Tag: Gareth
9:30
9:30
Gareth dreamed of blood. It wasn’t much, just a few drops and splashes on the pages. The smell of the ancient tome invaded his nostrils bringing memories of death and dirt, ageless stone walls closing in on him and trapping him beneath the moist, dank earth with only one escape: a tiny hole too small for anything except the stink of fear.
A small mouse stood atop the stacks of leather bound books and turned his head. In his tiny outstretch paw he held a candy nestled carefully in soft leather. As Gareth got closer his nose was suddenly filled with the essence of lemon, driving out the putrid decay that threatened to drive him back to unconsciousness. The mouse’s ochre eyes twinkled as he gestured with his paw, inviting Gareth to take the lemon drop. “Go on, it’s good for what ails you,” those eyes seemed to say.
Gareth retrieved the pale yellow lozenge and stuck it in his mouth. The aroma of fresh lemon and green, growing things swept through his head and washed over his body draining the stink of death and fear, calling up a beautiful hilly park and him watching the sun rise over the lake. The mouse and his cartoon-like woodland friends scampered down off the jumble of rocks and boulders to wards the water.
“Told you,” the tiny creature said over this shoulder. “Come join us.” And with that they all dove beneath the surface of the swirling water.
Gareth stood, brushed the clay and grime from his jeans as best he could and put the battered leather notebook in the inside pocket of his canvas duster. “Not today, little friend. I think I have an appointment.”
Then he climbed the polished aluminum steps into the ancient but well-cared for De Havilland and settled back into the pilot’s seat for the short hop over the lake. He glanced at the registration plate mounted below the yoke: Designed and built by de Havilland Aircraft of Canada, Ser. No. 0000, Date 01-04-00.
“It’s going to be a long flight, isn’t it,” he murmured softly to himself. And then he smiled and slowly pulled back on the yoke, relishing the feeling of the weight of the world pushing him down into the familiar and comfortable seat of the Beaver.
9:11
9:11
Rowan rocked back on her heels and carefully wiped her face. From behind her she once again heard Gareth softly talking in his sleep. He had been muttering unintelligibly all night except for that one, eerie moment when he’d quite clearly said “My beaver.”
It was moments like that always led Rowan to suspect that the universe had a sense of humour; or maybe there was a god, not eh big, white-bearded, sitting-on-a-throne guy, but more of an out-of-work hack with nothing better to do than create moments with no respect to linearity or continuity. I mean really… a half-dead beaver, a sleep-talking boy, a huge racket and a mysteriously empty hallway. It was almost enough to to make Rowan want to change into some tiny underwear and a tight white t-shirt and go wandering alone outside with a faulty flashlight.
Right now he seemed to be clearly talking about the lemon tree. Maybe this muttering really was rooted in something important. She smirked appreciatively at her own cleverness. Never an audience around when you needed one.
“Hey beaver! That lemon tree that everyone keeps fussing about. Maybe this is all ‘rooted’ in something important! Get it… rooted! It’s funny.”
“Want me to explain it again?” Rowan grinned sillily, then, glancing back over her shoulder at the sleeping Gareth, she shifted her weight back on to her hands and started to get up.
“No, it’s not and no, I don’t,” she heard in a weak and gravely tone coming from the sheets in front of her.
8:31
8:31
What’s that thumping? Rowan rolled up off the floor beside the couch where she had been wrapped up in a pile of old afghans and embroidered pillows and headed towards the hallway. They are going to wake Gareth up.
It must be 4 in the morning, she mused to herself blearily. What the fuck were her neighbours doing at this hour? As she approached the chipped front door she heard a long scraping sound and another thump. Peering through the peep hole told her exactly nothing. No one was playing games outside her apartment at least, but there was definite something going on in the hall.
I better put some pants on. If I have to go out and crack heads they might take me more seriously if I wasn’t wearing pink pyjamas with bunnies. Rowan turned her back to the door and took a step toward her bedroom when a heavy weight virtually smashed into the door behind her.
“What the…!” She swung around again she grabbed the door, flicked off the safety chain and threw it open. The vulgarity died on her lips as she gazed down at ratty pile of brown fur that seemed to be covered in blood and mud.
She glanced quickly down the hallway in both directions but there was no one else around. Looking back at the pile of fur she barely swallowed a shriek as it rolled over slightly and she saw that it was actually an animal, a very alive, very bloody animal.
The sight of this pathetic innocent creature started to make her very mad. Who the hell has been torturing animals in my building? And how did arrive at her door? She bent down and tentatively reached out to roll the poor thing over. The coarse fur was matted and unkept and as she pushed it on to its side Rowan saw its head for the first time.
“Oh my god, it’s…”
“My beaver,” came a voice softly over her shoulder.
8:30
8:30
He’s so tired she thought, it’s been a long day. A long week really. I’m glad he decided to stay.
Rowan grabbed the shabby and worn blanket from the back of the couch and gentle spread it over the sleeping Gareth. She fingered the worn softness of her favourite blanket as she tucked it under his shoulders. It made her happy that the old thing was still of use; she’d had the blanket since she was a kid and rescued it more than once from her mother’s attempts to discard it as worn out and useless.
And now she’d collected yet another moment wrapped in it’s threadbare weave. Rowan shook her head softly at the memory of the last teenage battle over the fate of her beloved blanket. She had started out calm and mature,stating that she had sentimental attachments and fond memories associated with the shabby bedspread. When that failed she’d moved on to the tried and true petulant and whiney until her mother had thrown her hands up in disgust and stomped off.
Really, we teach our children the entirely wrong things she mused.
And now two of her favourite things were here on her couch. Tomorrow would be soon enough to explore the mysteries of Gareth’s packet. Tonight he could rest safely swaddled in her blanket and she could quietly sit here and enjoy.
6:23
6:23
Gareth swallowed the last of gulp of cold beer and set his glass down on the table.
“It was really, really odd. I signed a bunch of papers. I have no idea what they were, but I have them here somewhere.”
He dug out a crumpled, rolled-up tube of legal-size sheets covered with tiny type, and tried to flatten them out on the table.”I thought about trying to read them over, but after skimming the first page I figured it was a fool’s bet anyway. And the old guy was looking a bit impatient. Oddly enough my dad seemed to be OK with the whole thing by that point. I guess he’d resigned himself or something. So I skipped to the part marked with those little stickies and initialed like a mad fool. On the last page I signed by the x. But it had already been signed, a long time ago…”
6:21
6:21
“So you know that scene at Gringotts or whatever in Harry Potter? Well, this lawyer’s office was weird and creepy like that. I felt like I was entering some sort of secret Masonic lodge or something. Everything just felt … well … off. Like they weren’t used to outsiders.”
“Freaky. So after your father, sorry, step-father …”
“Father. Father’s fine. He’s always been my old man, always will be. This other guy’s just a name and a picture to me.”
“Sure. Father. So after he showed, what then?”
“Well, they showed us into this big office, all wood and leather and old stuff, like something out of a movie. There’s this old guy behind a big desk. Black suit, grey hair, beady little eyes. Anyway, he gets us to sit down and asks my old man what he can do for him. Totally ignores me like I’m not even there. Pissed me off.”
“OK. Now it sounds really freaky.”
“Ya, so I said, ’I’m here to pick up my father’s things.’ The old guy just looked at me all squinty and distasteful-like and repeated his question to my dad. Then my old man dived into it and repeated what I’d said: ’He’s here to pick up the papers his father left with you. I’m just here to provide a introduction.’ Then the old guy sort of raised his eyebrows in surprise or something and started to stare at me like he just recognized me or something. Let me tell you, that really was the weirdest part. Well, except for the package itself ….”
6:19
6:19
Gareth pulled out the chair and dropped a big bundle of worn manila envelopes on the table. They were all different sizes and tied together in a neat package with butcher’s string.
He smiled at Rowan and said, “Can I get a beer or something here?”
“Sure, bottles, or they’ve got a pale ale on tap.” Rowan gestured at the passing waitress. “So, everything good?”
Gareth smiled halfheartedly. “I guess. My old man showed, eventually, and it all went the way it was supposed to. Creepy place though.” He nodded towards the bundle. ”And I got what I wanted anyway.”
He paused while the waitress dropped off the beer and mumbled, “Thanks.”
“Not sure how I feel about my old man, though. I thought I’d let it all go,once I got my way, but I still can’t figure why he did it and that just keeps pissing me off again.”
“Hey,” Rowan said slowly, “y’all remember I don’t know nothin’ ’bout this, right? Always did seem a bit too much ’citement about a minor thang. Not enough to rile ya up so much anyway. Not prying, mind ya, just sayin’ is all.”
“Minor? I suppose, but there are a few things you probably don’t know. Like that guy we call my dad … well, not so much. And this stuff here on the table: these belong to my real father. so you can see why it might ’rile me up’ some that he wasn’t letting me have them.”
Rowan stifled the urge to let her jaw drop. She’d known Gareth’s father all her life, or at least she’d thought she had. This certainly changed her viewpoint, more than a tad.
6:17
6:17
Gareth strode into the lawyer’s office with a lot more confidence than he was actually feeling. It had been a long wait, but it looked like today was actually the day. It had the feeling of ‘rightness’. He’d get this over with, collect his stuff and meet up with Rowan later.
There wasn’t much to go wrong unless somehow his dad managed to fuck it up. He didn’t think at this point he’d do it deliberately, but communication between the two of them had never been their strong suit. For all anyone knew the two of them were sitting on opposite ends of town: he’d looked it up, and there wed at least six different Jones & Jones Barristers and Solicitors locations in town. Originality apparently wasn’t lawyers’ strong suit.
The receptionist glanced up as he paused to check out the foyer. Nope, no dad. Actually, no one at all; the room had an empty, unused feel to it. There were no months-old magazines, and the carpet wasn’t worn, even though the furniture looked like it had been retrieved from the set of Mad Men. In fact, the place looked like it hadn’t seen any action since the ’60s.
Gareth looked up at the receptionist and tried a greeting. “Uh. Hi. I’ve got an appointment with Mr Jones. Not sure which one, though; I’m meeting my … I’m meeting someone else. He made the appointment.”
“Very good. If you would have a seat until your companion arrives, I will let Mssrs Jones know that you are here.” The receptionist stood up and left the room through a small, dark wooden door in the wall behind her. As she walked away Gareth noticed she wasn’t actually that much older than he was, but she sure as hell gave the impression of a stern old school marm.
I wonder how she pulls that off? Makeup, maybe? And where the hell is Dad? This place is giving me the willies.
5:28
5:28
Gareth checked his Facebook before he was really awake. He’d grabbed his phone and seen a little red 1 beside the Facebook icon, so he’d pushed it to see whether it was anything interesting. The first thing to pop up was a link from Shayne, an old high school bud, about a new Greek restaurant called Spiros. Unusually for him, he hit the link.
Gareth really wasn’t a social network kind of guy. The noise to signal ratio was too big these days and he couldn’t be bothered sorting through the crap. But he still kept up enough to see how the family was doing and check on the few friends he cared to keep up with. He almost never clicked on anything.
Spiros’ web page popped up with a big advertisement promising good times, a great atmosphere and delicious food. Apparently the special tonight was Stifado, a spiced rabbit stew.
“Maybe Rowan is interested in some Hasenpfeffer,” he murmured to himself sleepily. “Gotta remember to ask.” He dropped the phone on the bed and rolled to his feet. A few seconds of rubbing his eyes and stretching his back and he popped up and headed for the bathroom.
“Time to start the day,” he informed the picture of John Lennon on the wall in the hallway. John, as usual, didn’t have much to say to that. Gareth figured it was because John just wasn’t as much of a morning person as he was.
He started up the shower and smiled into the dirty mirror. “Wascally wabbit!” He push aside the shower curtain climbed over the side of the tub. “Figaro… Figaro, Figaro, Figaro, Figaroooo …”