Page 31 of Lost Souls

Noreen sighs in some relief, as she sees her. “Mrs Davenport?”

“String the stroppy bitch up!” suggests the doughty little Cumbrian.

Noreen sighs with a profound sadness. Her despondency is hardly dispelled by noticing a now sadly familiar figure, in an incongruous linen suit and inappropriate footwear, as he scuttles away at some speed towards the exit.

***

Arnie is back in the Morris Traveller, hitting his phone. He knows that he is taking a risk, as the ‘borrowing’ of this insane vehicle has surely been reported by now. And it hardly merges into the crowd. But at least he is parked in a tiny alleyway and most of the village appear to be in the olde hall giving Noreen a hard olde time.

The rank outsider is at a total loss. Having checked his wallet and his pockets, he knows that he has barely enough cash remaining to take a bus ride, let alone hire a car. Not that he has actually seen any buses, even if he wanted one. Stranded. Scuppered. And all because of thatvenomous, malignant, poisonous wife of his. Qualities which, he has to admit, would quite regularly turn him on in the past, when they weren’t being directly targeted at him.

“Welcome to the American Express Customer Helpline,” says the recorded voice message. “To request your balance, press one. To report a lost or stolen card, press two. To query a recent transaction, press three. To increase your credit limit, press four. To complain about your card being frozen by your vengeful partner due to severe mental competency issues, press the teensy little button thing right there in the middle of your handset.” Arnie dutifully presses five. “All our lines are busy right now. Please don’t wig out. Imagine an idyllic pastoral scene from your childhood.”

“Goddammit!” screams Arnie, only slightly bemused by the tone of this alarmingly specific, targeted new message. He tosses his phone over his shoulder into the back of the van – and guess whose hand reaches out smoothly to catch it, with a Tom Cruise-like deftness that belies his age and lack of physical substance?

“Ambrose!”

“You’ve cut to the chase. I like it. Do I smell food?”

Arnie nods towards the rear of the van, where there are still two lukewarm trays remaining. “You want the beef or the chicken?”

“They would go right through me!” I say in a moment of light-hearted banter, which I have to say are all too infrequent these days. Most probably because seedy Arnie Garth is facing imminent death and a one-way trip to hell, which can sometimes gnaw away at a sense of humour. “So, how’s it going with Saint Noreen?” I ask, by way of conversation. And, unlike certain people, I am a pretty good listener. “She said those magic words yet, Arnie? You know you’ve only got three days ’til…”

To my surprise, our guy from the City of Angels (no relation) seems unexpectedly bullish.

“Hah! I’ll have time to spare. You watch, Soul Man. Right now, that poor beleaguered lady needs all the pals she can get. And guess what? She don’t have any. Oh, and hey, didyouknow women like it when you listen to them?”

“That’s what the Boss says. In fact, she never shuts up about it.” I’d continue in this disarmingly droll vein, but Arnie’s attention is drawn once more to the mean streets of Rough Fell.

Noreen Millburn is outside the hall now, retreating backwards from the main doorway and just one teeter from toppling dangerously down the rain-splattered stone steps. We can both only sit and watch in fascinated terror as she edges uneasily away from rabid villagers bent on vengeance. They are moving towards her en masse, anger in their hearts and the prospect of an extremely satisfying thump in their fists. Even Arnie, observing this mob, cansee that something drastic needs to be done.

“I can’t sell my little cottage and all the land around it that my mum and dad left me!” protests Noreen above the grumbling and calls for blood. “What about the environment?”

“Bugger the environment,” says the ever more red-faced landlord of the Wordsworth Arms. “We want first-run movies!”

“We want Dolby Digital 5.1!” says another.

“And deep-pan pepperoni!” adds little Mrs Davenport, who is heartily sick of Meals on Wheels.

“You like to help people,” cries someone else, “so help us all get bloody rich!”

The other mob members endorse this to the hilt. “Yeahhhh!”

Noreen tries to speak but the words simply don’t come. She looks like she may very soon burst into tears.

Mr Edwards of Apex Holdings, dapper suit still neatly buttoned over his business-lunch belly, approaches her, wearing an indulgent smile. He addresses the obstructive and currently besieged landowner in a more conciliatory fashion than that of the fired-up locals bent on trampling her quivering face into the wet cobbles.

“The people have spoken, Miss Millburn. And I’m rather afraid the people don’t much care for your stubborn stance. So, we may have to—”

He is suddenly interrupted by a tidal wave of filthy water as an old Morris Traveller careers through the massive puddle right in front of him.

“Yuk!” cries Arnie, shouting empathically out of the open window to the man in the previously pristinepinstripe. “You may wanna change your pants there, pal.” He throws open the passenger door, praying that it won’t fall off altogether. “Noreen, get in, will ya!”

“I will,” agrees Noreen gratefully, shuffling with maximum clumsiness into the vacant seat and slamming the door. She looks around the vehicle, although it doesn’t really require much introduction. “Why do you have Mrs Wainwright’s Meals on Wheels van, Mr Garth?”

Arnie says nothing. He just stares at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses an economy-size wicker man being swiftly erected on the nearby village green.

After a moment, having received no explanation, Noreen shrugs and moves on.