Appollinaire: (The Other Side of Nowhere)

by Robert William Saul Harvey

  It helped, a little, but not much.

  Still trembling, tense, wary, listening. He carefully raised his head above the grass and glanced around in all directions, never letting his guard down for a second.

  ‘Clear.’

  Re-attaining his athlete’s pose, Pol made ready to run at an instant’s notice. Ready to run for his life. All he needed to hear or see was something, anything akin to the bark of a starter’s gun, a dive-bombing shadow, or another of those terrifying screeching caws, and he would be off like a shot.

  Seconds ticked away at an alarmingly slow speed. Every little sound sent his heart a-leaping. Made him turn his head in whichever direction the noise might come from.

  ‘What was that?’

  His eyes flitted to the right.

  ‘Over this way.’

  He cowered down, tried to make himself as small as possible.

  ‘I heard something. I’m sure I did.’

  Again, he held his breath. Listened for the smallest sound, but could hear nothing else.

  Silence.

  Still listening.

  Nothing.

  The silence was deafening.

  He allowed himself to start breathing again. Had to, otherwise his lungs would burst.

  “Oh bugger.”

  Another involuntary shudder ran through his body and he winced when his bladder began to protest about the amount of water it had accumulated. Tried to fight against the urge to pee. Succeeded, up to a point, but knew he would have to pee before too long. The pain was already becoming too much to bear.

  “Stop it,” he urged his bladder.

  His voice was little more than a weak whimper.

  “For bugger’s sake, stop it!”

  Once more, he inhaled deeply, through his nose. Held it for four seconds before exhaling through his mouth—a method he had always found to be useful in the past when he felt the need to relax.

  Again.

  ‘In.’

  And again.

  ‘Out.’

  Still, he waited. Listened...

  Chapter 26

  Tinker cowered down in the coarse grass, made a soft whine, and buried his snout beneath his front paws, as if he were trying to hide whilst remaining vigilant. Something he had never encountered before had startled him, sent him scurrying deeper into the coarse grass. Such a beast as the one Tinker had just seen soaring overhead was, to a medium sized dog, too big, too fierce, and very dangerous. Some deep-rooted primeval instinct told the dog the creature was dangerous. Something to be avoided.

  The flying-creature had over-flown Tinker’s position, and was now circling high in the sky, away over towards the towering cliff, where it was intent on attacking some other unfortunate creature.

  Poor dog. He quivered in terror. With racing heart and panting breath, his bladder released its contents. He carefully shuffled to one side to avoid the spreading damp patch.

  Another quiet whine.

  This was wrong. He was more used to being the hunter rather than the hunted. Chasing birds was great fun. Being chased by one, not so good.

  “‘Caaawww!’”

  The sound sent the dog scurrying through the grass, towards a lone tree with drooping branches. Hoped the big bird was too far away to notice. Instinct told him, the tree would provide more protection than if he stayed where he was...

  Chapter 27

  Safely ensconced beneath the tree’s protective branches, Tinker, panting heavily, peered out at the surrounding grass and wondered where the Pol-creature was.

  Wished the Pol-creature were there with him.

  The Pol-creature would defend him from the large flying-creature.

  Maybe not.

  The Pol-creature was out there somewhere. He might also be hiding from the strange flying-creature. Might also be afraid of it.

  And,

  If that were so, it was Tinker’s duty to go and find him, wherever he was.

  The sky was clear. The monster bird was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it had given up its search and flown away.

  Tinker got to his feet and slowly crept out from beneath the tree. Keeping an eye on the sky, he shuffled slowly around in circles. Sniffed here and sniffed there in a desperate attempt to locate the Pol-creature’s scent.

  Nothing.

  Unable to locate any scent for his master, Tinker stopped and raised his head. Still no sign of the big bird. Nothing for it. He had to try to find the Pol-creature. Had to take a chance and hope the flying-creature had gone.

  Tinker shouted up at the sky, “‘Hello! Hello!’”

  He hoped the Pol-creature might hear him calling. Also hoped the huge bird was either, very hard of hearing, or it had gone elsewhere. If the thing was still somewhere near, it would hear him barking. Would come back to investigate. He would be in deep shit if it did. Nevertheless, he had to keep trying.

  With his ears upright, Tinker listened. Hoped the Pol-creature would hear him calling and would answer.

  Nah.

  But,

  “‘Caaawww!’”

  The bird did!

  Tinker scurried backwards, to hide beneath the tree’s protective branches again. Growled in frustration.

  “‘Grrr.’”

  First, chance he got, that bird was going to be history.

  Some time later, having decided the bird was no longer hovering overhead, Tinker crept out from beneath the tree and stealthily made his way back to the area where he had been trying to pick up the Pol-creature’s scent.

  To Tinker’s surprise all of the scents had completely disappeared. In his experience, many aromas tended to linger, sometimes for days, before slowly fading as time passed. Very few smells disappeared as rapidly as this one had done.

  He stopped and stared nonplussed at the ground.

  Peculiar.

  He knew the Pol-creature had been here earlier. So had the human-creatures who had chased him into the field. But he could not smell any of them now. All the scents he had been sniffing at before the flying-creature’s attack had evaporated; the Pol-creature, the human-creatures, wet grass, damp soil, bushes, everything.

  All gone!

  Now,

  Tinker could only detect a strange mixture of new smells, none of which he could recognize...

  Chapter 28

  Joan stared unseeing at the TV screen. Didn’t take in the fact the hero had just been taken prisoner by the drug lord’s henchmen. Even though she had been looking forward to watching this film—liked to drool and fantasize about the lead man—she found she was unable to concentrate on it. How could she when Appollinaire was missing?

  Ted farted and mentioned something about it being better out than in.

  Joan ignored him. Her mind was elsewhere.

  Appollinaire.

  ...A baby in her arms, crying to be fed.

  ...Cried when he uttered his first word, “Bugger.”

  ...His first baby steps. Tripped on one of his toys and fell forward smacking his mouth on a corner of the coffee table. Blood everywhere. But he had not cried. Had laughed at the sight of blood and wiped his fingers on her check when she had picked him up.

  ...Annoyed when, at the age of eight, he tried to catch the goldfish with a bit of string. Knocked the bowl off the window ledge. Glass and water everywhere. The fish died.

  ...Fumed when he had cheeked her. Ten. Small for his age. Thought he was a big man until she had smacked him round the back of his head. He had stumbled and went head first onto the front doorstep as he had tried to flee. Needed ten stitches in the resulting gash on the top of his head. Lucky his hair hid the scar.

  ...Smacked his legs when he had turned up with a charity collection tin one day and tried to open it with a tin opener. Dragged him all the way to the charity shop. Made him hand the collection tin back and apologize. God job they had not called the police. Very charitable.

  ...Played merry hell when she had caught him trying to smoke a cigarette in the toilet. Made him flush it down the
pan. Confiscated the rest of the pack and threatened to ram them down his throat if she caught him smoking again. Almost laughed when he had told her he would not let her catch him again.

  ...Brought tears to her eyes when he had presented her with a lovely bunch of flowers one Mother’s Day. Said he had earned the money by mowing someone’s lawn. She had had no reason to disbelieve him.

  ...Shouted and bawled when he had brought his report card home from school. Bottom of the class. Lazy sod. Did not know the reason why he had not been able to concentrate in class was because he was being bullied. Only later, much later when he had told her.

  ...Hopeful when he went for his first job interview. Funeral Parlor of all places. All he had to do was keep the place clean and tidy. Could not even do that right. Caught him sleeping in a corner behind a stack of empty coffins. Fired him on the spot. Never worked since. Idle git.

  “Penny for them?” asked Ted. He could see Joan was not following the action on screen.

  Joan shook her head.

  “Just thinking.”

  “The boy?”

  “Uhuh.”

  He tried to reassure her.

  “Big lad now. Sure, he can look after himself. He’ll be fine. You wait and see.”

  Joan curled her top lip and was about to say something but Ted forestalled her.

  “Probably turn up when we least expect and tell us he’s put some dirty little slapper up the stick.”

  “Twat,” snarled Joan. “Anything could’ve happened to him. He might be dead for all we know.”

  ‘Insensitive bastard!’

  Ted made suitably admonished. Mentally cursed his stupidity. Should have seen the signs. Had not realized just how much his wife was pining. Thought, like him she did not like the boy.

  “Sorry,” Ted muttered meekly lowered his eyes. Decided to back out, leave her to it, and returned to studying the racing page.

  ‘Keep my bloody gob shut from now on. Can’t say right for saying bloody wrong.’

  Without looking, he knew Joan’s eyes were firing daggers at the top of his head. Could almost feel them hitting their mark. Good job she wasn’t throwing bricks!

  Joan could see Ted was not going to say anything else. Sighed and returned to staring vacantly at the TV screen.

  ‘It’s been three days and no one knows anything. The police don’t seem to want to know. They said he’s old enough to make up his own mind and he’ll probably turn up of his own accord when he’s finished sulking.’

  Joan didn’t believe them.

  ‘Twats. Bone idle assholes. Too lazy to get out and make enquiries. Pay the bloody council tax and what do you get for it? Sod all. Bloody sod all!’

  Ted chanced a sideways glance and made a grimace when he spotted a solitary tear running down his wife’s cheek.

  Well. His mind was clear. He had been and done his bit. Went and reported the boy’s disappearance to the police, he had. Police said they would let him know if they had any news. Did not know what else he could do, other than go out on his own and question everyone in the sodding town. Did not fancy doing that. No way...

  Chapter 29

  The last time Pol could remember feeling this frightened was three years before. One dark, foggy November night. He had been snooping round an old deserted factory building looking for anything worth stealing. Something easy to move. Might make him a few quid. He had been in the process of trying to pull a long piece of copper piping off a wall when there was a loud, rumbling noise. The whole building, the very ground beneath his feet, and everything not nailed down, started to shake, rattle, and roll, as it were. He had almost wet his pants. Thought an earthquake was under way and the whole building was going to fall down. Crush him to a pulp beneath a mountain of bricks and mangled steelwork.

  As it turned out, there had been a railway running behind the building and a very long freight train had been slowly rumbling past. It was this train, which had caused the building to shake, not an earthquake.

  Pol had promptly abandoned his quest and run like hell until he was well clear of the building. It had taken him ages to calm down again but it had taught him a valuable lesson—do not go out thieving, at least, do not go alone, and not on dark, foggy nights.

  Now, having rested for a while leaning against the rock, Pol was feeling more relaxed. Breathed easy, was not shaking so violently and was happy to feel his heart beating somewhere near normal.

  He allowed his cramped muscles to relax slightly as he threw another frightened look at the sky, still fearful in case the strange flying-creature, bird, whatever it was, might return to attack him. Could see nothing and hoped it had finally decided to sod off home, wherever home was.

  ‘Bummer. I don’t believe any of this. I must be dreaming again.’

  But,

  He was not dreaming. It was all too real. Although he slowly began to regain control of his mind and body, he remained in a ‘ready’ state; ready to leg-it at the first sign the weird bird might be playing silly buggers and was waiting for him to make a mistake.

  “Shoosh,” he puffed whilst thinking, ‘I don’t know what’s worse, being beaten up by the gang or being dumped into this strange place and being hunted by an evil monster bird!’

  Happy, Pol carefully eased himself down until he was feeling a bit more comfortable. He had been sitting too rigid to start with. With his arms bent at the elbows, tight by his sides, hands flat on the ground and legs stretched out in front him, he decided to remain where he was until the sun went down. Before it got too dark, he would scout around and try to find his way back to the lane. Once there, he would have no problem finding his way back home.

  Raising his head up slightly, so his eyes were barely clear of the flattened grass beneath him, Pol peered around the area whilst remaining alert, tense. Made ready to flee for his life at a moment’s notice. There was nothing much to see. Decided to take a risk and lifted his head a little higher, see if he could locate somewhere safe to hide.

  “Bugger this for a lark, darling,” he whispered.

  ‘I don’t like this shit, not at all.’

  Without moving his head, he surreptitiously glanced to each side in turn. Could see nothing but grass in the immediate area, so, once again, looked forwards. Narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun, to see if there was anything ahead of him. Hoping there might be somewhere safe for which he could make a dash.

  Nope.

  ‘This is a bloody waste of time.’

  Realized he was too low. The grass was packed together too thickly and too uneven in height, so dense it prevented him from seeing for any distance, perhaps a maximum of six or seven feet at most in any direction.

  Pol did not want to raise himself up onto his knees again for fear of being seen by whatever other creatures might be lurking out there.

  ‘I’m not moving from here, not while there’s a chance that big flying thing’s still out there. It’ll be waiting for me to do something stupid, like, stand up, and show my face.’

  Sure the bird was waiting for him to make a wrong move, Pol made careful to move slowly so as not to attract its attention. Because the bird had already had one go at him, and knowing how some animals, and a great many birds, are not stupid, he assumed this one must have some idea of where he was hiding.

  ‘It’s probably biding its time; waiting for me to make a run for it.’

  If he did run, he was sure the beast would be upon him like a shot. In his mind, eagles were able to catch fleeing rabbits and he knew rabbits could run a darn sight faster than he could.

  ‘Wouldn’t stand a chance. Not a hope in Hell.’

  Exhaling yet another long, slow breath, through pursed lips with his teeth clenched tightly together, the cheeks of his backside clenched just as tight; he could swear the pounding in his chest sounded as loud as ever.

  ‘Phew.’

  What?

  “I can tell; you’re still out there, somewhere. Waiting.”

  ‘And you’ll at
tack me as soon as I make a move. I know you will. You’ll kill me; tear my face off, then eat me bit by bit, leaving nothing behind but my bones.’

  Pol’s mind continued to tick over as the seconds ground slowly by, conjuring up all kinds of horrible scenes whereby he would always be the one to end up being ripped to pieces by a whole flock of these evil-looking red birds.

  Clenching his teeth together and his sphincter tighter, tighter than a duck’s ass, he attempted to swallow around the bloody great dry lump, which had somehow managed to form in the back of his throat. Blinked away the sweat, which was stinging his eyes.

  ‘Bugger. It’s bloody hot!’

  Shuffling his position slightly to ease his complaining elbow and knee joints Pol made an executive decision.

  “Stuff this for a game of soldiers. I can’t stay here all day. I’m too exposed. Some other animal is bound to come sniffing around sooner or later and I’ll end up as its dinner.”

  Although his instinct told him to stay where he was, a mixture of fear and common sense told him otherwise. The hairs on the back of his head began to stand up on end. Some sixth sense was telling him; keep your silly head down.

  Pol very carefully, turned his head so he could look over his right shoulder, whilst holding his breath. Fearful, frightened, scared. Tried not to make a sound or give the game away by disturbing any of the surrounding grass. He did not like the idea of his back being exposed even though there was a ruddy great rock to protect him. Still vulnerable to attack from behind.

  Nothing.

  Just the rock.

  Heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘What the heck did you expect to see?’

  He looked down at the item he was grasping in his left hand.

  ‘All I’ve got is Tinker’s lead. What else,’ he wondered as he took a quick inventory of the contents of his pockets. ‘A snotty handkerchief, half a dozen black plastic dog-poo bags, twenty three pence, an old leather key-ring with the front door key on it, and...’