Daniel Frischmann was surprised to find he was dead. Not the fact of his death, because that was fairly sure given the certainties of gravity, and the distance between his starting point on the nineteenth floor of his apartment block and the concrete courtyard directly below his balcony. No, his surprise was more like, “Oh wow, continuity of existence”. Not those exact words you will understand: his actual expression contained far too many expletives for polite company, so we will skirt around it for now.
Once he got over this shock, he looked around. His surroundings were grey. A bit like a faded black and white photograph, but darker and extending into the distance rather than ending with a white edge.
He was standing outside an uninviting English manor house; all broken windows, peeling paint and lifelessness. To his left unkempt rolling lawns fell in terraces to a dirty lake, around which a weed infested gravel path snaked off to gate. Beyond the gate was a narrow country lane leading to a crossroads. Like the house and gardens, all this was painted in grey. Not a soul was evident, no birds in the grey skies, no dogs, no cattle, no life of any kind.
“Where the hell am I?” Frischmann asked himself. “Is this Sheol?”
He dismissed the thought immediately; the Jewish hell, Sheol, was mostly described as a dark, deep pit to which people descended after death. For sure, he had descended, nineteen bloody floors to be exact, but that was before death. This was just grey, and it looked pretty much on the surface of the Earth, rather than in a hole. A sort of grey and not that pleasant land.
“Well there’s no use standing here,” he told himself, “let’s find out.”
The manor house, despite its proximity looked like a dead-end. There was clearly nothing going on in there, so he headed quickly along the crunching gravel path to the gate and tugged it open with some difficulty. The hinges badly needed oiling and the post to which it was attached slumped slightly, causing the gate to drag through the grey dirt in which it stood.
Outside the grounds, the road looked untended; pot-holes and litter covering much of its surface, but it was navigable, so he trudged along it to the crossroads. There, a single signpost pointed the way to “The Village”, so he followed it past fields of rotting fruit and unpicked cabbages.
His walk to the village took about twenty minutes, although he had no way to tell the exact time, because when he looked at his watch he saw it had stopped at the time of his death. Not only that, the watery sun hidden behind grey clouds did not seem to move the entire time he was there. It was almost as if time itself was standing still.
The village was just like a mockery of the traditional vision of England; ivy festooned eighteenth century cottages, a country pub, a post office, a corner shop, a church and a cricket green … except it was shabbier and grey.
The shop was as empty as its shelves, bereft as they were of any goods other than a few tins of stewed plums, as was the post office. None of the houses showed any sign of life either and the church doors were locked.
“So, the pub it is,” he said to himself and strode along the litter-strewn street. He opened the door and inside the most curious scene greeted him. Grey clad people sat hunched over tables, clutching dirty glasses half filled with a grey unappetising beverage. There was no conversation, just the hum of a low keening right at the edge of his perception. In the corner stood a jukebox playing the seventies hit for the Bay City Rollers, “Bye-bye Baby”, which jumped and skittered as if the record had been played too often.
Behind the bar stood a tall, wide-shouldered and stern-faced man, watching him with beady, suspicious eyes. His hair was cropped severely in a military style and he wore a handle-bar moustache under his stubby, inconsequential nose.
“What’ll it be?” The barman asked in a deep growl.
“A pint of lager, please.” Daniel replied reaching for his wallet.”
“We only serve ale,” growled the man, “British ale.”
“Ale it is then,” Daniel replied.
The barman reached under the counter and placed a half-filled pint glass on top. Then he eyed Daniel fiercely as if daring him to complain of short measures.
“Thanks,” Daniel handed the man a ten pound note, which he squirreled away into the pocket of his apron. No change was forthcoming.
The pint was tasteless, but Daniel had worked up a thirst, so he downed it quickly, reached for his wallet and asked for another one.
“Only one allowed,” said the taciturn barman.
“I’m not driving,” replied Daniel. “So you don’t need to worry about me.”
“Rationing,” came the reply. “Only one allowed.”
“I see,” said Daniel. “And does rationing allow any bar snacks?”
“Meat pies,” the barman said, “or ready salted crisps. Not both. Just one.”
“How much are the meat pies?” he asked.
“Ten pounds,” came the reply. Daniel handed over another note and was rewarded with a chipped plate atop which sat a grey lump of pastry with grey gravy bubbles dripping from a crack in its side.
He bit into the pie and like the pint it was virtually tasteless, but his hunger, which had until now gone unnoticed, gnawed at him. The barman stood there, his eyes fixed on Daniel, watching him eat the pie. Daniel quickly finished it and pushed the plate tentatively across the counter.
“Is there anywhere that rents rooms?” Daniel asked. “I’ve only just arrived and I’m a bit lost to tell the truth.”
“We are all lost here,” said the barman. Then in an uncharacteristic moment of loquaciousness offered, “We’ve been lost for a long time.”
“You’re ALL lost?” Daniel exclaimed with surprise. He jumped when an answering chorus came from the previously silent figures hunched over their pint glasses.
“We are the lost”, they said in unison.
“Yes, we are lost,” said the barman, “everyone in the village is lost.”
“And where,” Daniel paused for emphasis, “exactly is ‘here’. I’ve seen no road signs other than the one at the crossroads. That just said ‘The Village’, so I followed it.”
“Here is where we are,” replied the barman. “This is the distilled essence of where we have arrived. This is Brexit Britain. The Island of the Damned.”
It was hell after all.
Daniel screamed.
The above is the original, unedited version of the story. It was written for the Swansea Writers Circle. Every month, SWC sets a homework task for its members – a five hundred word story on a given topic. I have included the edited version below purely out of interest, and to show how the editing process works. ~ Marrick.
The island of the damned
Daniel was surprised to find he was dead. Not the fact of his death, because that was sure given the certainties of gravity, and the distance between the nineteenth floor of his apartment block and the concrete courtyard directly below his balcony.
No, his surprise was more like, “Wow! Continued existence”.
“Where in hell am I?” Daniel asked himself assuming he would not get to heaven.
He looked around. He was stood at a crossroads with a sign pointing to “The Village”.
Following the sign past fields of rotting fruit and unpicked cabbages as the lane wound down into a valley at the bottom of which stood a clump of buildings, he had no idea how long it took, his watch had stopped and the sun was unmoving. It was almost as if time was standing still.
The village was a vision of traditional England; ivy festooned cottages, a corner shop, a church and a country pub… except it was shabbier and grey. There was no apparent life, so Daniel decided to look around.
The shop’s interior was almost empty, as were its shelves, bereft of any goods except tins of Spam. The cottages appeared to be empty too and the church was locked.
“So, the pub it is,” he said.
When he opened the door he was greeted by a curious scene: grey-clad people sitting hunched over tables, silently clutching half-filled glasses. In the corner stood a jukebox playing fifties music and behind the bar was a stern-faced man, watching him with suspicious eyes.
“What’ll it be?” The barman growled.
“A pint of lager, please.” Daniel replied.
“We only serve ale,” he stated, “British ale.”
Daniel nodded and the barman placed a pint glass on the bar.
“Thanks,” Daniel handed the man a note, which he squirreled away into his pocket. No change was forthcoming.
The ale was tasteless, but Daniel was thirsty, so he downed it quickly and asked for another.
“Rationing,” said the barman. “Only one allowed.”
“I see,” said Daniel. “And does rationing include snacks?”
“Meat pies,” the barman replied, “or crisps. Not both.”
“I’ll have a pie.”
“Ten pounds,” came the reply. Daniel handed over a note and was rewarded with a lump of pastry, gravy bubbles dripping from its side. He bit into the pie and like the pint it was virtually tasteless, but his hunger, which had until now gone unnoticed, gnawed at him.
“Is there anywhere that rents rooms?” Daniel asked. “I’ve only just arrived and I’m a bit lost…”
“We are all lost,” said the barman.
“You’re ALL lost?” Daniel exclaimed. Unexpectedly, a chorus came from the previously silent figures hunched over the tables.
“We are all lost”, they said in unison.
“Yes, we are lost here,” said the barman.
“And where,” Daniel paused for emphasis, “exactly is ‘here’.”
“Here is where we are,” he said. “This is where we have arrived: Brexit Britain. The Island of the Damned.”
It was hell after all.
Daniel screamed.