The Overnight Angels

Talking to the spirits through a silver curtain
Reaching out beyond the length of the light
You can catch a glimpse of an Overnight Angel
As they shine
Dancing through the toys of the dead and the living
Laughing at the poets changing their rhymes
Can't you feel the pulse of the Overnight Angels
Beating time

Ian Hunter : ‘Overnight Angels’.

It was in the heat of an Indian Summer that Hunter Patterson first got an inkling that all was not right in his world; a world, it has to be said, that was small, compact and orderly, reflecting the morals and beliefs of its owner. A world where there was a place for everything, and everything was in its place. A world where the boundaries between right and wrong were clearly defined. In short, a world where each direction was clearly signposted. A world where there was no chance of Hunter Patterson ever taking a wrong turn.

Hunter was a bachelor. Confirmed. Always was, always had been, always would be. That wasn’t to say he didn’t crave the company of women. In fact, you could go as far as to say that he positively lusted after them. Only problem was, they didn’t feel the same about him. For, by the age of 47, Hunter Patterson had never been in what you’d call a steady relationship. Sure, he’d had his fair share of love affairs. But they’d all been so one sided and so damn long ago.

First there’d been Julie, the girl from across the way who, at the tender age of five, had engaged him in games of Doctors & Nurses and let him examine parts of her anatomy he never even knew existed, provoking a tidal wave of guilt and confusion and a severe beating from the local priest after Hunter had spilled his guts during Friday night confession. A lid was placed securely on his emotions, and it wasn’t until the age of twelve and the arrival of a certain Miss Hall into his English lessons that he rediscovered something deep inside himself, a feeling that emanated from his heart as opposed to his libido. If she were a car he’d call her Jaguar, so unbelievably alluring was her aura. For a few years his love for her was unquestionable and unrequited, for beauty truly resided at her address. And then, as with far too many good things in his life, it was over before it had really begun. Well, at least from Hunter’s end. Miss Hall had a life to get on with, and the wanton adulation of a teenage poet with an unhealthy obsession with the works of Raymond Chandler and Jack Kerouac didn’t amount to a hill of beans from where she was standing. After all, as any teacher who’s been around the block a few times will tell you, getting attention from the truly gifted and talented is a breeze, just so long as you don’t renege on your promises, and Miss Hall, although not explicitly or in any form that would constitute a binding contract, had never pulled a fast one on her most admiring of pupils. Indeed, she’d nurtured, encouraged, cajoled, coaxed and coerced and, it has to be said, loved that young boy, although not in the way he’d planned. She’d loved him for his enthusiasm while all the time he’d wanted her to love him for himself.

Miss Hall, although never aware of the fact, became the yardstick by which he would judge all other women by, a yardstick set so high that none would ever scale its lofty heights. Some cynics might scoff and say that the guy was a latent homosexual, and that he set the bar so high so as to prevent any female from ever getting over it, allowing the protagonist to justify his lack of success and encouraging him to seek other areas of companionship, although anyone who knew Hunter Patterson intimately (of which, admittedly, there were few) would nip those allegations in the bud. For Hunter was nothing if not a ladies man. Always was, always would be. It wasn’t his fault the entire female population of the planet were oblivious to this fact. In fact, the way Hunter saw it, that was their loss. He had his pride and his dreams. Especially his dreams.
Which is where this tale of darkness and despair really begins.

Hunter had always slept well, enjoying an uninterrupted eight hours a night, always waking invigorated and refreshed to greet the morning with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, like a character straight out of a breakfast cereal commercial. For life had been good to Hunter, bestowing on him its bountiful fruits in the form of a new house complete with extensive gardens, a wardrobe filled with designer clothes, and a shiny new automobile parked on the cobbled driveway. When asked what he did for a living Hunter would always reply that he was something in computers which, although not exactly true, wasn’t that far wide of the mark, just so long as your take on the truth was strictly elastic. See, many years ago Hunter had been advised by his broker to invest in a start-up that was looking to break into the then infant social networking sector. His natural reluctance to display any degree of ostentation had prevented him from throwing in his entire hand, but let’s just say that his investment had paid dividends a thousand times over. In short, as Facebook grew into a global phenomenon, Hunter became a very rich man. Rich enough to indulge in what he considered to be a few simple pleasures; fine wine, bespoke tailoring, hand made shirts and a sixty foot narrow boat called Dreamcatcher, moored at a nearby marina and there for long relaxing weekend breaks. Which is exactly where Hunter Patterson was when they found him.

There was something alluringly therapeutic about sleeping in the large double bed, a calmness brought on by fine brandy and the gentle rocking of the boat as the crystal waters illuminated from the marina lapped lazily around its hull. Hunter had likened the experience to an infant being slowly lulled to sleep in a cosy crib, surrounded by toys and dancing lights and, if the truth were told, it was this desire to return to the point of earliest memory that captivated his imagination. For what are we if we can no longer connect with our past, and the period in our lives that moulded us as beings and cemented our very existence? Hunter was not a reader of fantasy novels but he understood the implicit value of dreams, believing that they were his connection to the other world, the one you entered by looking through the mirror as opposed to at it. The world where everyday objects became shifting shapes on an ever-changing horizon. Of course, he’d never discussed this with anyone, not that he really had anyone to discuss it with. And that was the whole sorry part of it. You see, Hunter Patterson was God’s Lonely Boy. Sometimes, in moments of deep impenetrable darkness, he felt so low that he wished he could die. I say wished as, despite spending a considerable amount of money on a do it yourself suicide manual, Hunter had shied away from actually going the full nine yards, preferring to sit on the side-lines and scan the obituary pages, looking for evidence of those who simply couldn’t take it anymore. For Hunter could never comprehend how those lucky people leading happy and contented lives (poor deluded fools that they were) saw the taking of your own life as an easy option when there was nothing easy about it at all. On the contrary, suicides were the bravest people on the planet for they stood on that ledge and jumped, locked that garage door and turned on the ignition or kicked the chair away after threading the noose around their neck.

The first night on-board it was business as usual; in bed for eleven, hot chocolate, digestive biscuit and a chapter or two from the latest airport blockbuster before lights out and the rapid descent into the deep, dreamless sleep.

Only that particular evening things didn’t follow the script. For sure, the pre-slumber ritual was carried out with the clinical precision of a brain surgeon performing a lobotomy, but after that things started to get a little unhinged, beginning with Hunter’s entrance into a vast ballroom populated by Regency types decked out in the finery of the period like peacocks strutting through the park. Hunter remembered taking a glass of sweet sparkling champagne from a tray held aloft by a haughty looking butler kitted out in a costume two sizes too small and sporting a wig half a size too big for his strangely egg shaped dome. It was then, as he gazed across the vast dance floor crammed with couples groovin’ to the latest blast of Beethoven, that he caught her eye. She was standing in the corner of the room, dressed in the high fashion of the day, looking for all the world like a Vivien Westwood model waiting in the wings for her journey along the catwalk. Only that wasn’t what grabbed his attention. It was the look of sheer terror etched across her pretty young face, sixteen if it was a day, and the way her blood red lips mouthed the words “help me!” as her coal black eyes screamed silently, imploring him to move towards her. As Hunter fought his way through the crowd of revellers who, while seemingly oblivious to his presence, appeared to do their utmost to block his path, prolonging his journey as he threaded a tortuous path across the shiny marble floor. He felt like a drowning man, going under for the third time but, with a surge of energy that pulsed through his tired muscles like hot electricity, he finally managed to reach the other side. He saw her there, arms outstretched, ready to pull him from the raging rapids, and instinctively reached out to her. But before he could touch her shiny green fingernails he was hit somewhere in the back of his skull by a blinding flash of yellow light which seemed to lift his body clean off the ground and propel it into the mouth of what appeared to be a long, dark tunnel. As he fell through the pitch-black empty air he heard the comfortingly familiar sound of his mobile phone ringtone, the one with the old fashioned cycling bell that informed him that a text had just landed in his inbox.

Hunter awoke with a start and instinctively looked in the direction of the digital alarm clock, it’s strawberry red LCD reading 03:37. Beside it on the table lay the Blackberry, its red traffic light flashing urgently, as if to say “Hurry up Hunter, ‘cos I’ve got something nice for you”. For a moment he hesitated, wondering who on earth would be messaging him at this time of night. Probably some bored call centre operative with nothing better to do than inform him that his mobile account had been topped up for a further four weeks. Not that he ever exceeded his generous limits, having no friends to speak of, at least not the kind who engaged you in late night conversations, the kind that made you forget about sleep and thank God they were waiting patiently at the end of the line. He was just about to turn over and go back to sleep when he noticed the flashing light which, he swore, appeared to be getting brighter, to the point where it was beginning to illuminate the room. Hunter reached across, punched in his password, and hit the SMS icon. For a second the Blackberry appeared to falter somewhat reluctantly, as if it too had been roused from its slumbers, before shaking some action and lighting up the tiny screen. The message was from somebody who called themselves M, which was strange as Hunter knew of no one with that initial, except for Mother, and there was no way on earth he’d ever have given her his mobile number. But what was even more unsettling was the text, the body of which seemed strangely familiar.

“Grabbed hold of your coat tail but it come off in my hand,
I reached for your lapel but it weren't sewn on so grand.
Begged, promised anything if only you would stay,
Well, I lost a lot of love over you”.

Hunter wasn’t quiet sure how long he’d sat there in the darkness, staring at the screen, although the digital clock now read 04:03. He’d tried to reply, punching in the words who and are and you and pressing the send icon, only to be met with the Call Failed icon, despite the fact that the machine was fully charged and the signal bar was at full strength. Eventually, after half a dozen unsuccessful attempts, he’d given up and tried to return to his slumbers, only to be disappointed. For sleep, like love, remained a stranger for the remainder of that night.

The following evening Hunter had relaxed with bottle of claret, a rum soaked Havana and six chapters of the latest Jo Nesbo, although he was finding it hard to see what all the fuss was about. Perhaps he should consider cancelling his subscription to The London Review Of Books if all they were going to do with his money was lead him up blind alleys.

Just after eleven Hunter locked the swing doors, switched off the galley lights and made his way to bed. He’d decided to forsake the chocolate and biscuits and the reading, believing that they may have contributed to that rather vivid nightmare. Hunter hadn't read anything into it, dismissing it as just a bad dream, although the vision of the young girl was nothing if not unsettling, and he certainly didn’t want another night like last night. Hunter needed his eight hours, although this night he would barely get half.

Here is not the time or place to overcomplicate matters but to simply state that at 03:37 Hunter awoke in a hot sweat from a cold nightmare, heart pounding and blood racing, with tears streaming from his eyes. Tonight it had been the same ballroom, the same dancers, the same butler and the same fizzy cocktail. The only thing that had been different was the girl, who looked the same but was somehow strangely different. It was the same plea for help, but in a different voice, and the same slender fingers, only this time the varnish was orange. Again he’d fought his way through the throng, similar in number but somehow more aggressive with their pushing and shoving. Oh yes, and everything was in monochrome except for the girl who was lit in glorious Technicolor from a refrigerator white light that seemed to emanate from somewhere above her long black hair. Again Hunter had responded to the anguished cries for help and had reached towards the outstretched hands, only to see them slowly slip away as he fell headlong into the long dark tunnel. As before he was awoken by a blinding flash of yellow light which left his head aching and his pulse racing. Again he looked at his bedside Blackberry, and again the light was pulsing urgently. Again he opened the SMS folder and again there sat a text, only this time the handle on it read N. Again Hunter racked his brain, but could think of no one he knew with that initial. And once again there was a message, vague yet visionary.

“Fell down to my knees and I hung onto your pants,
But you just kept on running while they ripped off in my hands.
Diamond rings, Vaseline, you give me disease,
Well, I lost a lot of love over you”.

Again Hunter had attempted to respond, but again his efforts were all in vain. Again the clock read 04:03 and again he spent the remainder of the night chasing sleep that he would never catch. He rose at eight looking haggard, frightened and strangely haunted. The mirror, which was usually a good friend, was today his bitter enemy, revealing in lurid detail every exterior flaw in his shell shocked personality for, no matter how much he tried to dismiss the past two nights as mere blips in an otherwise orderly level of somnambulism, Hunter Patterson knew that something had gone horribly wrong in his world.

I could go on and reveal the lurid visions that played out behind Hunter’s closed eyelids on that third evening, but I don’t possess the will or the words required to truly and accurately reflect the sheer extent of the poor man’s suffering. Suffice to say, when a neighbor raised the alarm after hearing his anguished cries slicing through the cold night air like a poisoned dagger, Hunter Patterson was being haunted by visions so ghastly that no earthly explanation could begin to convey his pain. The police turned up within the hour, cased the joint, slung Hunter somewhat unceremoniously into a black body bag and tossed him into the back of the paddy wagon. Reports in the following evenings press spoke of a seemingly healthy middle aged man of sound mind and financial means who had died of a massive coronary brought on by what the coroner could only describe as extremely high levels of shock. Police weren’t treating the death as suspicious although they were trying to trace a caller with the initial J who had texted the deceased at 03:37 and left the following message.

“I boogied in the ballroom, I boogied in the dark;
Tie your hands, tie your feet, throw you to the sharks.
Make you sweat, make you scream, make you wish you'd never been,
I lost a lot of love over you”.

You’ll not be surprised to learn, dear reader, that all attempts to trace the caller were met with a single, concise response.

CALL FAILED.

This story contains lyrics from the following songs : ‘Overnight Angels’ by Ian Hunter & ‘Turd On The Run’ by The Rolling Stones. Both are excellent records and you’d be well advised to check them out, only not just before you retire to bed.