Page 15 of Lost Souls

Our dishevelled martyr is about to bang his grubby fist on said hovel’s door when he spies some drenched and wilting flowers in an old window box. Looking around, just in case the Cumbrian flower police might be doing one of its random spot checks, he swiftly grabs a bunch and arranges them into a makeshift and somewhat pathetic bouquet.

The surplus soil now wiped as best he can from his hands, Arnie Garth smooths down what little there is ofhis sodden hair then gives his mouth a bracing spray of Listerine Clean Mint. Finally, he adjusts his crotch and treats himself to another spray down there, because he hasn’t notched up his enviable tally of women who do inordinate amounts of sex for a living by having a smelly crotch. For a moment his thoughts turn to Cleo, who must be wondering how and where the hell he is, but the moment passes.

Finally, he gives a solid thump on the door.

And waits.

He has to admit to some nervousness.

After all, he is about to encounter the woman born within seconds of himself who has taken onboard his misplaced soul. And, if Arnie Garth has anything to do with it, the person who will also be the lucky recipient of his ever-loving heart (in the next five days would be good).

When there is no response, he knocks again.

Nothing.

“Don’t tell me the stupid bitch is out,” he moans into the air, then corrects it to ‘stupid broad’, just in case.

Finally, when he and his fist have grown weary, Arnie Garth gives the old door a petulant kick. To his surprise,it staggers open on its sagging hinges with a rust-infused creak, and he steps very tentatively inside.

The visitor has just time to register the dim light of candles and oil lamps – and nearly pass out from the horrific stench – when something immense flies across the room and batters into his chest, knocking him backwards onto the room’s dusty floor.

“What the fuccckkk!” he screams, before receiving a soggy face full of shaggy hair and huge sloppy tongue. For the second time in a matter of days, Arnie Garth believes that he is going to die.

A stern voice from the darkness barks out a command. “Cheryl! Stop that! Or there is absolutely no story for you tonight!”

The Old English Sheepdog’s lollopy tongue withdraws and its massive face shifts very slightly away, affording Arnie a sight which he has to admit is not a whole lot better.

“Are you… Noreen Millburn?” he asks, praying for a swift denial and a neighbourly nudge in the right direction.

“I am,” says the bobbly-hatted, multi-cardiganed woman.

“Aw, shit!” says Arnie Garth.

He reaches up a hand and pulls the huge dog’s head back into his field of vision, cutting out Noreen once more.

***

The cup of coffee is vile, but at least it is hot and comes with a rudimentary chair. In the flickering light, Arnie can see several non-human eyes staring at him with a mixtureof menace and curiosity, and one equally disturbing pair of pale-blue ones, of unusual lucidity, looking concerned and hardly welcoming.

“I make the coffee myself. From the dandelions outside.”

The expectorated liquid lands on the woman’s outermost cardigan with a silent splat and finds a home amongst other equally natural, albeit less forcefully delivered, stains. She doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

Arnie Garth stares at his ‘host’ once again, then ventures a sly but plaintive look heavenwards as if to say ‘somebody up there really doesn’t like me’. (NB: we don’t, but this is beside the point.)

Noreen Millburn has to be the strangest-looking and most bizarre creature he has ever encountered. And this man is from Los Angeles. He thinks for a moment of the homeless people he sees on the streets back in LA, wearily pushing purloined shopping trolleys filled with their worldly goods, sleeping in parks and under freeways in makeshift tents, panhandling in one of the richest cities in the world. People he passes with barely a glance and without a second thought. They look like guests at the UNICEF Ball compared to this large, woolly woman with the rugged, weatherworn, presumably Lake District face, devoid of make-up or any other mode of concealment, and defiant, prematurely greying hair.

Noreen sits down at the table so that she can unsettle her visitor more comfortably. Her accent, when she addresses him, comes across as local (circa 1750) and Arnie has to struggle to unravel exactly what she is saying. Even when he does, it makes absolutely no sense, an outcome thatfails to surprise him in the slightest.

“I keep telling you people – I amnotinterested,” she says, thumping down a large, sandpapery hand on the already rickety table. “And nor is anyone else around here. So please just go away.” She points with a knobbly finger towards the door, which is still hanging open and of which Arnie would definitely take rapid advantage were he not on the mission of his amorous life.

“What people?” he asks, when the gnarled sounds she is uttering finally identify themselves as what pass for words round here. “I ain’t people. I’m Arnie Garth.”

Noreen stares at him. “Y-you’re not from Apex Holdings… Mr Garth?”

“Who the fu— who the hell are Apex Holdings?” He offers an indulgent laugh. “You got me all wrong, lady. I’m a big Hollywood movie producer…” He pauses for a thoughtful moment, catching sight of the small cross above the mirror, crafted entirely from seashells. “Of worthy, faith-based, educational films.”

The woman looks quite puzzled by this. And not as impressed as she should be. So, Arnie Garth, creative giant, comes up with his masterstroke.