Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

July 2017

Chocolate Digestives - Pete Norman

The late morning sun was warm on his back and the gentle breeze in his face was delightful. He had not been back to Southend for years and he was looking forward to reacquainting himself with some of his favourite haunts. The High Street, a mere hundred yards ahead, looked to be busy with shoppers and even from this distance there was a palpable buzz of activity. He felt good. He stopped to absorb the atmosphere.

A movement in the periphery of his vision drew his eye. He turned to look.

It was a bicycle, a very unremarkable bicycle which would blend in without note almost anywhere, but the rider . . .

The rider was a man in his late thirties with skin so dark . . . it was neither black nor Asian, it was more the rich dark brown of a Mediterranean peasant. His hair was cropped so short that it was but a mere hint of a shadow across his scalp. His t-shirt and trousers were so close to the colour of his skin that at a quick glance he might have appeared to be completely naked, if it were not for the day-glow orange trainers.

Thin wires dangling from a small pair of white ear-buds suggested that the man was listening to his iPod and with the half closed eyes and the half open mouth it did seem as if the music was inducing rapture but Michael reasoned that there were plenty of recreational drugs around which could create much the same condition.

The bicycle was moving so slowly that the handlebars were gently oscillating in order to prevent it from stalling. Michael watched as it wound its way slowly onwards, a sense of unease steadily growing. His first impression had been of a man somewhat eccentric or perhaps a little incapacitated but otherwise benign, however he had now begun to doubt himself. There was something about the man that made him uncomfortable and it was with some relief that when he reached the High Street the bicycle began to meander off in the opposite direction.

He allowed the bizarre moment to drift away with the hustle and bustle of hundreds of shoppers swarming in random confusion while he walked arrow straight towards the seafront and the cliff top walk.

When he reached the cliffs he turned and wandered happily along the narrow pathway which overlooked the Esplanade, where once, as a local office worker, he would often sit and eat his sandwiches and feed a few crumbs to the omnipresent squirrels and pigeons which prowled the grassy slopes. The view was splendid – the sunlight was gleaming on the mill pond smooth water, broken only by the brown sails of three Thames barges drifting like wraiths across the Kent coast.

The traffic below him on the Esplanade was heavy, as could be expected on a day like this, but from this height the sound of the vehicles was but a faint murmur. This was one of his favourite places.

As he walked he was pleased to see that Queen Victoria was still there on her marble throne, looking very regal with her outstretched finger pointing out to sea. The war memorial was still there, the tall obelisk reaching up to the heavens ‘

LEST WE FORGET

In the distance the bulk of the Cliffs Pavilion loomed, signalling the end of this part of the cliff top walk and he was searching ahead for the entrance to the pathway which led down through the gardens.

A movement in the periphery of his vision drew his eye. He turned to look.

It was the bicycle and the strange dark man.

It was coming out of a side turning about fifty yards in front of him, still meandering in the same apparently innocuous manner. The feeling of déjà vu was unnerving. Michael slowed down hoping that the cyclist would disappear into the distance but as he slowed so the bicycle seemed to slow with him and with every step he was getting closer.

He was still some distance away from the entrance to his intended path and he knew that by the time he reached it he would have caught up with the man and that thought filled him with dread. He knew that his fear was irrational and he began to feel a little foolish, he knew that the man was simply out enjoying the sunshine just the same as he was, although in his case the joy was probably chemically induced. However, when he spotted a narrow entranceway somewhat closer he turned away from the man and hurried down a few steps into the cliffs gardens.

As he joined the main path he took a quick glance over his shoulder but the bicycle and the man were nowhere in sight. This gave him a little reassurance but as he strolled through the carefully nurtured gardens trying to rediscover his earlier enthusiasm he could not shake off the intense feeling that the man was still stalking him.

He risked another glance over his shoulder and was relieved to see that the path behind him was completely empty but the breeze carried with it a disturbing sound, a faint rustling sound, almost inaudible but it was growing steadily louder – a small tremor in the shrubbery some distance back, the slight swaying of a patch of flowers a little nearer, a scuffling sound coming from the foot of a large bush only a few feet away.

He walked quickly on, seeking refuge in the thought that the path he was following would soon bring him down onto the Esplanade, to the endless stream of cars, to the security of hundreds of fellow human beings but he kept a constant watch behind him as he walked.

A movement in the periphery of his vision drew his eye. He turned to look.

From the dense shrubbery directly beside him a pair of feral eyes were staring out, watching him. Michael ran as if the hounds of Hell were at his heels and he knew that this was probably not too far from the truth.

He ran and he ran until he reached a fork in the path. The right led down to the seafront but it was narrow and the shrubbery was densely overgrown. Instinctively he took the left, into more open ground, even though it took him further up the cliffs. He ran past a young lady with a small child in a pushchair. He screamed out to her, ‘Get out of here! It’s coming! Call the Police!’

He ran on and ahead of him the path split around a huge circular bed overflowing with a myriad of bright colours. He stopped, uncertain which was the safest path, but from a dense thicket of flowers in the centre of the bed cadaverous fingers appeared, clawing the stems apart to reveal a face. It was not the face of the man he had seen on the bicycle, though it had much the same features, however the Gollum-like creature was much smaller, withered and emaciated, with gaunt eyes sunk deep into the parchment of its face. The lips curled up to expose terrifying needle sharp teeth.

Before he could move the creature snarled and leapt out. It hit him full in the chest and they fell to the ground. Sharp claws raked at his face, needle sharp teeth sought his flesh. They rolled through the flower beds spitting, snarling, biting, gouging.

The creature was strong but the adrenaline was surging through his veins and with a strength born of desperation he finally managed to wrestle the creature to the ground, his fingers locked around the scrawny throat, squeezing, choking, his thumbs forcing down, down, down until he could feel its struggles fading, until the claws raking his face weakened and then dropped away as the life force within it subsided.

As it expired the creature simply vanished from sight.

Michael’s body dropped through the vacuum, hitting the ground with some force, his fingers grasping nothing but warm earth. He dragged himself to his feet, spinning around, searching for the creature, for the man on the bicycle, but he was completely alone. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands, tears of pain, tears of anger, tears of relief mingling with the blood and the dirt.

A hand touched his shoulder. He spun around, fists raised, ready to fight off the new threat but the sight of the uniform and the reassuring smile of the police officer stilled his hands.

The words poured from his mouth like a tsunami, a garbled account of the whole incident: the bicycle, the man, the creature, the fight, the impossible vanishing of the creature at the moment of its death . . .

The smile on the officer’s face remained fixed throughout the bizarre story. From behind him another face appeared, a familiar face, a friendly face, Joseph’s face.

‘Come on, Michael, I’m here to take you back. Doctor Rutherford has been very worried about you.’

Michael took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

His face brightened. ‘And will there be Chocolate Digestives?’