Page 46 of Lost Souls

The seagull thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a lift in the air.

(Irish proverb)

Had Lyle ofthe sharp suit and nice hands whisked Noreen Millburn (Ms), from Rough Fell, Cumbria, England, up to the moon or another even more distant planet, it would not have been more disorienting and unbelievable than what he shows her on this endless, please-never-let-it-end evening.

They begin at the Treasure Island, with its stunning blue-water lagoon and mesmeric Cirque de Soleilproduction. Yet this has hardly commenced when she finds herself watching the huge volcano erupt at the Mirage. Paris, Ancient Rome, the Wild West, Hollywood. It is as if she is being taken on a trip around the world, escorted by a singular being whom she met only minutes ago but is already starting to feel that she has known forever.

Noreen realises that she has hardly uttered a single word – unless you count ‘ooh’, ‘aah’ and a melange of sharp intakes of breath as being part of accepted vocabulary – until they reach the famed Bellagio resort, with its stupendous ballet of dancing fountains.

“So beautiful,” she says, finally, which is just about all that she can manage right now, although she is feeling and thinking so much more as the lights play on her entranced English face and the delicate spray lands like a caress on her pale, unembellished skin. “Thank you so much, Mr Lyle.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Noreen, yet no more than you deserve.” He smiles kindly. “I had thought that as you are so fond of lakes, you would enjoy being on the shores of Italy’s Lake Como.”

“Are we in Italy, Lyle?” asks Noreen, who, after all this, wouldn’t be a bit surprised.

“You are so charming, dear Noreen.” He laughs, his extraordinary teeth sparkling even more brightly in the night-time air. He appears to have a larger complement of them than anyone she has ever met. “No, I haven’t transported you across the seas to Italia. But some clever gentleman has – at a cost of nearly two billion dollars.”

“Goodness,” she says, “that’s more than…” She stops at this point, as she has no idea what this figure is morethan, because she has never heard such a figure in her life.

“It is indeed.” Lyle smiles again, but this time with his long linen arm around her. Noreen can feel the extraordinary warmth almost singeing her brand-new cardigan but feels no desire to escape.

“May I take you shopping?” he asks, gently.

“They’ve got a Tesco too!”she yelps excitedly, fishing in her bag for her purse.

***

Noreen Millburn’s initial disappointment that her favourite supermarket is not to be found anywhere within the glass-enclosed luxury of the Via Bellagio dissolves into confusion when she discovers that she has not heard of a single shop that is. Tiffany, Dior, Chanel, Gucci, Prada. They don’t even sound like real names. Where’s the Boots and the WHSmith? Where’s the Oxfam and Barnardo’s? Yet the merchandise within these small but brightly lit emporiums does indeed look extraordinary, whilst resembling in no conceivable way anything a person might usefully wear or use.

She can hear Lyle sweetly offering to buy her anything and everything under the sun, but despite being almost totally under the spell of this kindly yet alluring vision, who for some unfathomable reason wants to be really nice to her, possibly because of her name and provenance, she is determined not to let him go through too much of his hard-earned money this evening. Although the man has graciously offered a brief explanation, she is still not quite certain as to exactly how he has become as wealthyas he clearly is, but this is possibly because ‘dabbling’ is not a profession they have in the Lakes. It’s probably an American thing, like ranching or barbecuing.

After some persuasion and a fair deal more walking (no problem at all in her very practical hiking boots, which Lyle apparently covets), Noreen does agree to accompany her new friend into a very clean and clinical beauty shop. This is an establishment Lyle appears to know, where the young ladies are happy to work late and are, as he explains, always excited to meet a challenge.

“I shall leave you in their capable hands,” he tells Noreen as he guides her towards a welcoming group of white-clad and clearly enthusiastic professionals.

Noreen, soon to be quite alone once more in this alarming new world, finds herself wanting to beg the virtual stranger (yet possibly also her first ever bestie) not to go. But, somehow, she knows in her heart that whatever the beautiful person does must clearly be for the best and that her tall dark saviour in the fine linen suit will definitely be back very soon to do some more whisking.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

You don’t go searching for bones in a lion’s den.

(Somali proverb)

You’re probably wondering, with all this going on, what about Arnie? If you’re not, I sure as hell am. I know the situation. I know the rules. The man hasonly a couple of days to retrieve his misplaced soul and save his own rotten life. And, of course, as the old song goes, to fall in love and be loved in return, etc., etc. So okay, I’ll admit, I have my concerns.

Unsurprisingly, Arnie Garth is pretty worried too. If Noreen isn’t exactly his meal ticket (especially after the meal Melisande just made of his finances), she is most certainly his lifejacket. And he is starting to feel that he is totally drowning without her.

One would think that it shouldn’t be so onerous a task to find a dumpy English shepherdess without a hint of make-up, wearing a woolly red bobble-hat, a new but still appalling cardigan and ancient mud-stained hiking boots in Vegas. She wouldn’t exactly blend in with the crowd. (Unless, of course, there’s an English shepherdess convention in town. Stranger things…) The only person, however, even vaguely resembling Noreen Millburn of Rough Fell, at least in the glittery cardigan department, turned out to be an octogenarian from Nebraska who had believed all her birthdays just arrived at once when Arnie grabbed her excitedly and spun her round.

In his cascading desperation, Arnie even storms into a pretty little twenty-four-hour wedding chapel, where ayoung Korean couple dressed identically as WALL-E are being married by Elvis Presley (if the King was ever an anorexic Polynesian in her sixties). The cries of ‘mazeltov’ are appreciated, but Noreen Millburn is nowhere to be seen.

His hopes are raised momentarily, as he steams out of the ceremony, when he feels fingers of considerable power grip him around the arm.

“Noreen?” he says, spinning round in some relief. He discovers a large man in his forties beaming down at him.

“Noreen?” says the confused man. “Hey, Arnie, don’t you remember me?” Arnie shakes his head, so the man makes a thrusting gesture with his hips, rolls his eyes back into his head and puckers his lips. “Ooooooooooooooooohhhh!” he goes.

“Midas Welby Spring!” cries Arnie, greeting the legendary porn star. “Didn’t recognise you with your clothes on. How you doing?”