwards as some form of defence against the rain, moving forward into the park as I had done so many times before. As I would do so many times again. Perhaps, for all eternity. For this I would be glad, if even for just one minute of each year I am given permission to sound the pipe of the great lord Pan.

  Author’s Note

  The original statue of Peter Pan In Kensington Gar
dens in London is indeed one of seven identical statues commissioned by the author of “Peter Pan”, J.M. Barrie that have been erected all over the world. Apart from the one in London and the other in Sefton Park in Liverpool, there are also statues in Egmont Park, Brussels, Belgium, Rutgers University in Camden, New Jersey America, and another in Bowring Park, St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. Also in Canada there is another statue of Peter Pan in Glenn Gould Park, Toronto, and finally another in Queen's Gardens, Perth, Western Australia. All are cast from the original mould.

  When Barrie originally asked permission to place the first statue in Kensington gardens, the authorities turned him down. Unperturbed, he had the statue installed there anyway. This was done under cover of darkness. This was not a case of subterfuge, but he wanted it to appear as if the statue had suddenly appeared as if by magic. The letter from the London Times in the story above is authentic.

  Interlude Two: On a Bench by the Mersey

  Time had passed, but there we both were still sitting on the bench in the sunshine by the river as the afternoon wore on. I couldn’t help but feel by now that I was probably AWOL from work, and do you know what, I couldn’t have cared less! My new found visitor was sitting next to me was in silence again, just taking in the view.

  “Do you ever miss all of this?” I asked. He just nodded.

  “Whenever I am away I am always coming back.” he said, a sad smile crossing his face. “Whenever I was anywhere other than here where there was a port I’d stop and look at the ships. Wonder if any of them were coming back to Liverpool.” I laughed, and thought perhaps that now he was being over sentimental. It was very difficult to tell.

  “You couldn’t wait to leave.” I chided, suspecting he wasn’t telling me the whole truth. “I’ll bet when you were a kid you had dreams about running away to sea.”

  He grinned wider now. “Oh yeah.” he said. “All of the time.” A frown crossed his face. “You’ve got to remember it was different then, though. Little grey men seemed almost to fade into the dirty, cold walls of all of the grey buildings shouting out to sell the Echo. Even the light was grey. They were harder times then. None of the fancy stuff you have these days. It was bleak. Cold and grey.”

  I frowned too. Then he remembered something. “When I was a kid there was a skipping rhyme. It was the people, you see. Liverpool. There’s something about them. About it. How did it go now?” he paused and rubbed his chin, trying to remember. “I know.” He cleared his throat. “I went to a Chinese laundry, I asked for a piece of bread. They wrapped me up in a tablecloth and sent me off to bed. I saw an Indian maiden - she stood about ten feet high. Her hair was painted sky blue pink and she only had one eye. I saw a pillow box floating I jumped in rather cool. It only took me fourteen days to get to Liverpool. Singing: Ah, black Sam the negro, abajou, abajou jay, Carder bungalow Sam.” I laughed as he finished.

  “I’m not sure you would get away with the “negro” bit these days!” I laughed, “What was it? Some kind of kid’s rhyme?”

  “Skipping rhyme.” he nodded. “And a bit more as well, I think. Songs and stuff.” I nodded too. “It’s quite an old one, probably.”

  Yet somehow I could imagine the kids skipping on the streets of Liverpool singing it. But the important thing was the rhythm. The sound of guitars, almost. Yes, most definitely It was more to do with the rhythm, or the strange use of words. I shivered, even though it was not cold. I caught him in profile again. “Was he a handsome man?” I thought. Not in the traditional sense. No, I decided finally. Handsome in a dark kind of way. He caught me staring at him and no emotion crossed his face at all. As if he was used to being stared at.

  “Perhaps it doesn’t seem so dark here anymore?” I asked. He looked sad at this. Lost, even.

  “I don’t know.” he said. Then he sighed and stared at me. “I really don’t know if that’s true at all. In some ways, well for some people anyway, nothing’s changed at all.”

  The Ghost Next Door

  Me dad use to say that in Liverpool there was always a ghost next door. As a kid I spent many a dark night huddled under the covers in case the ghost from next door decided it liked our house better, because we didn’t seem to have our own ghost so there must definitely be one at number eleven. But as I grew up I began to realise that what he had really meant was that Liverpool as a city was full of stories about ghosts. Scousers love stories, of course, and if they include a ghost or something unexplained happening, all the better. I suppose it's that mix of Irish and Welsh as well as God knows what else. It just seems to invite tall tales.

  Dad even had a tale of his own. When he was a kid him and his mates used to play down by Garston docks and there was an abandoned warehouse there that was pretty much just bits of roof left with no walls at all. Just a few metal beams holding what was left of the roof up. Bloody health and safety would have a fit at the thought of kids being able to knock about there these days, but when me dad was a kid that was where they used to play. There was even a little watchman's hut there that was more or less still intact even though it hadn't been used for years and one day they were all playing there when the watchman turned up, and waving at them he went into the hut. Now they all thought that this was a bit odd because, as I say, there was nothing for him to actually watch over any more and after a while they plucked up courage to go and knock on the door to the small shed and ask him what he thought he was doing.

  I imagine you probably know where this is heading, because of course when they finally got fed up of knocking on the hut door and opened it the small shed was completely empty. In fact, it looked as if it had been empty for years. There was no other way out of there and they hadn't taken their eyes off it since the old bloke had arrived. Needless to say, they got out of there pretty quick!

  So you see, everyone in Liverpool has a ghost story to tell. Everyone seems to have a favourite one, and sometimes they grow in the telling. It would be fair to say that most of them are complete nonsense, but then you never know. You just never know. That's the hook.

  My mate Jack swears he was followed home once after a night at the pub by a tall white shape that stopped when he stopped and started up again when he did. He had however sunk a fair few jars that night and these days he’s more likely to laugh it off as the effects of a dodgy kebab that he just happened to be attempting to get home in one piece at the time. I've noticed that. It's a bit strange but when something like that happens whoever it is can't wait to tell anyone that will listen all of the gory details as soon as they possibly can. Give it a few years though, and they began to shrug it off. It was a dodgy pie. I was off me head on Guinness. How was I to know it was the bizzies following me? So on and so forth. Give it a few years more and then they'll deny that it ever happened at all, and even sometimes even accuse you of making it up in the first place!

  Still, there we go. Liverpool is full of stories, some of them involving ghosts, many of them not. It's the ones involving the ghosts that I'm going to tell you about now. Well, sort of.

  When we were kids there were two of us who lived in the same street and we were as close as you could get. His name is Jack. We used to play together, go to the same school together and that carried on when we were teenagers. We had ideas of forming a band when we were about fourteen or fifteen, but neither of us could play a musical instrument so that put the kibosh on that pretty much. I'm Peter, and as I say, me and Jack were as close as that. Of course when we left school and set out looking for a job we didn't exactly have a great deal of choice about where we were headed for career wise. We were expected to bring a wage in! I found myself working in a garage, being taught how to service cars whilst at the same time having to clean the bloody things in the showroom at least twice a week. Some kind of general dogsbody is what I was, but it brought some money in so that was the end of it. Jack got a job in the factory down the road not far from where we both lived. Mind you, I think it would be fair to say that he hated his job as much as I hated mine!

>   Whatever money we brought in was dutifully handed over to our parents each week and we were given a few quid back which was just enough for a few nights out on the beer and perhaps a few other bits and bobs every now and then. It seems a whole lifetime away now, but at the time we were both happy and stayed close friends even though we now more or less worked full time. Isn’t it funny how time flies? I carried on working in the garage for a few years, Jack in the factory. He was the first to get married. I followed him a few years later. Mind you, he was the first to get divorced as well. Sadly, I then proceeded to follow him down that particular route myself a few years later too. No kids for either of us. Just as well, I suppose. Throughout all of this we both remained firm friends. Couple of pints on a Friday night and maybe a darts match mid-week if we could be bothered. If not just a few jars and a chat.

  On my thirty ninth birthday I was made redundant and found myself out of work for probably the first time in my life. I had my own little place that had more or less been paid for with the money my mum and dad left me when the last one of them passed, so at least I had a roof over my head. Six months later Jack was made redundant too when the factory he had worked at for all his adult life suddenly upped sticks and moved to Holland. Nice. So there we were. The pair of us both forty next year, out of work and on the scrap heap. Life is funny, isn’t it? How had it all come to this? Time passes so quickly, doesn’t it? First grey hair is never far away! Nevertheless every dinner time Jack and I would wander down to the pub and nurse a half so we could compare our efforts to find a job. That was the plan. Most of the time we just talked about what had been on the telly the night before. Jobs were hardly growing on the trees. That was a fact.

  On this particular day we were talking about some series that was going on at the minute about the supernatural and we got around to talking about ghosts and what have you, and how when I was a kid my dad always used to say there was always a ghost next door in Liverpool, and how I had taken that literally at the time. We were both having a laugh about it when suddenly Jack went very quiet. We had both been talking over the course of the last few months of setting ourselves up in a business of our own, but to be honest I was a pretty average mechanic and Jack, although a dab hand at packing meat, was in just about as much demand as I was. There was definitely a down turn in the amateur meat packing market, for certain. It was more or less a case of wanting to have our own business, as I’d always kind of liked the sound of that despite the fact that we were in fact a pretty clueless pair of bastards who weren’t actually qualified to set up any sort of business at all. Unless of course it involved a vague knowledge of the working of a car engine, or packing meat.