Bold Charity Fish

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Roger Lakeman was thinking about Charity Fish again. The charity was a bold hero with ugly ankles and brown eyes. He’d known her for years, but there wasn’t anything special between them. Not like his relationship with Sarah Orton: she had been the only person he ever wanted to make love to, so very long ago, when it didn’t matter anymore if anybody knew about him at all.

Her memory made Roger sad and happy at the same time: almost as much happiness as sadness… or maybe that wasn’t right either; probably not even close to being true in any meaningful way, since things had never quite worked out as planned on those occasions they’d dared to meet up during their brief periods of freedom from the prison in which their lives were normally confined.

There was always something else interfering, something going wrong, some kind of emergency waiting for somebody somewhere along the line whose existence nobody would be able to avoid by taking care to go home early enough before bedtime.

Life was supposed to be simple now that all the stuffiness and bullshit of grown-up society no longer applied.

Unfortunately, it rarely felt like that to Roger: and especially not this particular Sunday morning, when Sarah must still be working her shift down at the shop even though the rest of the world seemed to have abandoned him while he tried to get hold of her mobile phone number via the public library computers just south of Wirral Station.

It wouldn’t have surprised him if they’d knocked on the door – two burly men from Northamptonshire Constabulary, or possibly the Gwent Police Force in another part of Wales altogether; in fact, whoever came might be someone he recognized although in his case that wasn’t going to happen under normal circumstances because everybody who knew where to look could discover most of his secrets with just a few well-placed inquiries among his oldest friends or acquaintances in Chester and the surrounding area.

That possibility would be particularly possible now after several previous attempts to contact Sarah had proved unsuccessful over the past seven months due to other more pressing crises taking place around the local community; sometimes resulting in some unexpected incidents such as a narrow escape with no injuries at all, once or twice ending in sudden death at least.

But last night had been different: the stars aligned for an hour of a blissful interlude at St Vincent’s Hospital while both partners involved were asleep – Sarah and Roger himself.

Then Sarah had gone back to the hospital (she told him) because someone in the nursing staff thought she wasn’t eating properly, but really that was just the usual cover story used by everyone without asking too many questions and being satisfied afterward that everything was as good as it looked.

She said she hadn’t come home again yet, probably intending to spend the night there instead: to ensure she got some proper sleep in one piece rather than switching constantly between what appeared to be alternate realities at random intervals.

Which implied that whatever happened this afternoon at Chester General Hospital, would involve Roger first waking up after spending thirty minutes sleeping on the hard plastic mattress in the ward for people suffering from delirium tremens or other illnesses requiring specialist medication that would allow patients to sleep through the next three weeks if they needed to.

This scenario also offered the promise of Sarah making her own excuses to the staff who’d asked why she should need the extra help, when in fact she’d returned home alone earlier on: without bothering to wait for anyone else to arrive or helping to arrange transport because she couldn’t find the keys to any vehicles outside the front entrance.

They’d definitely been turned inwards somehow on the drive that ran along one side of the building: which meant finding a locksmith willing to take advantage of the opportunity to get inside someplace far superior to where most thieves lived in order to steal anything that might prove useful in his daily life.

Knowing Roger, and how unpredictable things always went wrong for him every single day anyway, her actions made complete sense to anyone who cared to stop to think about it.

His luck never changed: ever; and he could expect nothing better today simply because the moment he woke up he’d face the consequences for everything he did, including what remained to be done throughout the whole course of whatever remained of the entire remainder of his short life until his soul departed from its human host in less than ninety minutes’ time.

The only thing missing was for Charity Fish to turn up looking for answers she already possessed; just for old times’ sake. Which would mean the possibility existed that this visit was actually happening to him for real. Since they weren’t really together that often these days, the likelihood was virtually nil.

Therefore he should focus instead on trying to get hold of Sarah for a bit of moral support, and maybe a hand getting undressed out of his clothes and putting on fresh ones that might help his chances of avoiding certain death before lunchtime. After that, who cared?

He certainly didn’t want to spend the next seventy years with whatever minor personality disorder he’d inherited from his mother, especially after having paid so much money on her behalf to buy them off. Charity had warned him before she decided to leave town and set herself up in Bristol as a cleaner and domestic assistance worker in a block of flats close to the center of town.

But he didn’t believe her for a minute.

Probably she’d lied to him to try to protect what little reputation he had left in Chester. And then, out of nowhere, a random chance encounter on the stairs in Wirral Town Hall led to their lives changing forever.

Something he later learned must have occurred almost every week or even month for the past forty-five years; mostly with young couples and newlyweds whose relationship began after first meeting each other during one or more weekends away from the family home somewhere around here, such as on a beach further west beyond Rhyl or Abergele.

Not to mention those who were new arrivals in the city, arrived with spouses or lovers already present in this country thanks to marriage, emigration, or the importation of refugees who’d escaped from war-torn countries in Africa or the Middle East.

Without going anywhere near the sort of trouble that might bring problems like murder charges. Or worse still the attention of Childline social workers.

Except it was much easier now than it had been twenty-five or thirty years ago since anyone under eighteen could do what they wanted, and tell anyone at any time – which meant that children of any age could go out together, meet others with similar interests, join voluntary organizations and then simply walk into the sea afterward to drown. Death wasn’t necessarily a great leveler back then.

People died all the time in their hundreds. Including tens of thousands who might not have survived a lifetime of strife elsewhere. Whether they had mental health issues or just plain bad luck, sometimes when their bodies finally gave way to an unspeakable degree of physical trauma.

Only recently, long-distance open water swimming seemed to become fashionable again. A strange enough development to suggest a culture change: a cultural renaissance, even – although who knew?

Who could blame people for wanting to explore the beauty that lay beneath the surface of the vast ocean? But perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised by the popularity of something like that because people, it seemed, loved danger in all forms and shapes.

Even if most people preferred to associate themselves with one sort of risk over another: surfing stands in place of kayaking as an example. To experience things like falling off the board and being towed behind a speedboat racing at more than sixty miles per hour while riding small waves just above the bottom.

Because that was seen to carry a level of danger far greater than plunging headlong downriver with no idea where the rocks might lie ahead and then getting smashed against them without warning. To leap off high structures with nothing but a rope attached to your feet dangling below you.

Not knowing whether it would save your life when your legs kicked free at the last possible second as a result of too many feet wrapped in rubber padding attempting to slow your descent, or whether it might break under pressure when you were forced to jump out into thin air towards a potential catastrophe waiting for you deep inside the earth’s interior.

Or how about running through streets full of traffic in the dark wearing only minimal protection, before leaping onto the rooftops of buildings spread across several blocks, risking a painful tumble back onto the ground below if you slipped off the edge?

Where there are always numerous witnesses and CCTV cameras trained directly on your progress from the moment of launch upwards, capturing images to prove what an idiot you’ve become in the blink of an eye.

In reality, though, all of those activities carried only limited levels of risk unless you got unlucky and ended up making a fatal error of some kind.

So why all the fuss, then? What was different about competing in extreme sports these days compared to fifteen or so years ago when everyone involved with them in Wales seemed to find themselves stuck in a rut of domesticity after university and school life ended?”

“I think there were two things that were different,” I said. “One was that by this stage there weren’t as many people getting into the sport.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot!” Llyr said. “What is it with you Welsh folk anyway? Is this some kind of cultural thing where we don’t want to get out of your country until we’ve exhausted every possibility of being wankers?” He frowned at me.

“You can come to visit my place on Skye though. It won’t be for long because I’m planning to go back there again but… well…” he shook his head. “Sorry mate, just had to say that! That was brilliant!” And he slapped me on the shoulder before turning away from me and walking over towards his tent once more.

He paused in front of it momentarily, seeming quite flustered. “And I really must apologize for speaking rudely to your good self earlier,” Llyr muttered under his breath almost too quietly for me even to hear him properly.

“I thought you would know exactly what I meant and wouldn’t need reminding. But perhaps not.” He opened up one side flap and began rummaging around inside. Then he pulled something else out, rather large and obviously wrapped carefully in layers of material.

He put everything down gently beside his bed and looked over at me expectantly. When I didn’t make any move toward receiving whatever he’d handed over, he sighed heavily. “My god this stuff feels great!” Llyr turned around and walked off again without another word to me, apparently happy with himself now that the awkward moment had passed between us.

But, as much as it hurt to admit to myself, he might actually have been right. My muscles did feel somewhat loosened by now.

“Aaaah!” Yosyph gasped suddenly when he came into view later that day, having run through the woods after having found the path to our camp. At least, I assumed those had been trees behind him since I saw no other plant life besides grass anywhere near here apart from small patches of yellow flowers and clusters of purple berries that dotted the ground as far as I could see. They certainly didn’t seem to affect him much, either way.

The wind was quite strong today too and blew strands of my hair across the side of my face. This time I let my hood fall back entirely onto my shoulders, with nothing left uncovering my ears. On top of being cooler, it also afforded me another layer of protection against both bugs and onlookers – especially if Yosyph chose to start chatting me up again like he usually did whenever he felt I looked pretty enough.

If I had half a chance at finding this ‘cheque’ we were supposed to give, however, it wasn’t going to do me any good to look disheveled. The last thing I needed now was people recognizing who I was and getting me thrown out before anything else.

And that would probably include finding my family and ending up homeless once again. Which reminded me: it was about time I made sure I was fully concealed under my outfit.

Picking up my little bag, I lifted off the makeshift veil covering my face. Reaching inside, I selected one of two tubes containing white powder. Before each session, I usually opted to put a generous coating of it beneath my lips and cheeks, where any marks from lipstick would otherwise remain visible. Especially here, with nowhere to hide.

Here and now though, I just wanted to keep the most obvious signs of femininity under wraps.

With another glance at Yosyph to check he hadn’t noticed me, I brought the tube to my mouth. Having decided at long last to trust the packet’s instructions on how best to apply its contents, I took hold of the straw attached to the container, squeezed a tiny amount of liquid along it, and tilted my head forward a little.

For a minute or two, I forgot all about my problems completely, instead letting the rush of adrenaline overcome me. For all I knew, maybe this stuff contained enough drugs to kill me outright, but at this point, I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to die doing something I loved.

There was only so much I could do to protect myself here and now while wearing such an unflattering disguise.

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