The Art Of Fishing (part one).

© 2011 David Jasmin-Green

Charlie Pride sat on the padded lid of his fishing basket beside his favourite lake, basking in the warm evening sun. It was one of those lazy July evenings that you hope will never end, which was a bonus after weeks of heavy rain. Just a few days back it had looked like summer was going to give Britain a miss. Again.

He patiently watched his float sitting on the surface of the impossibly still water, water so motionless that he could almost have been looking at a photograph. As was usually the case when he was fishing, Charlie didn't have a care in the world. He felt so relaxed that on a several occasions during the last couple of hours he had almost fallen asleep. There was plenty of coffee left in his flask, so perhaps he should finish that off to perk himself up a little, he thought, but what the hell - periods of true bliss were few and far between even for happy go lucky folk like himself, so he decided to skip the coffee for the time being and make the most of his delicious torpor.

Even the oddities of the last few days didn't bother Charlie much right now, because he was fishing. Fishing was very therapeutic for him, it was his 'me' time, and when he was fishing he had always been able to consign life's assorted problems to the back-burner. The kerfuffle that he probably should have been worrying about was completely beyond his control, so there was no point in worrying about it, he pondered. “Whatever will be will be,” he said to the trees and the water and the hot, languid air, quoting the words of a woman whose name he couldn't remember (if he ever knew it in the first place) in a wartime song that his mother used to sing to him when he was a little boy.

Besides, he had no reason to believe that the mysterious something that had chosen to interfere with his life was as dangerous as it pretended to be. Maybe it was just a random glitch, a passing nuisance, a transient weirdness that would slip away in its own good time. He had never heard of supernatural phenomena actually hurting anyone, after all. But perhaps Cheryl was right – perhaps nothing fishy was going on, perhaps he had just experienced a silly nightmare and the events that followed in its wake had nothing at all to do with it.

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Charlie was a chartered accountant, one of those twatty, grey suited clones that work from nine to five in the city and mercilessly clutter up the tube on the way to and from the office. He guessed that he had dropped lucky with his profession because he had always been a bit of a maths wizard, and though accountancy wasn't exactly a bundle of fun it paid the bills, and he guessed he would carry on shuffling and reshuffling figures for the foreseeable future; or at least until he won the lottery or one of his wild dreams came true, which wasn't exactly likely. The assorted weirdos that he attracted socially didn't believe that he could handle being such a mindless drone for forty odd hours a week – they reckoned that he employed a stand in to do the job for him. You should never judge a book by the cover, though; out of office hours Charlie was a dedicated practical joker and an amateur comedian (when he wasn't fishing, that was). His parents called him Charlie because he was a proper Charlie, his missus often said.

Charlie and Cheryl were a thoroughly ordinary couple. They had been married for almost fourteen years, and they were still deeply in love. They lived in a large three bedroomed house in one of the less opulent suburbs on the outskirts of London, an area that was generally described as 'up and coming' by estate agents, but as far as he could tell it hadn't arrived just yet, and to tell the truth it had probably taken a few steps backwards during the time they had lived there. They had two young children, a boy and a girl, or an average two point five if you counted the one on the way. Oh, and a dog, a comical looking, decidedly mongrelly twelve year old Jack Russell terrier called Connoly after Charlie's favourite comedian. The old fellow was lying in the shade of a big field maple a few yards back from the edge of the water; he had never been overfond of the sun, but he hated it with a vengeance now he was a senior citizen.

On the whole Charlie was a carp fisherman, but at times like this he hunted all and sundry. The simple act of catching a fish – any fish – was a triumph that he couldn't live without, but though he had been sitting by the lake for over three hours he hadn't even had a nibble.

When he fished for carp (or anything else, come to think of it) Charlie relied almost completely upon the gear he had inherited from his late father, stuff that was forty, fifty years out of date, but it was very high quality tackle and he managed to bag plenty of fish despite its antique appearance.

Occasionally he landed a real whopper that swiftly wiped the smiles off the faces of his fellow fishermen, smug bastards who spent thousands of pounds on state of the art equipment. Beating the big boys gave Charlie a particular pleasure, but of course he closely guarded his secret; he never revealed the fact that his dad was a master fisherman and his equipment was imbibed with an ethereal power that persisted long after the old man's death - that would spoil the fun, wouldn't it?

Charlie had a strong feeling that if he betrayed the old man's secret the magic would slip away, never to return, and he would relinquish his chance of catching Old Slimy, the monster carp way over the national record that had haunted the lake for generations. Old Slimy had nearly been landed on countless occasions, and despite the legendary tendency of fishermen to stretch the truth somewhat when they were talking about the one that got away there had to be some truth in the stories. Charlie's dad was one of the men who claimed to have almost caught Old Slimy – it was the last thing that came out of the old fellow's mouth when he was on his deathbed, for God's sake, so the existence of the behemoth behind the legend was indisputable.

The sometime comedian slavishly watched his float as it bobbed up and down on a rare, furtive ripple. Float watching focused the mind splendidly, Charlie reflected; in the past he had solved many a complex problem while he was fishing (or time wasting, as Cheryl usually called it.)

The water was so clear that he could see the pointless and at the same time essential wriggling of the worm some three feet below the surface as it danced its timeless dance, desperately struggling to escape from the barbed hook that passed through its body. Charlie had never paused to consider the plight of worms and maggots before, but now he came to think of it it was a particularly discouraging one. Shit, it was an awful way to go, picked out from hundreds of your wriggling companions on the whim of the fisherman, impaled and drowned impossibly slowly. And then there was the added dread of some monstrous predator sneaking up on you through the dense stands of water weed, a cold, furtive fiend with the sole intention of gobbling you up. “I shouldn't be considering the plight of worms right now,” Charlie mumbled. “I should be pondering the events of the past week and a half, but that situation is so crazy I guess it's a waste of mental energy.”

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Charlie recalled the events of nine, maybe ten days ago, the disturbing dream, if it was a dream, that started the ball rolling, an occurrence that left a big, ragged zigzag on the otherwise steadily undulating graph of his existence. It had happened during the early hours of the morning when he was drifting in and out of sleep after a marathon lovemaking session with Cheryl, who had been snoring her brains out for a good two hours - it never took her long to tumble into Slumberland. He had been thinking about their holiday in Cyprus the previous summer when he became aware of a noise that he recognised as the creaking of a loose floorboard on the upper landing.

Maybe one of the kids was out of bed, or maybe they had a burglar, he had mused idly, not wanting to face up to either of those onerous possibilities. More than likely it was just Connoly aimlessly wandering around the house as he sometimes did in the middle of the night. Charlie opened his eyes just as the bedroom door swung open and a dark, shapeless something slipped into the room, an intrusion that he only registered on the periphery of his vision as he was focusing on the diamond shaped section of carpet lit by the street lamp outside the upper hallway window where he expected to pick out the outline of the restless dog. He couldn't see properly because he didn't have his glasses on, but he remedied that situation immediately.

And then he felt the presence in the room. He couldn't see anything, but he knew it was there. It was something old, something earthy, something perfectly natural but not often witnessed by mortals; he didn't understand how he came across that bundle of information, he just knew. Though he was frightened he was still half asleep. He couldn't figure out what the thing was and he had no idea if it was good or evil - all he knew was that it existed, that it was uncomfortably close and though he couldn't see it it was watching him.

“Charlie!” the presence whispered after a long, painful silence. “I can see you. I can see you very clearly, but you can't see me. Ha! That never ceases to amuse me.”

“Who are you?” Charlie replied, a knot of fear turning somersaults in his stomach. “And what are you doing here? What do you bloody well want? You don't belong here, you know that. This is my house, and whoever or whatever you are, you're not welcome here.”

“I know that as well as you do,” the thing replied, “but I'm here nevertheless. I have, well, I suppose you could call it diplomatic immunity. I have a pass entitling me to wander to and fro wherever I please, and I make full use of it. As for my identity and my mission, I think you know the answer to those questions already.

But just in case you don't – just in case you're a whole lot more stupid that I gave you credit for, I am the Fisherman, and I've come to educate you about the art of fishing. No, not just fishing - I've come to teach you all about inconvenience, irreparable loss and despair. I've come to hook the souls of your wife, your kiddies and ultimately your good self. I am the axe murderer and the hit-and-run driver. I am madness, I am cruelty personified, I am gross unfairness and inequality. I'm cancer, plague and pestilence, the chance accident and every act of mindless violence. Naah, only kidding..... You can take a joke, can't you, Charlie?”

“Fuck off!” Charlie said, and Cheryl groaned an unconscious reply. He suddenly had a feeling that the thing was ogling his wife's naked body, so he quickly pulled the duvet over her.

“She's lovely,” the intruder said, “and I really mean that. Nice tits, beautiful hair, tasty looking muff. It's a pity that such comely flowers have to fade and die, don't you think? It's a pity that they're sometimes snatched away, usually when you least expect it, but that's life, kiddo.....

You and I have a lot in common, Charlie. You are a fisherman and I am the Fisherman, and we both relish casting bait before our gullible prey to see what juicy fishes we can reel in. Your fate doesn't have to be as bad as I've suggested, mind - perhaps we can make a deal, perhaps we can figure out a mutually satisfying agreement of some sort. We'll see, hmm? That's all for now, Charlie boy. This is just a cold call, I was in the area and I thought I'd drop by and say hello, while fishing for business, of course. I have to go now - I have other fish to fry before I even think of throwing you in the pan. I'll be back, though, don't you worry about that. Night-night, sleep tight and don't let the bastards bite. Cheerio!”

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A couple of days after the Fisherman's cold call Charlie's boss didn't turn up for work. The whisper on the grapevine was that he wouldn't be back for some time; there had been a family tragedy of some sort, but the details were hush-hush and everyone seemed have heard a different story. A senior manager was rushed down from head office, and Charlie couldn't believe his eyes because she was stunning, she was drop-dead gorgeous - shit, she was practically a supermodel. Though Charlie's eyes rarely wandered much and he had always been faithful to his wife he found it almost impossible to keep his mind on his work. He couldn't avert his glance from the woman's lithe splendour as she wandered around the building giving stern advice and laying down the law. “She's a bit of a cunt, isn't she,” he whispered to George, his favourite colleague, probably in an unconscious effort to take his mind off his guilt, he later pondered. “Gawd, she's on everybody's bloody case.”

“I don't know about that,” George replied. “To tell you the truth I haven't noticed her attitude, because every time she comes within ten yards of me my legs turn to jelly, my old John Thomas goes rock hard and my brain goes soft.”

That evening, a few minutes before buggering off home time, Cassandra Burroughs (even her name gave him a stiffie) walked into Charlie's office and more or less told him rather than asked him to take her on a brief tour of the local bars to give her a feel for the area, which, she claimed, she was unfamiliar with. “Just for an hour or so,” she said. “That's all - I don't want to impinge on your personal time too much.” He knew it was a crock of shit from the look in her eyes, but nevertheless he felt his mouth forming the words “Yeah, no problem,” and he couldn't decide if agreeing to her demands was against his will or not.

Charlie called his wife and told her the time honoured porky - that he had to work over for a little while. He didn't know why he felt it necessary to tell lies; he just couldn't face telling the truth, he supposed.

He and Cassandra hit a few bars and made small talk, nothing more. Charlie made sure he drank fruit juice and nothing stronger, but Cassandra was knocking back Southern Comforts as if they were water. On the way to a pub called 'The Tusker' she said she had to pop into her friend's flat above a nearby shop where she was staying for the next couple of weeks to drop off her briefcase; it contained a lot of sensitive material, she insisted, and she couldn't risk some hoodie doing a runner with it. Once inside the flat she didn't waste any time. She slammed the door, slid home the security chain and then she was all over him, and at first he didn't have a clue how to react.

“No. No!” he said, turning his head from left to right as she smothered him in wet kisses. “Cassandra, I don't want this. You're a very beautiful woman and I'm deeply flattered, believe me, but I'm married, and I intend to stay married. Shit, will you please stop!” She expertly slid her hand down his trousers and grabbed his erect cock.

“You want it as much as I do, you two-faced bastard,” Cassandra crooned as she hung onto Charlie's neck with one arm and deftly locked her ankles behind his back, never letting go of his manhood, “and I have no intention of stopping. You're just like every other man in the world – you'll do anything for a jump of sufficiently enticing pussy, so stop trying to pretend that you're a pillar of virtue. Now do as you're bloody well told, and carry me into the bedroom. After I've sucked your cock while you lick me out for a mutually satisfying period I want you to fuck me hard and fast, I want you to fuck me like you've never fucked any woman before, especially your frumpy, boring wife. And, it should go without saying, I expect you to make me come like the clappers, but judging by the stiffness of your old man we shouldn't experience too many difficulties in that department.....”

Charlie didn't know how he managed it, but somehow he fought off the sex-crazed fiend. Cassandra fell over the coffee table and landed flat on her back, which caused him to let loose an involuntary bout of hysterical laughter, and then he clambered out of the door and started running for the stairs while she furiously screamed her head off. An elderly woman peeped through the opposite door as he passed, tutting loudly. “Rape!” Cassandra yelled. The old woman slammed her door, and more than likely, Charlie fretted, she was about to call the police.

He knew he was doing the right thing, but nevertheless a small but significant part of him wanted to go back. 'Get back in there and sock it to her, you bloody moron!' the insurgent screamed. “Fucking shag her - she's absolutely gorgeous, and you won't get a better offer than that in a month of Sundays. You know it makes sense. And no one need ever know.....'

“I'll bloody know,” he replied.

“No one rejects me,” Cassandra cried after him as he ran down the stairs as if his life depended on it. “No one, do you hear me, Charlie Pride? I'll see that you're fired for this! If you don't get back here and shove it up my dripping slit right now I'll cry rape officially, you pussy, you cockless failure, you limp-wristed fucking homo!” But Charlie didn't turn around, and he carried on running until he was safely on the train.

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Charlie spluttered out the story to his wife as soon as he got home. Initially Cheryl seemed sympathetic and she was glad that he had done the right thing, or so she said, but all the time she was taking in the lipstick on his cheeks, his missing shirt buttons and the nasty scratches on the back of his neck. The faraway look in her eyes suggested that maybe she didn't entirely believe him – maybe his tale was a little too tall to accept. He was about to tell her about the shadow in the bedroom and the invisible thing that had whispered to him, but he thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea.

Thankfully he didn't have to deal with the predatory Cassandra again as he had dreaded, because someone else replaced her the following day – another woman, but she was older, more reserved and far less attractive. Thankfully Ms Burroughs didn't cry rape, and as far as he could ascertain she didn't tell anyone about the fiasco. Oh, and he didn't lose his job.

A few days later Cheryl had a disturbingly similar experience with a supply teacher at the comprehensive school where she had been a biology teacher for almost fifteen years. She felt as if she was somehow being punished for not entirely accepting her husband's word, she explained - she said it was only when she experienced a similar scenario herself that she could believe him. That was when Charlie decided to tell her about his experience with the thing that called itself the Fisherman, and though she listened intently and asked a lot of searching questions it was clear that she found that story a lot harder to accept.

“I'm a realist, love,” Cheryl said. “I can't accept the existence of chain-rattling spirits that whisper sweet or not so sweet nothings to vulnerable mortals during the dead of night. You know I don't believe in all that crazy shit, in angels and demons, ghosties and ghoulies and long legged beasties and things that go bump in the night - I don't even believe in the notion of evil. It was a nightmare, that's all, and it's only stuck in your head for this long because you've got this other worry on your mind. You have to recognise that dream for what it really was, Charlie, or it'll nibble at you for weeks.”

“OK, thanks for being honest,” he replied. “I don't blame you for not believing me, or for not understanding, whatever - but that thing was as real as you or I whatever you choose to think. I never had much time for the supernatural either, love, not until the Fisherman sneaked up on me dangling his juicy bloody worms.....”

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The worms kept coming. A week or so later the Prides discovered that almost ten thousand smackeroonies that didn't belong to them had been deposited in their bank account. There was no question of what they ought to do about the situation - they immediately reported the incident and the money was promptly withdrawn and relocated to its rightful owner.

The same evening Charlie was walking Connoly along a disused railway track near their home. He flung the old mutt's tennis ball into the surrounding trees, and though the dog searched high and low he couldn't find it, which was most unusual because his sense of smell was legendary and he rarely lost anything.

Charlie fought his way through the dense undergrowth, and some ten yards from the track he caught a glimpse of the luminous yellow fluff coating the surface of Connoly's tennis ball just below eye level. By some fluke it had wedged at the top of a deep, leaf filled cleft in an ancient beech tree. When Charlie retrieved the ball he glimpsed the upper edge of something else partially hidden in the leaf litter within the hollow, and with some difficulty he pulled out a large, heavy oblong package. “Shit,” he grunted. “Now what might that be? Bloody teenagers hiding their stash of jazz mags, I suppose.” He soon found out the error of that reaction when he rabidly tore off the weathered plastic packaging. His mouth fell open when he registered the unmistakable pattern of high value banknotes, lots of them.

Charlie re-wrapped the parcel as best as he could and dropped it in a doubled plastic carrier bag from his coat pocket (it was so heavy that it would probably have torn the handle off a single one). Luckily he always carried a couple of bags with him in case Connoly took a crap, because even a fair way off the beaten track he always disposed of dog shit in the proper manner. It wasn't until he arrived home to an empty house that he pulled out the money and excitedly began to count it on the kitchen table. Astoundingly there was just over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in used fifty and twenty pound notes.

He called his better half straight away – she was at her mothers just a few streets away. “Cheryl, please come home right this minute. No buts, no questions, no nothing, just get your arse here. I've found something, something that you really have to see.”

After a long discussion that quickly escalated into a bitter argument (Charlie wanted to keep his ill-gotten gains and Cheryl thought it should be handed in) Charlie called the police and they sent a flotilla of cars around to confiscate the money. After a quick check of the roll numbers on the notes it turned out that the cash had been stolen some five years back from a bank in Streatham during an armed robbery. The three men responsible were arrested the following day after a tip-off, and they were currently serving a twenty year sentence in Winson Green, but the money had never been recovered until Charlie stumbled across it.

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During this flurry of temptations Charlie heard the voice of the Fisherman on numerous occasions. The invisible entity accosted him while he was trying to sleep, while he was showering, while he was alone in his office and more and more frequently while he was walking the dog, and it always came out with the same old crap.

“I'll get you, Charlie Pride,” it said on the last occasion two or three days previously. “Eventually I'll ruin you, eventually I'll demolish your holier than thou, Goody Two-shoes reputation. I'll dangle increasingly tasty bait in front of your nose until you relent, and sooner or later you'll be mine. Everyone has a price, oh, good golly yes, Charlie boy, you'd better believe it. Everyone has something that they'd sell their soul for, and my job is to figure out what that something might be.....”

“You won't win this battle,” Charlie replied calmly. “I almost gave in when you offered me the two hundred and fifty grand, but my missus talked me out of it. And she was right – I'm glad we didn't keep the money, because it wasn't clean, it wasn't ours. We're a good, honest team, Cheryl and I. 'A cord of three strands is not easily broken,'” he said, slightly misquoting one of his mother's favourite adages about marriage, which she in turn quoted from Ecclesiastes. He had to fight this wickedness, Charlie told himself over and over again, a wickedness that he secretly suspected welled up like raw sewage from his own diseased subconscious – he had to win, because he couldn't bear the thought of being a miserable loser or a runner up, which was almost as bad.