An elderly busker in a heavily soiled trench coat, tattered fedora and old woolen gloves with the finger tips cut off followed him for a minute or two, playing an unusual rendition of Green Sleeves on a battered old violin. John, a musician himself, couldn’t help but be affected by both the beauty of the playing and the condition of the old gentleman. And he remembered the words his mother used to say to him when he was still a boy: “There but for the grace of God go us,” she would say, to remind him that though they were not wealthy, by any means, there were still many others worse off.
John fumbled about in his pants pocket. As he did, the old busker took the bow in one hand, whipped off his hat with the other and, in a well-practiced move, held it out, brim down.
John smiled. “Nice arrangement, mate. Yours?”
“Sure as shootin’, young fella,” the old busker said, his smile more gaps than teeth. “Bin playin’ it that way since long afore you were borned. You a musical man, yourself?”
John nodded, smiled back and dropped a five-pound note into the old hat. The busker’s eyes lit up. “Well, God bless ya, young musician sir.” He grabbed the fiver and quickly stuffed it into his coat pocket. “May all your notes be sharps, and all your melodies songs of love.” He raised the violin and stood playing Melody of Love as John walked away, smiling.
His attention finally came to rest on a drab, unassuming sign above the door of a pub just ahead. It wasn’t essentially different from the thousands of other wooden, often enhanced, reproductions that hung in front of literally thousands of public houses – as they were called in England. The name, The Pirates Refuge, arced above a stylized painting of a roughly dressed pirate with a peg-leg, eye-patch and red bandana that covered the top of his head. He was locked in a skirmish with an equally dubious-looking opponent, their swords crossed, frozen forever in mid-stroke.
For some reason he couldn’t explain, John stopped and stared up at the sign. As he watched, it was kissed by the light breeze; it creaked in complaint and swung almost lazily.
There was nothing particularly distinctive here, yet John found himself enthralled. The metered swing of the sign – back and forth, forth and back – had an almost hypnotic effect on him.
The rush to get back to the hotel gently slipped from his consciousness.
Time disappeared.
He forgot everything.
“‘Ere, young feller. Y’look like you could use a fresh cup o’ java.”
John fought to understand as he stared in confusion and disbelief at the strange man standing in front of him. He was in his late 50’s, with thin strands of hair covering his otherwise bald pate. His round face sat atop a rotund body. He wore a checkered shirt and a white muslin apron tied at the front. His voice was cheerful and welcoming, his accent akin to that of a pirate from the heyday of the Barbary Coast Buccaneers.
But who was he … and where the hell did he come from?
John blinked, then blinked again. He tried in vain to clear his head, to make some sense from yet another inexplicable event in what was fast becoming the most bizarre day of his entire life. Once again he found himself thinking: Where am I, now? And how did I get here?
Nothing came immediately, so he figured he’d try one thing at a time. First things first: where the hell am I?
He looked down. He was perched on a tall stool, at a bar in some pub, one hand loosely wrapped around a half-filled mug of coffee. No joy there. Once again he was totally lost: a fish out of water. He had no recollection of how he got here, or even where here was.
He widened his search area, taking in the entire place, and was even more confused. Damn! This time I’m inside a fuckin’ living picture-postcard, he thought. Either that or I’ve been somehow transported to Disneyland.
Memories began flowing back: Wardour Street; Oxford Street; Rathbone Place; a fountain; a bunch of street artist stalls and a very pretty woman standing at one of them; an old busker; a sign ... over the door of a pub. A sign that read: The Pirate’s Refuge. He couldn’t remember anything past that so he looked around again.
He was seated on a stool in what appeared to be everyone’s idea of a London pub, right down to the publican behind the bar – that was who and what he obviously was. The place was small, picturesque and cozy. The frosted, antique stained-glass front window had the stylized painted pirate and his friend etched into it. The long bar sat against one wall with colorful wine and spirit bottles lined up like sailors along the entire length of its huge glass mirror. A number of patrons, mostly tourists, sat at small tables scattered about on the heavily worn hardwood wood floor, sitting happily amidst hanging ropes, tattered sails and a carefully placed broken mast.
John couldn’t help but smile. Although he no longer drank alcohol, this was exactly the kind of old pub he loved to spend time in whenever he was in England.
The Publican swung smoothly about and grabbed a coffee pot from a small hot plate behind the bar. Barely breaking motion – and not spilling a drop – he wheeled back and skillfully refilled the mug in John’s hand with a thick, dark and steaming brew. “We’ve ‘n open spigot, day or night, ‘ere at the Refuge,” the Publican said, his booming voice clearly heard across the entire pub.
John sat for a beat and stared at the coffee mug, trying to arrange his thoughts. When that didn’t work, he just said the first thing that came to him. This was a bartender, after all. They were used to hearing crazy stuff. “It’s been one helluva day, let me tell ya–”
He looked up from his coffee and stopped, mid-sentence. The Publican was already halfway down the bar looking after another customer.
John frowned and sighed. “Yeah! And that’s pretty much par for the course, as well. Still, I don’t suppose you have any idea what the hell’s goin’ on, either.”
He lifted his coffee, took a large hit and carefully placed the mug back on the bar. Then he sat and just stared at it. He was trying, once again, to let go of everything else for at least a few peaceful seconds before he forced himself to try and understand whatever was happening here. Once again his mind went blank. Once again he was thoroughly enjoying it.
But the scraping groan of the stool next to him made it impossible to ignore. He lifted his head and turned to his left.
Jennifer Carron was perched on the next bar stool. She wore a long flowing dress, similar to the one she’d worn when they first met. The silver circlet crowned her gorgeous hair. It was no longer held in place; now it flowed out and down to its full length. The Light Sigil still dangled from its silver chain around her neck.
At any other time Jennifer’s re-appearance would have evoked a number of serious questions. But this had been a truly crazy day, so John just stared tiredly at her, his shoulders slumped.
“Oh, goodie!” He almost spat out the words. “You again! Just what I need to top off a day of total craziness!”
Jennifer ignored the tone and smiled warmly at him. “I imagine you’re somewhat confused by all that’s happened,” she said. “Still, you do seem to be coping ... at least somewhat.”
John started to respond, but she raised a graceful hand and looked past him. “Publican!” she called. “A lemon squash with ice, please.”
The Publican gave her a nod. “On its way!”
The interruption did nothing to quell John’s anger. If anything, it made it worse. He shook his head in disbelief and groaned out. “Copin’? Are you serious? Believe me, ‘copin’ is the last thing I’m doin’ here.”
The publican arrived, placed Jennifer’s drink on the bar, and was gone almost before he arrived. The ice rattled loudly as Jennifer sipped her drink, testing it, then returned the glass to the bar. She was a picture of peace, every move like a choreographed ballet.
She smiled at him again and as it had outside the Royal Arms Hotel, John’s mind melted; but this time only for about sixty seconds. Then her composure pissed him off even more, and he could feel the anger rising again. “Who the hell are you, lady? And what’s all this crap su
pposed to mean?” This last was almost brayed at her.
Jennifer smiled, totally unaffected by his anger. She daintily raised her hand and held it out to him. “Jennifer Carron, Professor of Ancient History at London University. So very pleased to officially meet you.”
John gaped at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
Jennifer feigned hurt. “Do I appear to be telling a joke? How disconcerting.”
Her shift in attitude caught John off-guard. He was unsure; flustered. “No! No! It’s just that you don’t look old enough to ...” He let his words trail-off, unsure what to say next.
Jennifer allowed him to squirm for a short time, and then smiled demurely. “Well, actually ... it’s something of an adjunct position. Special circumstances, and all that.” There was no hint of humor in her words.
John was now royally confused. And since he no idea of an appropriate retort, he decided silence was the best response.
“I happen to be a White Witch,” Jennifer now calmly stated. “A direct descendant of one of the most powerful witches of the early Thirteenth Century ... back when witching was a very big deal.”
What could John possibly say to this? Unable to hide his incredulity, he stuttered out: “A... w... a witch!”
Jennifer sipped her drink and continued, as if she was discussing something pretty much every-day, normal. “Certain high-level types at the University have found my expertise of particular value, so ... voila, la professeur.”
She hesitated, frowned, and stared long and hard at him, momentarily losing her train of thought. “But you’ll know all that about me, one day.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, most provocatively. “Hmm ... And a good deal more, I think.”
John felt he should say something here; but he couldn’t for the life of him think what it might be. He opened his mouth ... then closed it again.
He thought on what she had just said, sighed loudly, and finally blurted out: “Look... ah... Jennifer. I have no idea what the hell yer goin’ on about. But to tell ya the truth, right now, I’m just too bloody tired to care.”
She sat waiting, obviously expecting him to say more.
He also waited.
The silence was palpable.
He frowned. What the hell’s she waitin’ for? What does she expect from me, ‘ere?
He tried to outwait her. But question after question leapt into his mind. No longer consciously considering if it was a good idea or not, he blurted them out, one after the other. “Okay. If you’re a ... a ...” It’s hard for him to even say the words. “... a white witch! Why did you bump into me, yesterday? How did you know about the weird Sigil I’ve been seeing everywhere? And what did you mean: ‘that I was in trouble?’”
Suddenly he was on a roll. He gulped in a large breath, and hurried on. Before she could possibly answer, he fired a bunch more questions at her, at last venting some of his pent-up frustration. “Oh! And let’s not forget. How could I see you and me together, in a ... I dunno ... a vision, I guess.” As he spoke, his anger rose even more. “In fact, what the Hell was that I saw? I'm guessin' a hallucination ... maybe an acid flashback...?”
His words trailed off again. Still frustrated, but trying to gain some control, he stared at the mirror behind the bar and attempted to catch his breath.
Jennifer wanted to answer, but herself seemed a little at sea about all this. She sighed, deep in thought, searching for the right way to try and explain things to him.
“John. How can I put this so that you’ll understand?” she finally said. Then she heaved another sigh of confusion and took a long heavy breath. “I am here to save you from ... something. But I can’t exactly tell you what that is.”
She hesitated, and John stared at her in disbelief. “That’s your idea of an explanation?”
“No. Not really. Ah ... let me try again. “The visions you had in America were the past.” Before he could respond, she hurried on. “And the things you saw at the church were ... were ... interpretations of things that may or may not happen … someday.”
She stopped again. This wasn’t going at all well.
“I was sent to warn you,” she quickly added.
“By who?”
“I can’t tell you that, until I’m sure ... until we’re sure.”
“Oh, great,” John was incredulous. “That’s a big help. I’m s’possed to understand that?” He tried, but he was unable to control his rising anger. He hissed at her, the words threatening, intense. “Tell me something I can understand.”
Jennifer took another sip of her drink, trying to figure a way to explain.
But John was in no mood for another unanswered exchange. “You’re givin’ me nothin’, ‘ere!”
She was obviously in a battle with herself and his goading didn’t help. Her forehead screwed into deep wrinkles. She was trying to do as he asked but … “John! Please! You’re not ready yet, to--”
“–NOT READY! Hell, woman. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through the last few months? Crazy dreams, or visions, or whatever the hell they are. Then all this shit that’s come down since I got to England?”
He swept a hand up under his chin. “I’ve had it … up to here!”
And just like that he totally lost it. It was too much. He had to have some answers or he’d go crazy. He reached out, grabbed her wrist in a vise-like grip and bellowed at her like a wild animal. “HELP ME, DAMN IT! HELP ME TO UNDERSTAND! NOW!”
Jennifer stiffened, her entire body locked in place, her gaze transfixed, staring deep into his eyes. His words, driven by anger, became an order. She no longer had any choice. Like an automaton, she swept her other hand forward. It pounded down on top of his free hand, where it rested on the bar, with a loud thud.
Now John snapped upright on the stool. His eyes were wide, fixed, locked in a blank stare. He was no longer in the Pirate’s Refuge Pub…
…He was seated behind a huge polished wood desk in a large, sunny, Malibu, California beach house room, fitted out as an office. Through its nearby French doors, a neatly trimmed grass lawn led out to the Pacific Ocean. The room housed a small but eclectic number of odd-looking artifacts and two large partly filled book shelves. Like John’s Santa Barbara apartment, one corner was devoted almost entirely to recording equipment that now included a fancy sound mixer. John’s acoustic guitar case stood nearby, papered with new stickers from an array of foreign countries. A Fender Stratocaster Classic, practice amplifier and synthesizer completed this collection of musical paraphernalia.
John stared about, unsure where he was, or what was happening. The loud chime of a doorbell interrupted his confusion. He found himself getting to his feet and headed out of the office as if it were the perfectly normal thing to do, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.
He made his way down the hall and spied his reflection in a distinctively shaped mirror hanging on the wall. Though some time had obviously passed, he appeared essentially the same; but he had what appeared to be a silver-white shock of hair streaking the right side of his now much longer, still pony-tailed hair.
The hinges complained loudly as he swung open the front door. It opened onto a small porch in a fenced-in and tiled area that abutted the Pacific Coast Highway. The sounds of cars passing could be clearly heard. A large wooden gate that normally secured the area, midway between the door and the highway, sat slightly ajar.
There was a guy at the door modeling the best of Beverly Hills: cool, right down to his RayBan glasses, Armani shirt and slacks, and Bruno patent leather slip-on shoes. He reached out to shake hands with John, juggling a large FedEx Overnight Box in his other hand.
“Hi! You must be John Jones. I’m Daniel Farina.”
John frowned and stared blankly at him. Obviously he didn’t know who Daniel was, or why he might be standing at his front door. But before he could answer, everything turned brilliant yellow, and…
John stood in front of an impressively stocked electronics store in Sydney, Australia. A sign painted
onto the glass of its large window read:
HUGE SALE.
WE’LL BETTER ANY PRICE ANYWHERE
IN AUSTRALIA
John noted his reflection in the window. Once again he appeared … older. Although his ponytail was long, there was no sign of the silver streak. Before he could really think much about that, a group of objects on a shelf in the store-display caught his attention. There were four of them. Each of the objects seemed to be in two somehow interacting parts. The first was a flat metallic gray box, at least four inches thick and a good eighteen inches deep, with a large ten or maybe even eleven inch slot in the front. This seemed strange enough in itself. But perched on top of each of the boxes was a bulky, beige plastic television set; or at least that’s what it appeared to be. But instead of showing video of the news or some current TV show, the screens on each of these TV sets, did nothing more than run the same continuous series of words in either green or amber: HUGE SALE. WE’LL BETTER ANY PRICE ANYWHERE IN AUSTRALIA. All of the objects sat together by a sign that read: ONCE IN A LIFETIME PC DEAL!!!.
John frowned. He had no idea what these things were – he guessed they must be called PC, but had no idea what that stood for. What in the world …?
Under normal circumstances, his natural curiosity would have demanded he investigate further. But at that moment an image reflected in the huge plate-glass window caught his eye. It was just one face in a bustling crowd hurrying in both directions on the wide footpath; but John felt compelled to follow the tall, well-dressed Aboriginal man.
The store window and its strange anomalies were quickly forgotten as John hurried after the stranger.
The aboriginal man strode purposefully up the street – Kings Street, the sign read. He looked neither right nor left, and appeared not to even notice the sea of people around him. At a major intersection, he went against the traffic-lights and skillfully dodged two cars and a large green and white bus, while barely breaking stride. John struggled to keep up with him, but couldn’t help but notice that one of the cars was a silver Porsche. Like so many car enthusiasts, John was a big fan, and somewhat prided himself on knowing most, if not all, of the latest models, colors and shapes of the fancy European sports car. But he’d never seen this shape or model before, and he was mildly annoyed that he had to rush to keep pace with the stranger he was following and wasn’t able to investigate further.
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