Our Song : Track 2

The Musical Interludes of a Last Chance Romantic

I Need You To Turn To - Track 2 of 11

From the night sky outside, the glow of the moon shone in through the window and danced on the coffee table in the centre of the lounge, like a ballerina performing a pirouette. Reggie sat on the sofa opposite, his eyes following the intricate footwork of the shiny dancer on the dark pine wood surface. He could feel the rays of light reflecting off the dancer’s silk dress and piercing through his pupils, burning images of beauty upon his retinas.
The clock face read two o’clock, upstairs was silent. Valerie was fast asleep in their bed, the door pulled shut, leaving an empty landing and stairway to echo the breeze that gently emanated from the front door.
Reggie did not sleep these days, at first he had found himself lying in bed at six in the morning, trying not to fidget and disturb his wife. But slowly that time began to get earlier; not that he knew why, there was no obvious reason for it. But every morning, he would find himself sat up in bed, wife fast asleep beside him.
It was on the realisation that there was nothing he could do to counter this development in sleep pattern, that Reggie decided to rise and see out the remainder of the night in his dressing gown and slippers in the lounge, where at least he could sit and read a book, or even watch tele.
There was a biking magazine from two years ago sat on the sofa beside him that Reggie had started to read. One particular article was on the latest Japanese contraption to hit the market. He had been meaning to pass it to his eldest son Frank, who had taken a keen interest in bikes like his father, but sadly much to Reggie’s dislike, had fallen for the lure of the Orient, and purchased a Honda motorcycle.
Why can’t you buy British? Norton or something, a real bike. None of this Jap crap!
But Dad. British ain’t what it used to be. You want reliability at a reasonable price you gotta go Japanese, sorry.
Affordable and reliable; words Reggie had always despised as a young adult, and now as a parent he found an uneasiness to hear them being spouted out from the mouths of his sons. Of course, he owned a Japanese car, a fact of which his sons constantly reminded him of, but it wasn’t the same. His time had passed, it was only right for him to settle down with something tame and sensible at the request of his better half, but not his young lads, they had their whole lives ahead of them. And it amazed him, just how little they resembled their own father in a desire to grab life by the balls, and ride the turbulent tides of youth.
Not that he wasn’t proud of their accomplishments. Frank, the eldest, had become director of a large national bank; one of the youngest in the bank’s history. And Frank’s younger sibling Colin, was just 25 years old when he was promoted to the position of senior purchaser of a large multinational retail outlet.
Although the birth of his eldest provided significant cause for hurrying along the impending nuptials with his beloved Valerie, his initial reluctance to settle down was soon set aside to make way for their three children. Although, he would never admit to his wife, there would always be times in his life when he would wonder how his life would have turned out had he not made such a commitment.
Both Reggie’s boys had done well for themselves, both in committed relationships and both already looking after themselves and their respective families in a world that no longer held the same scope for opportunity as Reggie himself had enjoyed. Reggie was the first to congratulate them on the success they had already seen in their young lives, and the responsibilities they had taken on; clearly a trait inherited from their mother. And yet, there was a sense of dissatisfaction that plagued Reggie whenever he heard either of his sons use such responsible language.
Was it a sign of regret of his own mis-spent youth? Or on the contrary, a realisation that his own youth had been cut short by marriage and with it, responsibility? Or was it merely the fact that as his sons grew older, so did he, and that reminder of mortality scared him more than anything else.
The inclination to switch on a light to enable such an activity as reading seemed to be beyond him. Reggie had begun to look through the pages through the light of the moon, but soon gave up as his eyelids grew too heavy to see the words in the darkness, and the photographs no longer held a satisfactory incentive.
Each night for the past week or so, as the minute hand crept over the number twelve to signify the turn of the hour to two o’clock, he had rose from slumber immediately, as if summoned by an invisible force, and almost subconsciously slid out of the bed and walked down the stairs to find himself sat on the sofa staring at the dancing lights on his coffee table.
There he was, every night; the exact number of days didn’t seem to hold any reverence or consequence any more. All he knew was the pain he felt in his forehead, the weight of his eyelids weighing down over his eyeballs, and the numbness of his limbs as he sat slumped over the sofa.
But this night was different to the others, or so from all that Reggie could remember, he believed to be the case. As he sat mesmerised by the light on the coffee table, he felt an uneasiness about the room; a cold chill or something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The air in the room felt denser; heavier in a way, as if weighing down upon him even more so than previous nights.
His shoulders were firmly slumped forwards, his bent elbows resting on his knees, and the only thing keeping his body from tumbling forward head first into the table. But there was certainly something, a presence in the room with him, drawing out his strength, maybe even his soul.
Reggie knew this because he could feel it. He had felt it on previous nights, but never to this degree. Was it possible that this presence would be the end of him? Was this the final night of his existence? And like an excited school boy waiting for Santa Claus, he had awoken early to witness the occasion of his judgement first hand.
There was a faint knock at the door. As quiet as it was, it caused him to fall backwards into the sofa, awakening him from the imagery of phantoms that had come to harvest his soul.
Reginald was again wide awake, sat alone on the sofa in his cold, dark lounge, with the only sound being his own deep breaths and heartbeat. But not quite alone, there was somebody just a matter of metres away, outside in the early hours of the morning, knocking on his front door. Or at least that’s what it appeared to be, but of course there was no way that could be. Unless of course the local hedgehog that had recently taken up residency in the area had taken the somewhat precarious choice of action and decided to request a walkthrough the house, as opposed to the more arduous journey around the outskirts of the building to the delights of the garden at the rear.
But of course Reggie knew this notion to be nonsense. Hedgehogs were known for sticking to a strict route no matter what, therefore there was no good reason for it to make such a deviation.
What a ludicrous consideration, why are you even contemplating such a possibility? Answer the door.
There was another rat a tat from the hallway. This time Reggie was certain it had come from the door, the sound of knuckles on wood was unmistakeable. But as to who would be awake at this time, let alone knocking on his front door was a wonder. Surely burglars didn’t make polite calls first to check whether or not their intended victim would mind them stepping in for a brief period. Of course, that would negate the trespass element of the offence necessary of burglary, should the offender be invited in by their intended victim.
But then, Reggie remembered hearing a suggestion that burglars would sometimes knock on doors to check whether anybody was up, and if they got no response they would be fairly certain to assume that the location was either vacant or that the occupants were fast asleep, enabling them to go about their business without interruption.
Is burglary a business?
Like a night watchman or bat or street lamp or prostitute? It is an occupation of sorts, merely one for the nocturnal that is somewhat frowned upon by the more civilised of society. It certainly provides an income of sorts even if it isn’t regarded as reputable as the other named methods of employment.
Dragging himself from the chair, Reggie walked across the room into the hallway. There was a baseball bat at the top of the stairs for such an occasion; just a quick walk up the stairs to ensure his protection, but then something prevented him from doing so. Perhaps it was the tiredness that had disabled his caution, but as he stepped out into the hallway, Reggie found himself turning right towards the front door and reaching up to the lock.
“You alright Reggie?” The smiling face of Reggie’s oldest friend Bernie was beaming at him as the door swung open.
“Bernie? What are you doing here at this time?” Reggie asked, puzzled by the appearance of his friend stood in the darkness of the night. Bernie had been a dear friend to Reggie for longer than he cared to remember. The pair had grown up together, always looked out for one another and even taken their respective families on holiday together.
Sadly for Bernie, his wife passed away a number of years ago and so was reliant on raising his only daughter single handed. Reggie and Valerie felt obliged to lend a hand in such matters, particularly as he had been the one responsible for introducing Valerie to Reg all those years ago.
Bernie had never remarried after his wife’s death, nor to Reggie’s knowledge, had he ever embarked on another relationship. Instead dedicating his time to raising his daughter. However, despite his free time and loneliness in the absence of his daughter who had left home to start a family of her own, it still didn’t seem to explain the reason for his intrusion as such an ungodly hour.
“I’ve got something to show you Reggie, you gotta come and see old boy.”
“At this time? Can’t it wait?”
“Why? You busy doing something else at three in the morning?”
Three o’clock? You mean two...
Luckily Reggie had only thought the preceding comment and not said it out aloud, because as he glanced at his watch he realised a whole hour had passed since he last looked. A whole hour in what had seemed a matter of seconds.
“Something better to be getting on with?” Bernie inquired.
“Well, no, but it’s too early in the morning to be going for a walk.”
“On the contrary Reggie, It’s the perfect time. At this rate you’ll be out and back in before the morning truly begins. What better time to do something than before the opportunity arises to do something else.”
“Before what arises? I don’t have time for gallivanting.”
“Reginald, the night time, where time as a function has no place, belongs to us. Come with me and I will show you. It will take no more time than you are willing to give.”
Reggie didn’t quite understand what his friend of forty years was trying to tell him. Maybe it was the lack of sleep that had caused the spinning in his head, preventing him from keeping his thoughts linear. For Reggie, Bernie may as well have been stating arbitrary adjectives and structuring them randomly in sentences, for all the sense he was making. “Sorry Bernie, maybe it is just too early in the day, or by contrast, too late, but all of this seems to be going right over my head. Maybe you could phrase it in another way that would explain the reason for such a greeting at this ridiculous hour.”
“I can do better than that Reggie old friend, I can show you. Grab your shoes and come with me.” Bernie held out his hand towards Reggie.
Should Reggie have further questioned his reasoning for dragging himself outside in the cold at such a time? Probably. And yet within seconds he found himself making his way outside to join his best friend on the footpath leading out to the world, with the front door shutting quietly behind him.
“It’s a lovely night isn’t it?” Bernie announced as they both looked up to the sky above. Reggie’s gown brushed against his leg, as a gentle breeze swept up the path and through the doorway.
“Is it?” Reggie responded disparagingly.
“Of course it is, take a look at the stars. The lights from the Gods, see how they shine down on us, lighting our way.” The sentiment was somewhat overly spiritual for Reggie’s liking. Bernie, to his mind, had never really been one to wonder at the majesty of the Universe, and yet now as they stood on the door step, here was the new born bible basher talking of God and stars, and no doubt Heaven would find its way into the conversation before too long; and the moment Jesus pushed his way into the party, Reggie would be straight back into the house.
But Bernie did not continue with this line of thought, but instead turned around and began to make his way back up the footpath towards the road. It was seven steps along, when he stopped and turned to look back at Reggie still stood by the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the moon, with his dressing gown draped over his shoulders.
“You coming?” Bernie asked then turned back towards the road and slowly commenced his walk.
This was the perfect opportunity for Reggie to open the door, and return to sanity, heading back to his nice, warm bed to lay beside his loving wife. But there was something intriguing about Bernie’s suggestion. Perhaps the fresh air would do him good. Much to his surprise, Reggie found he had slipped on a pair of old, tattered slippers and began to step out onto the path that led across the front garden to the footpath.
With a quickened pace, he soon caught up with Bernie who had slowly made his way to the pavement that ran alongside the road. At the gate, Reggie managed to intercept Bernie, as both stepped out onto the public footpath together.
“Nice of you to join me.”
“Just for a quick walk of course.”
“Of course.” Bernie answered thoughtfully, looking up the road.
“Bit of fresh air might do me good.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Right, well, let’s take a stroll then.” But as Reggie turned his body to his right in readiness to commence walking, Bernie threw his arm across his chest.
“Not that way.”
“You want me to walk up the hill? At this time of night?”
“If you go the other way, you’ll still have to walk back up the hill to return.” Bernie responded, now fully turned and ready to start walking up the hill. “Besides, I want to show you something, and it’s this way.” Bernie pointed up the road.
“Show me something? Now?”
“Yes, now. It has to be now. Don’t worry, it’s not far. You’ll be back before Valerie even begins to stir.” And with that, Bernie raised his leg and began to walk up the hill. Reggie followed behind, pacing hastily to keep up, but finding Bernie’s strides surprisingly fast.
For a brief time Bernie walked in silence, clearly focused on the journey ahead, each pace stretching out ahead of him, long and deliberate. So much so, Reggie found himself having to jog for short bursts just to keep up, with beads of sweat dripping from his forehead.
“This… hill…seems… steeper…” Reggie was panting, as sweat began to pour down his cheeks from his brow. “Than usual.” He stopped, bent over with his hands gripping the pain throbbing in his sides.
“You ok mate?” Bernie stopped and turned to see his long term buddy struggling for breath.
“Can’t…breathe…” The pain that had started in his sides was now reaching across his chest, as if a small series of explosions were occurring within his rib cage. Reggie dropped to his knees, hardly noticing the small stones from the footpath that had imprinted themselves into his skin as he landed on the pavement. Instead, his right hand now clutched at the left side of his chest, whilst he leaned forward with his weight resting on the other arm, palm spread across the floor.
His face was burning hot, he could feel the veins in his forehead throbbing as if pumping boiling lava through his body. But that was nothing compared to the panic which began to overcome Reggie as he felt the all too familiar pain, pulsating inside his skull. The once dormant volcano, which had been showing signs of awakening for the past year was now ready to erupt.
The smoke emitting from the volcano’s peek was clouding Reggie’s mind, heating the contours of his skull raising the pressure within. And for all his panting and heavy breathing, Reggie could not see a way through the suffocating smoke. His hands sweeping at the gas, but feeling it slipping through his fingers.
There was no way through the suffocation of the smoke that surrounded him, and Reggie could feel his breathing becoming heavier with every gasp of desperation. Over the last few weeks, Reggie had foreseen his time coming to an end, and as his arms swept wildly within his cocoon of smoke, he felt the last remnants of oxygen inside his body making their final journeys around his circulatory system, providing his body with the ingredients of energy for one last time.
 “Reggie mate, take it easy.” The voice of his friend overhead seemed to fall over him like the burst of a rain cloud, filtering through the dark ash cloud. Suddenly, there were small glimpses of sky, tiny specks of air seeping through the smoke.
“Reggie?” Another burst of rain softened his eyes to a lighter shade of blue, until finally, above his head the shade that hung over him slowly transformed into the form of a human being. That of his old friend.
“Bernie?” Looking up at his buddy of so many years, the clear night sky softened his features and ironed out his creases. It occurred to Reggie that Bernie was looking younger, like he was almost half his age. The colour of his hair seemed darker, he had always had a full head of wavy hair, ever since Reggie could remember, but the darkness of the night appeared to have dyed the grey completely from his head. 
“Don’t over do it mate. Can’t have you collapsing on me now can we?” As the shape of Bernie’s body began to form around the initial silhouette before Reggie, he was able to make out the form of an arm reaching towards him, and an outstretched palm beckoning him to take hold.
Reggie did so, taking a tight grip, with both sets of fingers firmly taking hold of the others’ hand. Bernie’s hand was bitterly cold, more so when considering the time of night and the fact he was not wearing any protective garments. He was also surprisingly strong, Reggie felt himself being raised from the floor, making what felt like very little effort. And with just one sweaty hand.
But it wasn’t sweaty. That is what made Reggie uneasy when taking hold of Bernie’s hand. He had expected it to be cold, though maybe not quite as much as he found it, but despite the pace he had set up the hill and Reggie’s own perspiration he expected some sort of sign of exertion from Bernie. And yet, here was Bernie’s hand, perfectly dry as if he hadn’t been running at all. There was no rational explanation, but then the night itself seemed to be full of contradiction and surprise, perhaps it was all in his head.
With the firm grip of his friend, Reggie found himself back on his feet, though slouched forwards. His lungs were still hurriedly taking in oxygen to replenish the body, sweat wept from pours all around his body, and chilled his skin as the cold night air froze the drops like icicles.
Bernie on the other hand stood tall, and as straight as if he had been enjoying a mild stroll. Had it been that Reggie had imagined the run? Was his illness taking over his body, drawing away its strength and causing him to struggle over a short distance where once he would have succeeded with the least of trouble? For some reason his mind was recreating the stimuli of the outside world, making him believe that he had embarked on a more strenuous form of transport.
Truth was that Reggie was tired, he had slept little of late, and in his mind he knew it. It was only then that the question occurred to him as to why Bernie was also awake at this time. Was he also suffering from the same insomnia that had blighted Reggie? Or was there another reason for it?
Should I ask him? Is this something as a friend, I should enquire about?
Would you like to be asked about why you were still awake at three o’clock, or would you rather hide from that line of enquiries?
Maybe it would be nice to ask?
How about opening the conversation with the frequent headaches you’ve been having? The restless nights, the anxiety?
This has nothing to do with me?
It has everything to do with you. Do you expect him to respond in anyway different to yourself?
No.
Then why seek such a reaction from your friend?
Gathering his thoughts, he finally found that he was able to stand straight and look towards Bernie face to face. He opened his mouth ready to speak, but before any sound could form between his vocal chords, Bernie pre-empted the communication and spoke with a raised sense of urgency. “We can talk in a bit old friend, but we must get moving if I am to show you what I have in store. It won’t take long, but we must get there soon.” Bernie then gazed up towards the half moon, now shining brightly over them. “Time is not on our side.”
“I thought you said that time had no place at night? That it belonged to us?”
“And I did, but you are taking my words far too explicitly. There is no escaping time. But, what you can do is to cause a distortion, that relatively speaking causes such a disruption as to cause time to stand still. Relatively speaking of course.”
“Relatively speaking?”
“Of course. It’s all subjective.”
“You mean it’s in our heads?”
“Exactly, but as nearly all of life’s follies are played inside our own minds, who is to judge what is accurate and what is not?”
“It is judged by whether it is real or not.”
“And who is to preside over such a judgement?”
“By definition, that would be a Judge.”
“Stating his opinion, based on the facts laid out before him?”
“Yes.”
“And if those facts are in fact false? What then? Does it make the verdict of the individual any less accurate, or the judge any more to blame for such a failing?”
“I suppose if he has an honest held belief of the accuracy within the stated facts, then no.”
“In which case we accept in principle that which can not be determined in any other way than the direction in which it has been directed.”
“And in this way we cause time to stop, how?”
“Because we believe it to be so.”
“But we couldn’t just do that in the comfort of my own home?”
“Time isn’t that simple.”
Somehow I knew you were gonna say that.
Reggie responded in his head, as he felt the creaks of his bones and the reluctance of his legs to stretch forward onto the steep incline of the hill before them. But his head made representations to the rest of his body, and with some persuasion the two friends had resumed their march up the road.
“Can you tell me where we’re going?” Reggie called to Bernie as he started to see his friend pacing ahead of him once again.
“Not far now.” Reggie heard himself responding.
“I’m tired, I’m bored.” Came a young, high pitched voice from behind him.
“We’ll be there soon.” Reggie responded impatiently.
The pace was quick, Reggie couldn’t deny that, but it was only because Louise had been messing around in the road picking up stones from the side of the footpath. And then there was the incident with the monster spider that practically ate the entirety of Louise’s left leg disabling her from the hip down. Of course that would explain her inability to walk with any real pace.
But this was no time for fun and games; they were late leaving in the first instance, thanks to Louise’s reluctance to put her shoes on like she had been asked to, and now they were having to make up for lost time. Of course, Valerie wasn’t entirely blameless, she was the one who had decided that they could do without the bike and then took the one family car, knowing full well that he needed it. And now here he was, with his five year old daughter in tow, pacing up the hill on a freezing cold winter’s evening.
“But my legs hurt, you’re walking too fast. My legs don’t know how to be as big as yours.” The whine of his five year old daughter ringing in his ears, with her heavy huffing of agitation between words.
“If you didn’t keep messing around, we would have been there by now.” Reggie snapped, and the sound of huffing behind him turned to sobbing. The heavy, forced sniffing of a young, tired girl.
Reggie stopped walking abruptly, his face red with annoyance, “And you can cut that out for a start…” But as he turned around, Louise was gone, and all he could see was an empty road leading down the hill towards his house.
Had he really been so harsh to his daughter at such a young age? A heavy feeling of sadness came over him as Reggie stared down the empty road and his mind tracked back to those big brown tear filled eyes. He had failed to recognise the genuine reaction of upset in his young daughter; maybe not from physical discomfort, but certainly an emotional response to the aggressive undertone within his own voice.
Compassion had never been his forte, but staring face to face with the situation, Reggie wondered just how he had failed to live up to the one standard required of a father; to protect his daughter from suffering, no matter the identity of the protagonist, and certainly not to be the direct cause of the misery himself.
“Here Reggie.” He turned back around to face the owner of the voice, but there was no one.
“Reggie! Over here!” This time, Reggie made a more conscious effort to locate the precise direction from whence the voice had come. But when he looked to his right, all he saw was a thick row of conifers, huddled together, blocking the sight of the field behind.
He stepped forward towards the branches, his eyes scanning around the trees as if somehow the voice had come from a small insect inhabiting the thick green spinal leaves.
Reggie stepped closer, the branches appeared to be swaying in the breeze; only the breeze was brushing against his back, if anything he was stood within a metre of the trees acting as a wind break. Therefore the rustling of the conifer branches that was starting to grow in intensity couldn’t possibly be down to the wind, but…
There was a sudden pain that clasped around his wrist, as if it had been trapped in a clamp. The next thing Reggie knew he was being pulled through the trees by his wrist, the sharp green branches slicing across his face like a thousand tiny blades. The agony of the repeated slashing across his cheeks was only surpassed by the crushing grip around his wrist numbing his hand to a point of no feeling.
Reggie thought of fighting, of straightening his legs and locking his knees causing his feet to dig into the soil beneath the trees like anchors, but it was no good. He continued to be pulled through row after row of conifer. It was like a forest, with the trees seemingly growing thicker, and his body offering little, if any resistance. The branches were now deliberately slapping him across his entire body with such force that it was if they were trying to punish him for something. His dressing gown offered no protection from the aggressive swiping of the trees that were slicing across his chest and legs like a cat o’ nine tails.
With his one free arm, Reggie weakly attempted to grip hold of the trunk of a passing tree, but his arm was easily swiped away by the tree’s skinny arms, slashing over his bare wrist.
The pain stopped, Reggie once again had both wrists free of his shackles, and his feet steadily on the ground. He opened his eyes; he looked around and found himself in an empty grass field, with just the row of conifer trees behind him.
“You OK mate?” Immediately Reggie recognised Bernie’s voice.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked as his old room mate began to brush the loose green leaves from Reggie’s hair and dressing gown.
“I could tell you mate,” He walked around and slapped Reggie across the back a couple of times with more force than he had intended, causing Reggie to lurch forward involuntarily. Then walking back to the front holding a thin green twig in his hand, “But it would be much easier to show you.” and with that he dropped the twig on the floor.
“Besides, I’m surprised you don’t recognise this place for yourself…Oh, you can do that part yourself.” Bernie pointed down toward Reggie’s crotch, then turned away and began to walk toward the centre of the field.
“You want me to follow you then?” He called, but there was no response as Bernie strolled onward to what appeared to be an empty field with the exception of a single oak tree in the very centre.
The grass was long and damp, Reggie could feel the cold dew dampening the hairs on his legs.
Should have put some trousers on before coming out.
“I don’t know how you can wear shorts in this weather.”
“It’s not a problem, not as if my legs are cold.”
“But it’s freezing.”
“And that’s why I’ve got my coat on.”
“But with shorts?” Valerie enquired sarcastically. “It looks silly.”
Reggie brushed his legs with his hands as he answered with a smile on his face. “With legs as hairy as these, I’ve already got my own naturally designed pair of trousers. And they’re a perfect fit.”
“Well, I’ve not heard of any designer introducing the tight-fit Neanderthal cut jeans.” She laughed out loud.
 “It’s real fur my love, go on have a feel.”
Reggie grabbed the hand of his wife and placed her palm against his leg.
Quickly, Valerie pulled her hand away forcefully with a grimace on her face, wiping her damp hand against the side of her jacket, “Eww. That is disgusting.”
“What?”
“They’re drenched. It’s like stroking a wet yak.”
Reggie had no response to that.
“Anyway, fur clothing’s illegal isn’t it? It’s cruel to animals.”
“Only if the animal’s on the endangered list.”
“Well, you try something like that again, and you’ll be the next species to become extinct!”
That was like an invitation too good to refuse, hand written and delivered in person with a squirt of perfume on the corner for authenticity. As quick as a flash, Reggie wiped both hands up the sides of his legs, running his palms up the soaked hairs along his calves and drawing water into his hands.
And then splash! His wet hands raised in an instant and tickled her cheeks, much to the surprise of Valerie.
“Get off you pervert!” she laughed as she leaped backwards, raising her arms across her now wet cheeks to block any further advances from her mischievous husband.
“What’s the matter? It’s just a bit of water.” He laughed and took a step forward as he saw his wife quickly back peddling. Her eyes were constantly dropping to his hands, which were positioned either side of his waist poised for a further assault.
“Stay away!” The backward steps were quickening as she spoke, a giggle in her voice as she playfully swung her arms across herself, swiping pre-emptively at any possible lunge toward her, “I’m warning you.”
“Oh really? I like the sound of that.” With a laugh reminiscent in its vulgarity to Sid James from the Carry On movies; Reggie took a couple of steps forward, raising his arms towards his wife’s slim and positively enticing midriff.
Valerie’s steps quickened, glancing behind her to check for any possible obstructions. But Reggie also hastened his own steps, ensuring the gap between them remained at just over an arm’s reach, his finger tips remaining within centimetres of her.
Valerie turned and ran.
The chase was on.
Valerie had taken the advantage of a head start, increasing the gap between them as her velocity increased rapidly. But Reggie knew he had the superior speed, and was accelerating at a much quicker rate, exponentially decreasing the gap on his prey.
Valerie’s progress was hindered by her laughter. Her inefficient breathing rate, along with the constant glancing over her shoulder and swiping behind herself with one arm meant Reggie had managed to decrease the gap to within arm’s reach once again, and was closing fast.
A quick deviation to the left, followed by a sharp turn to the right, and then a sudden stop as Reggie passed by at full speed from behind. Dropping his right shoulder and veering right in an arc, but still managing to maintain some speed, he continued his pursuit. But Valerie’s cunning, tactical manoeuvre had once again gained an extra few feet, and Valerie was laughing as she paced across the field through the wet grass.
Reggie was now further behind than he had been when the chase had commenced, his stride increased in length to make up lost ground. But then…
Thump.
Reggie found himself, face down, flat on the ground. He could feel the wet grass on his cheeks, and water soaking into his dressing gown.
“Are you alright Reggie?” The voice didn’t sound like Valerie’s, it seemed far deeper in tone, and less playful in nature.
Reggie felt an ache in his back, as he placed his palms flat on the floor and raised his head to look up to where the words had come from. Despite the light being limited to that provided by the moon, Reggie could see the numerous wrinkles across the backs of his hands. Suddenly he felt old, his skin was withered, and his muscles felt strained. How had he managed to run? He could barely lift his head above his shoulders.
“Reggie?” The silhouette of his wife grew larger as she drew closer to him. The shape of her long, flowing hair no longer visible in the shadow.
“Val?”
There was a laugh, and as she stepped into the full beam of the moon light. Reggie could see the change in character as his wife grew in stature and with her transformation, the distinctive facial definitions of his friend Bernie became apparent, stepping towards him.
“We’re here mate.” And reaching down with one arm, he once again raised him to his feet, with little to no effort needed on the behalf of Reggie.
“Where?” Reggie brushed down the loose grass blades from his dressing gown, the soaked towelling material weighing down over his shoulders. He looked to either side of the large oak tree that stood to his left.
“In here.” Bernie pointed towards the trunk of the tree, bright white in colour with the light of the moon beaming directly over the wooden surface. At first that is how it appeared, but something seemed unusual about the tree, the way the light shone on the trunk appeared to have a metallic quality to it. It looked perfectly smooth, as if there were no ridges.
Then Bernie’s arm reached past Reggie into the light of the moon and rested his hand, palm flat on the shining trunk. He gave a light push, straightening his arm, and from there he saw what seemed to be a metal door swinging open, the hinges were to the right and behind it a dark passage emerged.
“This way.” Bernie walked straight past Reggie and into the light of the moon towards the passageway.
Surprising himself, Reggie followed quickly, straight through the portal of light that seemed to shine over the tree creating an entrance; and into the passageway.
The corridor was dark and narrow, and yet in spite of the lack of visibility, there was sufficient for it to appear to continue onwards before him, with no sign of any vertical incline. How was this possible inside the trunk of a tree? No matter how wide or deep it was, the passage itself would have to have a sudden vertical fall or at very least spiral around the inside of the trunk as it wound its way vertically either up or down.
Reggie couldn’t actually feel the walls to the corridor, but the chill that emanated from them seemed to be forming icicles across the lining of his dressing gown, still damp from his fall on the grass.
 It wasn’t long in the darkness until Reggie felt Bernie stop in front of him.
“We’re here.” Announced Bernie profoundly, and as light seeped through a widening crack in front of them, Reggie half expected to hear the dramatic orchestral performance of a John Williams movie score.
With no dramatic introductory music, the doorway opened up to a brightly lit room. But what room was it? The only way to know for sure was to enter. After all, it would almost be impossible for anybody not to wonder what type of room would exist within the trunk of an old oak tree.
What makes you say that it’s old?
You count the number of rings in the trunk?
But how many is that? You didn’t count.
I can assume they amount to the length of the corridor, which progressed from the circumference to our current location, without a sign of deviation. Therefore a direct route.
And how do you know the exact distance of that?
I counted the steps. Fifteen in total, and at my next step, I can fairly accurately estimate the entire length based on an approximation of my stride within this well lit room.
And the density of rings per stride? Is their distribution not dependent on the year’s weather conditions?
I believe there can be a presumed average. I have never personally seen an oak tree with rings further apart than one centimetre, I believe that would be a somewhat conservative estimate.
But have you ever seen any type of tree with its own corridor and brightly lit reception?
Reception? Is that what you’re calling it? Does a reception have its own chandelier hanging above a full size grand piano?
There was a Grand Piano in the centre of the room. More to the point there was a grand piano in the centre of a suspiciously large oak tree.
It could be an illusion, we can’t still be in the tree. What proof do you have that we are?
It was a good question; what was there to prove that what had actually taken place was that the corridor had led them out of the other side of the tree and into a room that had been cunningly secreted behind the tree in a shade and manner that was not entirely obvious within the darkness of the night? But as Reggie looked around the room that he now found himself deep within, he noticed there were no corners. The room was perfectly round, and the walls had a golden tinge from the brightness, lighting a wooden grain texture, in appearance at least.
“Where are we?” Asked Reggie, as he turned around looking for any kind of feature upon the wall other than the wooden texture of bark. “In fact, where’s the door?” There was no sign of where they had entered, or in which direction they were to leave. Whilst inspecting the circumference of the room, Reggie had found himself turning, in a now unknown bearing, and had no idea from what angle he had commenced.
What’s more; whilst questioning Bernie of the identity of their location, Reggie found that he was continually spinning and yet the only identifiable objects within the room were the piano and chandelier. And that included Bernie.
“Where are you Bernie?”
Was he spinning? His feet felt perfectly still. Perhaps it was the room spinning? Was he currently stood inside an enormous wooden spinning top? If so, he should brace himself for one almighty fall, as the room topples to the side.
At that point, Reggie felt the room stop.
So it was the room then.
“Did you see the paintings on the walls of the corridor?” A voice appeared from behind him, it was Bernie sipping from a small glass containing a clear liquid of what was most likely to be water.
“Out there you mean?” Reggie reached out his right arm and pointed towards the wall at an exact ninety degree angle.
“You mean over there.” Bernie took hold of Reggie’s elbow and turned his arm so that his hand was pointing in exactly the opposite direction, across his body and ninety degrees to his left. And to Reggie’s surprise, he was looking directly towards the dark mahogany coloured door, conspicuously placed in the centre of the corner less wall.
“What paintings?” Reggie asked, returning to Bernie’s initial question.
“The ones in the corridor.”
“In the corridor?”
“Yes, some beautiful works of art. I particularly enjoy the depiction of madness identified within the shape of a thousand leaves. One of my favourites.”
“It’s pitch black out there, I could barely see.”
“And then there is the stretch of sand that reaches across the Himalayas, creating a golden veil that hides and protects the modesty of the land.”
“There were no lights, no candles, not even a match. How could you see anything?”
“Beautiful picture frames as well, all golden leaf with carvings of winged fairies and centaurs. Each one more beautiful than the last.”
“I didn’t see a thing. Could you not have brought a torch? I would have liked to have seen them.”
“Torch? There is no need of a torch. Did you not close your eyes as you came through the corridor?”
“Of course not, I wanted to see where I was going.”
“How would you expect to see in the dark with your eyes open?”
There was no answer to this logic and Reggie knew it. What was the use of his eyes being open if in fact they served no purpose as there was no light from which to reflect the images into his mind?
Bernie finished the remaining drops of water from the glass, “Sorry, I was thirsty. Did you want a glass?”
Reggie just shook his head, where Bernie had even got the drink was a mystery enough. It would undoubtedly lead to further inquisition, which at this time was not at the forefront of Reggie’s mind.
“Why are we here?” It seemed the most sensible and logical question that Reggie could ask in a situation like this. And at this point, Reggie needed logical questions, otherwise there was very little chance of a logical answer, and with his current environment refusing to take shape within the general accepted principles of spatial application and physics, a single thread of sense was required.
“We’re here to help you Reggie.”
“Help me?” How will being here help me?”
A queer question. Should you not be asking as to the reason help is required prior to understanding the method in which it will be provided?
If it is to help me, then I should ascertain that I am best placed to identify for what that help is required. For who knows better than I as to where in my life I am in need of assistance? And as it is a strictly subjective identity, then I should not require the detail of the salvation, moreover the nature of the assistance that they are willing to provide. And in this case I am unsure as to how being placed within this room is likely to help in any of my current quandaries.
Bernie interrupted Reggie’s train of thought with a faint response, “Give it time, and you’ll see my friend.”
Did he just respond to my thoughts? Can he hear what I’m thinking in here?
Of course he can’t, he was just answering your previous question.
But how do I know you’re not him?
Do I sound like him?
How would I know if you don’t? Inside my head, your voice may have a very different resonance to that which my ears perceive as being him, as it is amplified using an entirely different piece of equipment.
“Nobody else knows about this place,” announced Bernie, “A place where time has no relevance; where existence thrives on the mechanisms of the mind rather than the presence of an externally determined factor.”
Reggie was puzzled, he was never particularly interested in the mechanisms of time, let alone any complicated principles that existed in the manipulation of time. But then, to his mind neither was Bernie. “Sorry Bernie, but what do you mean, time has no relevance? You’re not talking to Stephen Hawking you know.”
“I mean that time within the room acts independently to that outside, it is a portal inside the mind if you like.”
“A portal in whose mind? Yours or mine?”
“For you, it’s yours. Time in this room can stand still or even speed up, it is within your grasp. The stimulus of the running of time lies solely within your conscious mind, completely separate to those prevalent to that outside.”
“Outside? Time is time, there’s nothing that causes it to speed up.”
“Of course there is Reggie. Time outside this room is a perception, a man made formulation to explain the order in which events unfold. On the outside world it serves as an index of occasions for the memory, but in here there can be no such occurrences, and therefore time serves no function.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand your fascination with time, far too nerdy for me. But tell it to me in practical terms. Let’s say you are right about this time standing still. How does this help me? What do I need unlimited time for? It’s not as if I plan to stay here for the rest of my days, live the rest of eternity inside some physically impossible room within an old oak tree.”
You still don’t know whether it is old or not.
Shut up!
Bernie didn’t answer. He chose not to. Instead he took Reggie’s stare and reflected it onto the piano still sat in the centre of the room, and smiled.
It suddenly clicked in Reggie’s mind, but then with the click came the inevitable cloud of disbelief and mistrust. If this was true, how did Bernie have any knowledge of Reggie’s idea? It wasn’t as if he had verbalised it in any way, nor had he ever given any indication of such a concept in previous years.
So how could he know?
Once again Bernie had a response to a question he wasn’t asked, “Let’s not worry about the why’s and the how’s, for they are immaterial to our present circumstances.”
He did it again.
Or he is more perceptive than you give him credit.
I see you haven’t left either. Clearly failed to call your bluff.
I have no bluff for which you may see, hear or call. I am for the most part bluffless.
Most part?
Yes, in this world you can never be certain of anything. But I do hope that should you identify a bluffness of my being you will be sure to call me on it once more. Just to make sure it is not what it appears. One can never be too careful.
“This is your chance Reggie, to do something incredible! To provide your wife with a truly personal and wonderful gift. To finally open up and allow your soul to be free.” His head glanced between Reggie and the piano. “Come on, take a seat. You have all the time in the world.”
Reggie knew that Bernie was right; it was the perfect way of showing his wife of thirty years just how much he loved and appreciated her. He had always refrained from sentimentality, and from that aspect, poor Valerie had missed out on an aspect of marriage that other women enjoyed.
She had never openly complained, but deep down Reggie knew at times that Valerie had become frustrated with the more superficial displays of affection that Reggie had demonstrated over the last thirty years. After all, she was only 22 years old when they married; she hadn’t been old enough to experience any serious relationships before she met Reggie.
By marrying Valerie, by taking her oath to remain faithful to just him, and yet refusing the intimacy that any young woman craved, he had also taken her chance to feel loved in a way that surpassed the mere physical. Perhaps old age was finally making him realise his own mortality, and in doing so offering to exploit those opportunities of happiness that he had always kept closely guarded under fear of rejection.
“This is your chance Reggie. For too long you’ve been hiding away. Let it go.”
Reggie listened, for possibly the first time ever, rather than shying away, he actually felt ready to take a step into the dark corridor towards uncertainty. Not only to learn the song, but to open himself up to it, to understand just what made it so special to his wife, and hopefully through his own performance show her just how special she was to him. He pulled the stool out and sat down, facing the piano his hands stretched out, fingers resting on the keys. Almost out of instinct, the thumb and little finger on his left hand found the two black Eb notes an octave apart to the left of the keyboard, the index finger on the Bb between them. And with his right hand, his fingers hovered over the octave covering the G, Bb, Eb, and higher G.
Reggie paused where he was, “Why have you done all this for me?”
“Done what?”
“This. This room, this piano. This whole place you’ve brought me to.” Reggie raised his arm and waved it around the circular room.
“I just want to help you. Let’s just call it pay back.”
“Payback? For what? You don’t owe me anything do you?”
“Maybe not now, but for sure that will change in the future. And even if this is merely but a splash in the ocean for what I will eternally be indebted, I hope in some way it will serve its purpose.”

To be continued...
Track 3 - Take Me To The Pilot