Towards the Within

by Reece Willis

  At the top of the stairs, a man with brown dreadlocks and a scruffy beard was fiddling with the front wheel of his motorbike. Unable to shake the macabre scene from my mind, I asked him if it was normal for people to be cremated in the open like that. I mean it wasn't something you would see along the banks of the River Thames.

  ‘It’s all good dude,’ he said in an American accent. He placed a hand on my shoulder in reassurance and gazed below to the river, ‘For Hindus, the Ganges acts as a vehicle of ascent from earth to heaven. It’s the ultimate carriage for ashes of the dead to go forward into the afterlife and for the spirit to be granted with instant salvation. Sounds like the perfect way to go if you ask me, my brother.’

  ‘Oh right, thanks,’ I said and pondered on his words. Looking around, none the wiser of where I was going, I asked if he knew how to get to the bus station.

  ‘I sure do buddy. You're right on top of it.’ He pointed along the road directly in front of us, 'You want to head up there and take a right at the intersection. You can't miss it.'

  'Thanks. Take care on your bike, eh?' I shook his hand, relieved I didn't have much further to walk.

  The area surrounding the ticket booth was heaving with people. I joined a long queue and waited for what seemed like hours shuffling in line every few minutes until my turn arrived.

  ‘One ticket to Manali please,’ I said.

  Soon I could relax, put my feet up and all would be well.

  ‘No Manali. Next.’

  ‘Hold on, no bus to Manali? What, today or one doesn’t leave from here at all?’

  ‘There are no buses to Manali from here. Please move aside. Next!’

  I couldn’t believe it. I scanned the road for any other travellers, but there were none. I suddenly remembered Sean had written another place in my journal in Delhi. Maybe I needed to get a bus to a place called Dehra Dun first. Joining the back of the queue again, I shuffled my way eventually to the front.

  ‘One ticket to Derra Dun, please.’

  The man behind the glass tilted his head, ‘Where?’

  ‘Derra Dun,’ I said.

  ‘There are no buses to Derra Dun.’

  ‘Derra Dun,’ is all I could say. Exasperated, I repeated it again and again, ‘Please, Derra Dun.’

  He was now becoming quite frustrated, ‘Next!’

  The man next in line tapped me on the shoulder as I left the queue, ‘Sir, please, are you meaning Dehera Doon? I think this is maybe where you are wanting to go.’

  I took a moment to take in what he was saying and on realising my mistake replied, ‘Yes, thank you. That’s where I want to go.’

  As I turned around my face fell at the length of the queue.

  ‘Please,’ the gentleman said and gestured me in front. ‘Be my guest.’

  The teller was far from impressed to see me again. ‘Yes,’ he sighed, no doubt awaiting another destination he couldn’t serve.

  ‘Dehera Doon,’ I triumphantly exclaimed, pronouncing more O’s in the Doon that was necessary.

  ‘Ah, Dehera Doon. One ticket to Dehera Doon.’

  Issuing me with a ticket for a bus that left in twenty minutes, he pointed to the bay where I could pick it up.

  The final embers of the sun highlighted the peaks of the rugged hills, leaving the indigo fade of night to arrive. Looming the opposite horizon were dark thunder clouds menacing the sky. A hostility resonated amongst the townsfolk of Dehra Dun as they budged past me and there was unease in the air, which I found intimidating, almost threatening. I made my way from hotel to hotel looking for somewhere to bed down for the night, but at each place I tried I was met with short blunt responses of 'No vacancies.’ Half an hour went by of fruitless searching until I came to a dilapidated building with a worn sign advertising accommodation. The reception area was in darkness apart from an empty desk to welcome my arrival. I peeked through the doorway leading to the hotel’s restaurant. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in years; dust covered the tables and chairs, and cobwebs hung from the ceilings and windows. Fractured light filtered in from the darkening sky, barely illuminating the interior.

  ‘Yes,’ a voice said from behind me making me start. I turned to see a tall man standing in front of me. His features were hard – chiselled chin and cheek bones, thin moustache and eyes fixed on me as if I were his prey.

  ‘I’m looking for a room,’ I said, averting his stare.

  ‘We have one room available. Five hundred rupees.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty?’

  ‘Five hundred.’ He didn’t return my smile, but moved closer where I caught wind of stale tobacco and rotten fish on his breath.

  Rain began to pour as the storm closed in. As unwelcoming as it was here, it seemed the lesser of two evils. I peeled back some notes and handed them to him along with my passport.

  ‘Any chance I could get something to eat?’

  ‘Restaurant is closed. Power is out.’ He reached around behind him, pulled a key from a hook and waved his arm at me to move, ‘I will take you to your room.’

  As I followed him, light returned and the fans stirred to life.

  ‘Perhaps I could get something to eat now?’

  He stopped and sharply turned to face me. With gritted teeth, he motioned me back down the hallway to the restaurant, ‘Wait in there, I will see what I can find.’

  I’d been waiting for some time and was looking at my luggage. The fake leather holdall had frayed at the zip and was opening either side. I didn't hear him return and shot up out of my seat as cutlery banged down on the table’s surface followed by a plate of unappetising food.

  Swimming in greasy brown liquid were unidentifiable dark shapes bobbing around a slimy hard-boiled egg that occupied the centre. ‘Eat,’ he said and sat before me, never taking his eyes from me, watching me reluctantly slurp each spoonful.

  The spiciness was savage and burnt the inside of my mouth and throat, but did little to disguise the rancid taste of the egg. I called it a day as soon as I thought I'd consumed enough to be considered polite and eagerly reached for the Coke bottle to wash the slop down and put a more pleasant taste in my mouth, but even that wasn't right; strangely sour instead of sweet.

  ‘You get a lot of power cuts here then?’ I asked, thinking I might start a conversation.

  ‘Town has been without regular electricity and water for two weeks, many government problem.’

  ‘That must be really difficult for business,’ I continued, but the conversation was over. My plate was taken to the kitchen through a set of double doors.

  He reappeared moments later, ‘Cello.' I picked up my stuff and followed him to a flight of stairs, then up to a sheltered corridor with a row of bolted and padlocked doors on the left. At the last door, we stopped and he slid back the bolt.

  ‘Your room.'

  14

  The interior was in complete darkness. I stepped inside fumbling for the light switch and found it just as the door slammed shut behind me. I froze. My bag and guitar slid free from my grasp, landing carelessly on the floor. With systematic precision, my eyes worked their way around the room. Everything was the same; the beige carpet, the white wood-chip wallpaper, the small oak cabinet next to the steel framed bed. Even down to the white sheets and pillow accented by a thin chocolate coloured blanket. Along the left wall was an oak wardrobe, an empty bookshelf and a wooden suit valet stand. The ceiling fan and the doorway to the bathroom were the only differences. Fear consumed my whole body, ignoring any passing thought that this was a simple coincidence.

  I didn’t want to be here and with a sudden surge of energy I grabbed my things and turned for the door. I rattled it and tugged with all my strength, but of course it wasn't going to open. Like my neighbours' doors all the way along the corridor, it had been locked from the other side. I started to bang the door and yell, but all I received in return was grazed knuckles and a hoarse throat.

  As I turned to face the bed, the lights went out and the fan slowed to a
stop: another power outage. Rain drummed at the windows and flashes of light alternated with the rumbling of thunder. I fished around in my holdall for my pocket torch, found it and flicked the switch, only to find it was already in the on position and the batteries were dead. I sat on the bed. A metallic creak sent a shiver down my spine. With my back against the wall, I listened to the rain and watched the room reappear and disappear with each episode of lightning. Immersed in this replica of my bedroom as a young boy, it was hard not to think about my past and what had brought me to this point.

  My earliest memories were of bright sunlight and vivid colours; everything dusted in a golden haze. All around were towering silhouettes and stretching shadows; smiling faces. It never rained, except for a few days in autumn when I remember going to the park and jumping in puddles and fallen leaves of crimson, ochre and bronze. Bedtime stories told of a horde of goblins armoured with rusty shields and swords or the troll under the bridge, which kept me awake and alert of what may be beneath my bed should I dare look. Knowing my mother was close by I soon fell asleep, securely navigated into adventurous dreams.

  On Saturday mornings Mum took me to Croydon, where we’d pick out a new toy or book, then share a pepperoni pizza for lunch. Sometimes we’d go to the cinema once I was old enough. The first movie we saw together on the big screen was Grease, the next one Superman. I ran out of the auditorium that day believing I was invincible. My imagination also led me to think what a great dad Christopher Reeve would make. He was the kind of handsome man my Mum should be with. Afterwards we came home and watched The Muppet Show followed by Doctor Who while huddled together on the sofa, my Mum protecting me when I got too scared of the Daleks.

  Some weekends were spent with my grandparents. I’d eat sugared butter biscuits and watch Heidi and Different Strokes on TV while my grandmother prepared dinner. Time would tick away with excitement as I waited patiently for my grandfather to come home from work. The moment he walked through the door I’d launch into a barrage of hugs before he could even get his coat off. We would play together all evening until I dosed off to sleep in his arms. He would then take me upstairs into the spare room, tuck me safely into bed and my grandmother would read me a story.

  The first four years of my life I lived in a ground floor flat in Penge, a suburb of London. I would hear the heavy footsteps of Big Daddy, the famous British wrestler, who made regular visits to the guy above us. We then moved to a three-bedroom basement apartment nearby where we stayed for the next few years and that’s when I met Gordon. A year older than me, Gordon was as much like an older brother as a best friend. We’d go with our Mums to Crystal Palace Park and feed the animals at the petting zoo or go on a boat ride or just run around like lunatics on the grass.

  It wasn’t too long before Gordon moved to the other side of London and I never saw him again. By this time my great grandmother had moved in with us, who was a lot of fun. She would visit my shop every day and purchase her plastic groceries and items I had grabbed and lined up from the kitchen; then sit down and watch the many musical concerts I would stage with my kid’s guitar, red electric keyboard and small drum kit with worn cheap plastic skins ripped and battered by the continual playing. In the afternoon, she would have a nap and I would play with my other toys. There were stretchy plastic figures, Weebles that wobbled but never fell down and a miniature tree-house with rooms neatly appointed with furniture, a garden swing and a family of four complete with faithful dog. It was my books I loved the most though. Tales of travel and adventure, mystical creatures and magical powers transported me to the most exciting lands imaginable. I could go anywhere, be anyone, any time.

  It was still so hot despite the storm. Water trickled along guttering and vehicles could be heard splashing through deep puddles in the street below. The ceiling fan came alive again as light returned to the room. I got up and shook the door in hope it might have somehow unlocked, but it hadn't. Another bout of chronic diarrhoea and vomiting took me to the bathroom. I had no idea where it was all coming from. No sooner had I dried myself from a shower, I was sweating and shivering again. I slumped back on the bed exhausted, held my stomach and stared out to the bookshelf and valet stand.

  Callum would turn up every now and then at the ground floor flat my mum and I lived in. A giant with flared jeans and long sideburns, he didn’t say a single word to me. I was always sent to my room to read or play, which I didn’t mind so much. Sometimes the two of them would go out for a couple of hours and leave me home alone.

  One night, thunder and lightning cracked outside. Terrified, I raced from the apartment to see the old lady who lived above, but tripped on some concrete steps and was knocked out. When I regained consciousness, the old girl was nursing the cuts on my head and shoulder. My mother returned late that evening and apologised for leaving me on my own. She then delivered the news that we would be moving to a new apartment. We were going to live with Callum.

  I was enrolled into a new school where I made friends easily and even met my first girlfriend, Rachel. For a while we were inseparable until one day I chose to hang out with her cool older brother instead of watching her in the school play. Small things can carry such importance, especially when you’re eight years old, and Rachel saw my lack of loyalty to her as reason enough to dump me.

  At home, there were plenty of children of a similar age in the surrounding flats. Richard and Robert were brothers, originally from Nigeria, but brought up in England. I got along with Richard the most. Unlike his brother, who preferred staying indoors and working on science projects, Richard was a little bit rebellious and for the first time in my life I had a friend I could be mischievous with. We were never seriously troublesome, except for one occasion when we were caught throwing stones at a neighbour’s stained glass window. My Mum was so disappointed in me, but promised not to tell Callum if I swore never to do it again.

  Days later, an unbelievable pain in the right side of my pelvis erupted without warning. Mum found me crying in agony behind the sofa and rushed me straight to hospital where I was diagnosed with a ruptured appendix. Gerry Raffety's Baker Street played on the radio and there was a real Dalek donated by the BBC in the ward, which scared the life out of me.

  Most of the other children received gifts in hospital, a new toy to keep their spirits up or at the very least some sweets and comics. On the few occasions my Mum visited me she came empty handed. Our outings to Croydon on a Saturday were now a thing of the past and I couldn’t remember the last time she treated me to anything new. She never stayed for long. Callum always accompanied her but in usual fashion didn’t speak to me. While she carried out her duty of checking how I was and if there was anything I needed (Were the nurses looking after me? Was I in any pain?), Callum sat there in silence. Soon after arriving, as was politely possible, they left.

  When the weekend shopping trips came to an end so too did any visits to the cinema. Apparently paying for cinema tickets was a waste of money when Callum could pick up all the latest releases from a guy at work. Except the video tapes he brought home were never suitable for a young lad so I never got to watch any of them. The television programmes I used to watch were also replaced by endless game shows, American crime dramas and sport. I could no longer curl up with my Mum, Callum vocalised that boys needed to learn to be independent and that I had been clinging on to the apron strings for far too long. He now occupied the seat next to my Mother and I was often sent to my room. When I was lucky enough to be allowed to sit on the floor in front of them it was on the proviso that I was quiet and didn’t disturb their TV viewing.

  One day, we drove to a house in the country to pick up a Labrador Whippet cross breed, called Kelly, from a lady who had rescued her and provided foster care awaiting a permanent home. On the shelf was a badge with a 47 in the centre, red numbers, yellow flames trailing to the circular enamelled edge.

  'Can I have that badge, please?' I asked mesmerised.

  'Of course,' the lady replied with a gentle smi
le.

  Immediately I detected a change in the air, something in the room had gone sour. An evident heavy silence on the return journey was broken by the screech of halting tyres. Callum grabbed the badge from my hand and hurled it across a dark field. The words that followed were stern, laced with anger and disappointment at how I had had the audacity to ask and should now be taught a lesson for the embarrassment caused.

  Something wonderful came out of that day though. Kelly bonded with me immediately and was an amazing, loyal companion. Her friendship gave me a sense of security and I cherished the warmth and love she gave. A few months later Kelly was given away because Callum said I was becoming too reliant on her.

  I hadn’t noticed the cockroach’s arrival on the wall above the bedside cabinet, nor the dark figure standing outside the window strobed by a background of relentless lightning. The insect’s antennae were wavering, as if searching the air for my exact location while the silhouette’s intimidating presence outside, stood motionless looking in. A series of loud bangs coincided with cracks of thunder. At first I thought it was the manager realising his error in locking me in, but my inner voice told me different, something wasn’t right. The door knocked again and shook violently.

  ‘I can’t open the door, it’s locked from the outside,’ I shouted. The bolt slid back. Why I decided to open the door, I wasn’t sure. Every fibre in my body told me not to, but I did, to a man roughly my age. From his right cheek, through his lips and down to his chin was a deep scar. His hair was jet, curled and oily, his clothes shabby and his frame skinny.