The Mother: Trifling, #1

Trifling

- The Mother -

by

A. E. Puscat

Table of Contents

Prologue........................................................................3

On 2020, March the 15th at 07:30 I called upon Muhammad...............................5

The moment I did not realize the world as I knew it, is gone..............................10

The day after the senseless night....................................................19

Time as it flies..................................................................27

One of those days...............................................................31

Inside the police hive.............................................................39

Sly the Sly.....................................................................42

Outside the police hive ... maybe a bit further away.....................................48

Two dogs, a cat and a pensioner....................................................52

The pensioner who talks to dead people..............................................56

Cinnamon.....................................................................61

Hospitals to the rescue............................................................65

Internet, please help..............................................................70

Things that never were...........................................................77

Not where you expected, but 350 miles to the east......................................87

Goodbye Bristol.................................................................95

The smile of the sea.............................................................102

Sunspots......................................................................112

Moonlight....................................................................117

A surrealistic discussion.........................................................125

The old priest in the empty room..................................................129

You are insignificant, Alex Puscat.................................................142

We..........................................................................146

David........................................................................152

The letter to Muhammad.........................................................160

Muhammad’s chapter...........................................................161

Prologue

The old mill stood unsullied and dispassionate on the top of the hill where it was built more than two hundred years ago. Few things have changed during the centuries, the doors still showed proudly the date of the building as 1797, the walls were still the same old, hand carved timber logs that gave such a great service during the cold winters, but now the garden was scattered with children's toys waiting for the return of morning when the small ones will recapture again their kingdom and use them in their imaginary fights with dragons and monsters after being delivered by their parents. Some of them will cry after mummy and daddy, raising their short arms towards the parents that are dropping them off, other ones just get in the house and the garden without saying a goodbye or even acknowledging the absence of their guardians, like their parents were just some sort of obstacle between them and the playground where battles are waiting to be fought.

And everything has changed from those first days, when it was the residential house of the owners of the mill and his family, who built it more than two centuries ago, till his death, when it was taken over by his widow, who, knowing the fate of women those days quickly remarried, and took a wealthy local merchant as the new master of the house. Her and the new husband used the house till their deaths, when as per their will the ownership was transferred to the local authorities to be purposed for various uses for the benefit of the community, like a vicarage for the priest of the local flock, then later school for boys in the last century, or till more recently a kindergarten and a safe house for women who needed it, just like now.

Maria stood in the slightly open window of the first floor and was troubled by a noise that followed her through her entire life. Maria was not her real name, it was just something the authorities assigned to her when by escaping a brutal and abusive husband and leaving a marriage that doomed her to domestic slavery and her daughter to be sold to marry an old, ugly but rich and influential uncle back home, she sought them out and asked for help. They entered the system almost instantly, lots of resources were mobilized in their interest and after a successful relocation to the other side of the country for the first time in her life she felt safe and independent, contented that her daughter won’t have to suffer the same fate as her, that she will have a chance for a fair life far from the bigotry and misogyny she grew up in.

But now Maria was terrified by this noise. It was the noise that came with the Soviet troops when they destroyed her village at the crossroads in the mountains of Afghanistan more than five decades ago when she was just a child, it was the noise of exploding statues she witnessed more than two decades ago, it was the noise that followed the shriek of falling bombs that were supposed to liberate her country but brought nothing but death and destruction. This was a noise that woke up her from her deepest dream and put her instantly in highest alert and ready to flee several times during her life. This was a noise she did not hear for the last few years, the noise she hoped not to hear ever, and yet it followed her to the other side of the world too.

The deep rumbling came from the direction of the small creek, from the long closed and walled up railway tunnel, so she focused her eyes there, trying to penetrate the pitch dark of the late October dawn. It was already cold outside, the temperatures during the night were slightly below freezing, and even during the daylight they did not go above five degrees, and she was shivering behind the open window. It was one of those beautiful autumn days where the nature turns in yellow and red, and the cold November rains did not start yet covering the entire city in a grey wet gloom for several weeks till the Christmas lights bring back the joy into people’s life.

Suddenly she spotted down, at the end of the steep road that lead up to the building the contour of a black van with lights off, slowly and quietly crawling out from behind the trees, then coming to a full stop. Several shadows which seemed to carry heavy backpacks have separated themselves from the cliff facing the other side of the road, then started running quietly in the moonlight towards the black car. In a trice something unexpected happened. The last shadow stumbled on a piece of rock that was laying on the side of the poorly cared for road, lost its balance and hit the fence of the kindergarten on the other side of the road. From his fully packed backpack several shiny objects fell out, and from the hears of it he must have cursed out something in a language Maria did not understood, then picked up the objects and ran down to the van. When all of them have crawled in, the black van quietly disappeared in the night without disturbing its darkness.

But from her elevated observation point, she saw something the shadow did not observe in the haste of the moment. One shiny object fell over the metal fence, into the backyard of the kindergarten. Curiosity was always her weakness, so she put up quickly and quietly some warmer clothes than her nightgown, picked up her phone, opened the creaking door of the apartment carefully to not to wake her daughter sleeping in the other room, ran down the steep road, opened the child safety lock of the kindergartens’ door which was an easy task for an adult, but difficult for a four year old kid, and run up in the yard where she saw the shiny object fall out from the mysterious shadows’ backpack.

She found it under the bushes, exactly where she imagined it would be after the fall. After picking it up she realized that it was something like a shiny metallic tablet not bigger than her daughters iPad, having the thickness and the resemblance of aluminium foil, with drawings on it, which looked like an animal, maybe a cow, perhaps a buffalo in front of a plough, vaguely similar to the ploughs she saw her grandparents use when she was still a child without worries, and the world was still all-right and a much better place to be in than today.

Her curiosity drove her to go and check out from where the shadows came, and regardless that every little fibre in her being told her to not to go, she did not listen to common sense, because cowardice is not the way she believed moves one forward in life. Holding the newly found tablet in her hand like a trophy she left the garden where children play during the daylight, and slowly approached the small creek, where, with great surprise she saw that someone has built a small bridge using sacks possibly full with sand from the bank of it towards the entrance of the tunnel, and that there is a large hole in the wall that covered the entrance of the old tunnel for several years after being closed down.

Leaving all prudence behind, she crossed the sacks over the small creek, and peeked in the hole in the wall. There was darker inside the hole than outside of it, she could not even see the old railway lines that stopped at the other side of the wall, so she turned on the flashlight of her phone, and stepped in the hole with the shiny tablet in one hand and the phone in the other.

The last thing she saw was a bright light in front of her, much powerful than what her phone could emit, for a second it lit up the walls of the old tunnel, she saw the two old rail lines running parallelly and on the side of the tunnel a few meters ahead dozens and dozens of shelves with tablets similar to what she was holding in her hand. The last noise she heard was the one that followed her through her entire life, the one of explosions, crumbling walls and collapsing buildings, with the difference that now it came from all over the place.

Her last semi intentional movement before being thrown back several meters by the blast of the explosion was to raise the tablet in front of her face, to pointlessly shield it from whatever harm might come from behind the darkness and to see the static scene on it to catch on life, peasants vibrantly coloured in colours of the sunset sowing seeds, sprouts of plants growing on the fields, farmers with sickles harvesting the crop, and then again, the image of the buffalo in front of a plough advancing slowly on a field of fire.

The last thought that passed through her mind before landing unconsciously on her back in the cold water was What will happen to my daughter now that I am dead?

On 2020, March the 15th at 07:30 I called upon Muhammad

... but due to the early hour in the morning he was very adamant on being joyful, regardless that I started with:

-  Morning love, look, this will be interesting!

-  What?

-  So, there were five of them.

-  Yes, as I’ve said yesterday ... or ... hmm ... actually, a little bit earlier today ...

-  But why five?

-  Love, how am I supposed to know that? Maybe he was a psycho? Who had five fingers ...

That’s how the morning, and our conversation with Muhammad started early on this Sunday, just after I woke up, and without completing the usual Sunday morning routine, like yawning, stretching in the bed, then bathroom, peeing, getting out of the pyjamas or even having a decent breakfast, I just called him on WhatsApp knowing he usually puts a silent ringtone for his phone calls (Well, it was Sunday morning what did I expect?).

I was lucky, he answered, but from the looks of it, certainly he was not in a good mood, being forced to leave the comfort of his cosy bed, find his moaning phone, and having to answer some lunatic questions without even taking the first sip of his morning coffee. To not to mention some of his other heavily disregarded bodily functions ...

-  You see, I’ve been thinking at those five for the better half of the night, you said the crosses were placed in a circle - this was a bit of an exaggeration. I was pretty much knocked out all night, or at least the part that happened after I was placed in bed. I couldn’t even recall when he left.

-  Yeah love, they were. A circle. A round one. Couldn’t sleep?

-  But what if ... has the thought occur to you that they could have been placed in a star shape?

-  A what? How are you?

-  A star ...

-  You mean a pentagram?

-  Yes, exactly! That’s the word. Sorry, I’m still half asleep, just can’t get this out of my head.

-  You ... well ... me too.

-  Oh, that’s great, so you were thinking at it too?

-  No, love of my life, I’m asleep. More than half. I can’t think yet.

-  So, did you think they were actually placed in the form of a pentagram?

-  Love, guess what, I don’t know, I didn’t even put on my slippers. It’s cold here.

-  Oh ... I see, but ...

-  Look love, I really have to go to the bathroom, talk to you later.

And that’s when he hanged up and left me feeling really stupid, that in my unending egotism I thought that only I could have come up with a pentagram, like all the Bristol police and Scotland Yard together are all little schoolboys who can’t add one to one. Or create a pentagram from five points on a circle. Ten minutes later my phone went crazy.

Too bad that now I too was in the bathroom, resolving what needed to be resolved after a very short nights’ worth of sleep, and I could not answer it exactly that moment, so I called back. Muhammad with deep remorse in his voice answered.

-  Look love, I really had to go. How are you after yesterday?

-  No worries, me too ... I’m pretty much like you left me - truth is I couldn’t remember how he left me.

-  So ... are we still good?

-  Yeah, yeah, no worries, I’m just a bit hungry, should we jump down to eat something?

-  Hungry? Love, it’s Sunday morning. Why are you hungry instead of hangover?

-  What?

-  It’s Sunday morning, nothing opens at least for two hours. Party people still asleep at this early hour in the morning.

-  What’s the time at your place? - asked I innocently, because I couldn’t believe, it is only quarter to eight. Usually at this early hour I’m still asleep.

-  Half past seventies. What about you jump over to me, I’ll make an omelette.

-  Nah, I’m not a kangaroo, can’t jump that far when this hungry, I’ll excavate a pizza from my fridge.

-  Love, have you lost your mind? Pizza for breakfast?

-  Don’t mock me love, or I’ll make one for you too. A frozen pizza today keeps the hunger away, and I’m not in the mood to cook right now. See you later!

-  When?

-  You said two?

-  Fine, Castle Park.

-  Yeah, bye.

With this, another one of our typical early morning conversations ended, and as promised to myself, I had to go and look for something to eat, the grumbling noise from my stomach reminded me that it was time to fill it up with something of consistence.

The pizza was unworthy of mention in its frozen tastelessness, but it was cheap, last weeks’ deal at Sainsbury’s, four pepperoni pizzas for five pounds and contrarily to everyone I knew, I actually liked them. Great, that was a small, white lie. I tolerated them, and I really appreciated that every time they were the same. Just like fast food. And that deal was a lifesaver for me, because you save a pound, and I had already emptied my fridge from them, time to refill it.

Regardless of the past, presently being a fresh journalist on the first step of the career ladder is not the most financially rewarding job. I’m sure that my editor in chief at the Post once must have said something along the lines of We definitely should go with a hire, but not because the candidate is showing an uncompromising adherence to English grammar rules, but because of being acquainted with a boyfriend who works at the Bridewell Police station and when times are slack, well, we might got something shipped to shake us up, when they decided that an ex-programmer who suddenly applied to junior journalist should be considered or not for the role of future scribe.

That’s how I started as an entry level journalist a few months ago, switching over from burned-out programmer when I have felt that climbing the corporate ladder is not for me anymore so it’s time to look for something new. Something that I actually might enjoy. Since then I have spent the last half year reading up on the latest gadget news and summarizing them for the tech column of the newspaper, or running after and nagging boyfriend for luscious details of cases they were not allowed to speak of (and which efforts were consistently shaken off with the professionalism of a veteran policeman) and gathering information from the most impossible sources, such as our informal, over the beer chat with his mates and colleagues, yesterday out at the Griffin where I innocently might have asked something on the lines of.

-  Fellas, which was your weirdest unsolved case since you started working?

Somewhere deep in the pure naïvety of my heart I hoped that all of them would come up competing with each other detailing long stories of old, cold cases, hidden mysteries and unsolved murders, but somehow they all went silent at my rather common (or at least, that’s what I thought of it) question. Somewhere deep in my heart I really hoped at least one of them could come up with some story I might use as inspiration for my next article, which I had no clue what will be about yet.

Now really, come on if you meet a detective who works at the police for at least ten to fifteen years, you might expect them to have some unsolved cases they would like to share with you.

Not these guys. They have turned on silent mode, and just drank their beer. Quietly.

-  Oh vow, congrats, you have solved all your cases, time to retire - I heard the third beer speaking audaciously instead of me. Or was it the lemon vodka before that?

And the silence grew even thicker. It reached the stage where you almost could slice it with a sharp enough knife. Now all the old gays have turned their attention towards us, sceptically checking out the four policeman plus one seemingly confused and mildly woozy journalist. I have had the suspicion for a while that one of Muhammad's colleague was not entirely on the straight path of life, since all the time he chose to come here, and I actually suspected that it was no-one else than their gaffer, I just didn’t manage to gather enough proof yet to firmly confirm my suspicions. But since he was paying our rounds I considered it wise enough to not to enquire him about this. When it’ll be his time to leave the closet I’m pretty sure he will find a moderately elegant way to achieve this next step in his life.

-  Fellas, come on, it was joke - I tried to relieve the tension without too much success

-  Love, we don’t brag with our failures - said Muhammad in his strong accent from where you could hear instantly the outskirts of Manchester - you also do not count the articles that are binned after you hand down to your editor.

Sort of, he was right. No wonder that after setting the mood so brilliantly our planned Saturday all night outing went from classy to ashy, and soon all his colleagues oozed away. And there were we left all alone, in Bristol’s most notorious gay bar, where the happy homosexuals of all age, social stature and sex, or lack of it, started to muster around us, watching us with queer eyes. The time was right to go home.

Muhammed seemingly felt sort of bad, or that’s what I thought he must have felt, so after a few muted minutes of silent strolling up on the dark Queens road he asked me.

-  Why are you interested in old cases?

-  Eh, it’s not important ...

-  No, really?

-  No. It is. I sort of need something to write about.

-  Good, but why do you need exactly old unsolved cases of ours.

-  Inspiration ... flew out on the window with the cold chills of Aprils’ wind, oh, never shall it come back and I need to pay my bills ...

-  That was nice - Muhammad smiled under his non-existing moustache. If you can come up with this on the moment why can’t you write something like this?

-  Love, the folks, they don’t need poetry. They need bread and circus. You can’t eat a rhyme. It’s not like lime, or neither thyme - I just continued to declaim my latest rhyme collection while jumping up and down the concrete pavement.

-  Hey, you, stop, you’ll hurt yourself - laughed Muhammad at my failed attempt to stay one-feeted on the narrow curb.

-  Hush, I’m unhurtable.

-  Love, look, you wanted a story, you’ll get one, just get down here before your colleagues will have to write an article about you falling on your pretty head - snapped he at me, when he saw the combined courage of the beer and vodka convincing me to climb up on the old brick wall on the side of the road, admittedly without too much success.

-  I knew I could trust your lack of ...

-  I’m really not supposed to talk about this, but since it! Hey, lack of what?

-  Nothing, nothing, love - continued to mock his Manchester accent - just continue, please.

-  Right, so since it was in the newspapers ...

-  What? I didn’t read about anything. Nor wrote a word about it.

-  Look, let me finish, or no story for you.

-  Oopsie daisy, deep apologies my brave fellow soldier, please continue - gushed the beer out of me.

-  So, it was also in the newspapers circa ten years ago.

-  No, you can’t be that old.

-  Well, I am. Do you want to hear it or will you read it?

-  Your words are my ancient gold mine. Can we sit down here, please, and pretend that life is fine?

I suddenly felt very dizzy in my head, like the beers had a row in my stomach and decided that it’s time that the last one comes up to see what’s happening in the outside world. And then without actually waiting for Muhammad to say yes or no I just sat down on the side of the road. It was cold. Muhammad sat down and grinned instantly. He must have felt that stone cold too.

-  So there was this case about this artist who disappeared. I sort of remember the mates at the station discussed it for a while, long time ago when I came here, but anyway it’s not a new story.

-  Disappeared? Where?

-  Well, if we would have known where he was it wouldn’t have been called a disappearance.

-  Stupid beer, stupid vodka, stupid me. My brave soldier, continue and watch thy knee.

-  My knee? What’s wrong ... oh, you’re just rhyming around ... So, he was really a big shot. He had sculptures all around the world, you know that modern type you have to look from all angles to recognize that it’s a horse.

-  Horse? So, he sculpted an angled horse?

-  Nay, come-on. I’m trying to help you.

-  So ... sorry ... once again.

-  Yeah, so as said, this Italian guy, some D’Angello or don’t remember exactly his name, has sculptures in the Vatican, in New York, Paris, whatnot and then suddenly he wants to make a sculpture in Bristol.

-  What? Why here? Where is it?

-  Well, not even in Bristol, but do you know the Holiday Inn, next to the Airport?

-  Yes?

-  So, he wants to make this sculpture in the fields next to it.

-  But there is nothing there but sheep and grass. And more sheep and more grass.

-  Exactly. At hearing the news everyone in the city council just jumped on it, world famous artist, tourists will be pouring in to see his latest creation, just like for Banksy, but here you actually know who the artist is, I think it was approved in record time.

-  So, where is this world-famous creation? Never heard of anything there. Just sheep and grass.

-  Love, that’s the story. You really didn’t read about it ten years ago? Or twelve .. can’t really recall.

-  Love - me mocking again the deep Manchester in him - when? Ten years ago, so that’s 2010, I must have been around 25 ... Dear God, I’m so old ... and I’m so cold. And this stone is not helping me warm up. Shall we go further?

-  Yeah, technically speaking you were a minor back then.

-  Mocky ... but I just remembered, I did not live in Bristol that year, I still lived in Cyprus and was gone on an extended off-site mission for the company I was working for then, spending way too long time in the Mid-East. God, this stone is so cold. Did anyone tell you from this angle you look like a baobab?

-  A what?

-  BA-O-BAB. A tree, a big one!

-  Hmm, sorry ... do you want to hear the rest of the story?

-  Why sorry? It was the best time of my life. Sun, sand, endless beaches and free food, but it’s of no utter importance anymore, love. So, we were at the point where a world-famous artist wants to make a sculpture in the middle of nowhere. So where is this sculpture?

-  Well, you see, this is the story.

-  Ok ... but just for your information, you still look like a baobab.

-  Thank you. From this moment on I’m your personal baobab. But back to the story. So, this artist presents his plan, the people in the city council pull up their eyebrows, and after the initial enthusiasm burns out, when they see the plans, after long negotiations, they finally approve it.

-  Why?

-  You see, the sculpture was called something like The Five Christs and as per D’Angello or whatever was his name, presented it, it symbolized the earliest Easter in this century.

-  What earliest Easter? When was it?

And as I say the words, I suddenly feel that one of the beers, decided that it would be better outside than inside. From all my heart I really hope it’s the last beer, not the one before it. Or before it.

-  Sorry love, I was attending Quran school, not catholic catechism classes, regardless I know what Easter is, but unfortunately can’t really recall when the earliest Easter this century was about to happen. Maybe two thousand and ten? Or eight? Or between? What about checking it on your phone?

-  Nay, just continue your story. Now it starts to become interesting.

-  So, this guy gets his approval, starts creating his artwork, but due to some terrible weather, problems with suppliers, whatnot, he is pretty much delayed, he’s definitely not ready for Easter, not even the foundation for the crosses to not to mention the sculptures for the crosses, just manages to make some basement for them.

-  Crosses?

-  Yeah, didn’t I mention the name of it? Five Christs. Five bodies like your Jesus, crucified on five crosses placed in a circle?

At this specific moment the beer starts coming back. Dear Lord, it’s everywhere, on my coat, on my jeans, on my favourite red striped shoes, and obviously, on Muhammad. Most of it is on Muhammad, who resignedly looks down on himself like a big, wet, sad penguin.

-  Are you alright, love? Here, take this, you look like someone vomited on you - and hands me a clean, white handkerchief monogrammed with his initials. Ain’t he handsome? He carries a handkerchief. With monograms. His! - Let me take you safely home, the time for stories is over.

By no means was I in shape to listen to his story any more, but through the white cloud of drunken ignorance I heard myself nagging him Tell me more, tell me more, tell me how and why and where and who. And whoaaaa .... We were standing in front of my house behind the music club and Muhammad was vehemently cleaning my keys