I did feel sleepy. My body seemed to sink into the massage table. As my eyelids fell shut, an image of Mr Chin flashed before me. He was sitting in his Komfort King executive chair, shouting. When I tried to work out what this unsettling image could mean, my thoughts would not align. I struggled to stay alert but sleep, like one of those enormous Hawaiian surfing waves, knocked me down and pulled me under.
‘Hello, anybody home?’ The words were like an alarm clock going off in the centre of my brain. This area is known as the third eye and is the seat of the pineal gland, a small endocrine gland shaped like a pine cone.
The question had come from a strange man in the doorway. He was of medium height and wiry, and had the sharp features of an operator of a sideshow shooting gallery. He was dressed in flared blue jeans, cowboy boots and a John Wayne hat. His checked shirt had press-studs and pointed pocket flaps. He could have passed for a country and western singer if not for the haloes of grease around his pockets. There were dark smudges on his hands and face, which made me wonder whether he was a bicycle mechanic. He winked at me. I looked away.
Strange!
I was no longer lying on the massage table but seated on the couch next to my handbag. Its zipper was undone and the bag was open. I could not remember opening it or getting off the table. I pushed my knuckles into my eyes and rubbed hard until neon points of light appeared. When I opened them again Mr Tanderhill was striding over to the cowboy.
‘How dare you!’ He was trying to whisper but the absence of furnishings gave the room excellent acoustics.
‘Didn’t know you were entertaining,’ said the cowboy. He called out to me. ‘Howdy tooty, darling.’
‘Get out, Shanks!’ Mr Tanderhill made a wild pointing gesture. ‘You’re interrupting a professional session.’
‘I can see that.’ Shanks howled like an American coyote, which was appropriate given his Wild West clothing.
‘Get out!’
‘Well, pardon little ol’ me.’ He winked at me again and flattened a hand against his greasy chest in the manner of an apologetic duke. He smirked at Mr Tanderhill. ‘I need your professional opinion on some merchandise. A van load of very nice Husqvarnas.’
Mr Tanderhill threw the balls of his palms on to Shanks’s chest and shoved him into the hall. Shanks was still protesting as the hairy hand of the hypnotherapist snaked around the door and pulled it shut. I could hear them talking loudly as I hunted for my cardigan.
‘You’re ruining everything!’ Mr Tanderhill’s voice was shrill.
‘They’re very nice Huskies. He says he’ll take them somewhere else.’
‘You’re not listening, you fool! I’m telling you, I’ve struck gold.’
I stopped moving, my stomach gripped by the urgent feeling that accompanies vomiting, an upward rushing sensation from my duodenum to the base of my tongue. I had to get out of the bungalow. I pushed myself to my feet and realised my hands were damp with perspiration.
Outside the door, there was scuffling.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Shanks sounded surprised.
‘Look at this. It’s a valuable Hindu medal.’
‘Looks like crap to me.’
‘Take a closer look.’
‘How can I look with you waving it about like that?’
‘For God’s sake, just keep your eyes on the medal.’ Mr Tanderhill’s words were followed by a slap.
‘Ouch!’
‘Concentrate. Keep your eyes on it. You’re feeling sleepy, very sleepy.’
I heard a loud thud followed by confused movements. A door opened somewhere. There was shuffling and dragging. I found my cardigan rolled up next to the arm of the couch and stuffed it in my bag. I could feel my heart beating in the back of my throat as I opened the door and peered into the empty hall before slipping out of the therapy room. Taking care not to make any noise, I pulled open the front door and stepped outside. The day was still overcast but the sun had moved higher behind the clouds. A chunk of time had elapsed. I felt disoriented as I stepped over the wine bottles and around the Escort to walk swiftly down the path.
At the gate, I glanced at the side of the neighbouring building and saw something I had not noticed before. ‘TRUST’ was only the first part of the message. Below in smaller letters were the words, ‘NOT THE FALSE PROPHET’.
A stocky man in overalls was leaning against a white van parked next to the warehouse. As I broke into a run, he called out: ‘Ten quid on the chestnut nag. Ha, ha.’ I did not look back and kept running until I reached the bus stop on Industry Drive. There I opened my bag and removed my cardigan.
Strange!
My purse was gone. I rummaged inside the bag, taking out my notebook and pens, two multigrain cereal bars, town map, lip balm, tissues, three hair clips and the large colourful handkerchief I carried for rainy days. My passport was still tucked in the side pocket but the purse had disappeared. There was only one place it could be but the thought of returning to the hypnotherapist’s bungalow made me feel nauseous.
I held out my hand as the number five Blue Line bus approached the stop. The bus door opened but I did not move. The driver gave me an impatient look.
‘I’ve lost my purse,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘You mean you’ve got no money,’ he said, revving his engine.
I nodded.
‘Take a bloody hike then.’ The door closed with a hiss.
As the bus pulled away I noticed a large banner advertisement printed along its side. It showed the head and shoulders of a man in a tuxedo resembling Sir Winston Churchill. He was holding up a hand and flashing Sir Winston’s famous V sign but instead of regular fingers he had two fried fish fingers. Coming out of his mouth was a speech bubble: ‘Nack’s Fish Fingers. The winner’s gold medal dinner.’
As I walked home, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Something had occurred between Mr Tanderhill’s massage table and the couch. Time had passed, at least half an hour. But the harder I thought, the more elusive this period of time became and the more uncomfortable I felt. There was a blank where there should have been a memory of events. I had no recollection of what had occurred or what had been said.
Industry Drive is a long road and I was quite disheartened by the time I reached my flat.
3
I have seen the man in the fuchsia trench coat every morning this week. He must be quite public-spirited because he always brings a plastic bag to pick up his dog’s droppings at the rose gardens. Many dog owners do not bother with such precautions, which is not very responsible. Excrement is unpleasant but in the worst-case scenario, it can kill. In France, thousands of people slip on it every year. Most victims are mildly injured but some actually lose their lives. The government of France publishes annual statistics on such tragedies. The figures do not speak positively about French dog owners.
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