The Road To Ponkerton Village - Part 2

 

‘Come on Bob, get a bloody grip!’ he muttered, his face expressing both desperation and rage as he looked up towards the pitted fabric ceiling of his vehicle. Panic was taking over and he needed help. ‘God help me please, whatever is happening to me. I need some help here,’ he pleaded.

 

He wasn’t a religious man but just occasionally, he reached out for assistance from the spirit world when he was out of all other options. His prayer released some of the tension and formed an opening, just wide enough for a new idea to form, a ray of hope. It occurred to him that the road to the golf course was still there and on the other side of the golf course was the beautiful village of Ponkerton.

 

It wasn’t ideal, Bob wasn't particularly fit but at least he knew his way around the golf course, he used to play a few rounds with his son before the young man moved to Australia. These days he was only used to walking as far as his Yorkshire Terrier would go. Anything more than a mile would put a strain on his knees but it was better than embarrassing himself back in the pub by claiming that his village had disappeared. Surely they’d call in the men in white coats to take him away but the truth was his village had disappeared, that was his reality.

 

 

Feeling slightly calmer now, he took a couple of deep breaths and gathered himself. He’d noticed how no other cars had passed by, neither on his journey home or since pulling over. It seemed strange but he didn’t dwell on it as he made a three point turn and headed back to his favourite traffic island. He went all the way around again, just to check but no luck, the road was still missing, a seamless stretch of countryside in its place, it was as if it never existed. Bob thought about his neighbours and his wife. Where were they?

 

He drove into the entrance to the golf course. The car park was deserted except for a yellow Dacia Duster parked in the middle which struck Bob as rather sinister, alone and splattered with mud. The course had been struggling recently with dwindling membership due to the ever diminishing amount of spare cash in people’s pockets. Bob and his brother had considered trying to buy it, making a cheeky offer and building three seriously luxurious, multi-million pound homes, preserving the remainder as a golf course. They hadn’t quite the funds, they weren’t in that league, not yet, not until the cash came through from the Brite’s Estate.

 

He parked right outside the clubhouse which was all shut up and dark. Bob stretched his legs and took out his phone, no signal; that wasn’t unusual for the outskirts of Ponkerton. It was almost dark but he had a powerful torch stored in his glove compartment and he was quite confident he knew the way; across the fairway, through a stretch of woods, past the greenkeepers sheds to the other part of the course which bordered a terrace of cottages called Well Cottages, right in the centre of Ponkerton village.

 

As he took the first few steps off the tarmac and onto the turf, he noticed how dewy the grass was, his socks quickly becoming sodden beneath his smart leather shoes which lacked any sort of grip. He was tempted to return to his car and try the island, just one more time but in his heart he knew it would do no good. 

 

Something felt off, not just with the traffic island, with everywhere, there was something not quite right about the silence in the air, the night sky looked off, the stars were too low, too bright. All wasn’t well, he felt it in his gut, a strangeness, a hopelessness. Bob wasn’t used to defeat, he was used to triumph, he used money to get his way with bribes and backhanders. If that didn’t work he had an armoury of domineering charm and bullying tactics which he used to strong arm people into yielding to his demands.

 

Now he was a bit frightened, he didn’t know how the evening would end but he knew he didn’t want to feel pain. Bob hated feeling pain, his gout, his ingrown toenail, his bad knees, the glue ear he suffered as a child, all that pain was so draining and inconvenient. 

 

He walked on, plodding awkwardly, his tall stocky silhouette at odds with the contours of the natural landscape. Pausing suddenly, he thought he could hear footsteps behind him so he swung around rapidly and shone his torch but there was nothing there but the almost supernaturally green grass, shining with dew. He became acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing, fast and heavy but the more he tried to quieten it, the more out of breath he became and the louder it got.

 

I must be near the edge of the fairway by now, he thought but every time he shone his torch ahead, the dark treeline seemed to get farther away. His knees were stiff, the front of his thighs burned propelled his legs forwards with as little bend as possible. Eventually the shadow of the trees loomed above him and through the foliage he thought he saw a low light glinting in the window of the greenkeeper's shed. 

 

He immediately thought of the yellow Dacia parked in the carpark. Was it possible the greenkeeper was working late, doing paperwork perhaps? What kind of paperwork? Ordering grass-seed, lubricating the mower blades, organising the watering rotas for the summer?

 

He sped up, powering stiffly towards the light like an oversized galloping hairpin. Eventually he reached the shed, the light inside appeared warm and welcoming, he approached the window and saw the back of a man seated at a desk. For a few seconds Bob loitered there just watching, it was so unusual, it must have been at least nine pm, did the man live there?

 

Bob considered walking away and just continuing in the direction of his village but he felt very alone and would welcome some reassurance from the greenkeeper so he went to the door of the shed. He knocked twice then immediately went inside. There was a short period where the man didn’t react but then he looked up from his paperwork and turned to Bob. ‘Oh..hello,’ he said.

 

‘Bob Crudall,’ Bob offered his hand, ‘I expect you’re surprised to see me.’

 

‘No,’ said the man, ignoring the offer of a handshake, ‘not at all. We’ve been expecting you.’

 

‘Expecting me, I’m sorry?’

 

The man stared at him and Bob gasped because he looked so similar to the stubbly guy he’d encountered in the pub car park although this man looked skinnier, meaner perhaps with pointed teeth and a long nose. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he said, ‘lost are you?’

 

‘Not exactly. I just became disorientated on the road so I’m on foot. I was just crossing the golf course as a shortcut to get to Ponkerton village, where I live. I’m trying to return home..’

 

The man shook his head. ‘Never heard of it,’ he said quietly.

 

‘What! You’ve never heard of the village, just outside of this golf course? Just over there! I thought you were the greenkeeper here.’

 

‘I am..sort of. I don’t have to keep it green though. It is green, that’s the natural state of things, here on this part of earth. It’s those folk who want to turn everything to grey and concrete, they’re the ones you’ve got to watch. Dangerous they are, destructive. You like nature do you?’

 

‘As a matter of fact, yes, yes I do, flowers and the like.’ Bob felt uncomfortable now, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

 

The man laughed. ‘Flowers,’ he said, ‘Sounds like you haven’t experienced the darker sides of nature, the truth, you haven’t looked hard enough into the wilderness or come to terms with your own place within it. Nature holds a mirror up to you and once you’ve seen yourself reflected like that, all the man-made stuff will become nothing more than meaningless.’

 

Bob sighed and shook his head. ‘Man made is what makes us or we’re nothing more than animals! So..if you’ll excuse me, my wife has my dinner waiting.’

 

The man held up a finger and then suddenly presented a plate, holding it out towards Bob who craned his neck to decipher exactly what he was looking at. The contents of the plate appeared to squirm. It looked like a big pile of worms, garnished with millipedes and slugs. ‘Your dinner,’ he grinned, ‘I can heat it up for you if you prefer.’

 

Bob was horrified, not only at the disgusting food on offer but he noticed the man’s fingernails were long and purple. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said and turned to leave. He placed his hand on the door handle then stopped. ‘Look I don’t know who you are or what you’re playing at but be sure of one thing, I’ll get you! Whoever you are, I’ll find you and get you for this!’

 

He slammed the door behind him and rushed out into the blackness. To his frustration he quickly realised he’d left his torch in the greenkeeper’s shed but he wasn’t at all keen to return. That man was most peculiar and very unhelpful. Bob was half tempted to go back just to punch him but he didn’t fancy his chances against whatever mysterious powers he might possess. The whole thing was unfathomable.

 

Beyond the wooded area was another slender strip of fairway followed by a larger expanse of rough ground which marked the end of the course and the border of the village. Bob felt a sense of delirium as he walked on, exhausted and in pain. His feet were sore and his knees were numb and swollen. To compensate he had resorted to swinging his arm in an exaggerated manner, his leather shoes hammering the turf, his arms levering up and down like windmills as he traversed the course. 

 

The short predictable grass came to an abrupt end and he tripped as he entered the longer, tufty rough grass, the whippy branches of young saplings flicking his cheeks, causing his flesh to burn. His legs felt weak as he got up, holding his hands in front of him, walking blind now and quietly whimpering. He missed his dog and his wife and imagined the dinner she’d cooked.

 

He attempted to go on but it was no good. The ground was so uneven, he kept falling or bumping into thorny shrubbery and tree trunks. Eventually he collapsed, pulling his limbs into the fetal position, he curled up, covering his head with his jacket and closed his eyes, drifting into a dream. In this state of unconsciousness he saw himself from the outside, as a vulnerable man curled up on the ground among the trees. It occurred to him that he looked like nothing at all as the branches moved in the wind, a vulnerable mass of flesh and blood, reliant on warm clothing and food cooked by his wife to keep him alive.

 

It was the trill of the birds which woke him, the sun was streaming through as he opened his eyes, astonished to find himself in his own bed. The sights and scenery of the previous evening playing over and over in his mind like a terrifying psychological thriller.

 

‘Tanya, Tanya!’ he called out.

 

‘Oh, you’re alive. I’m down here making breakfast.’

 

Bob was relieved to hear the sound of his wife’s voice. He got up, steadying himself since he was slightly dizzy. As he reached for his blue towelling robe, he realised that he still had his shirt on and trousers. He scratched his head and went downstairs, tripping over his little dog, Monty in the hallway.

 

Tanya was seated at the kitchen table, perfectly turned out in smart clothes and a full face of makeup, her hair coiffed and shiny. This was how Bob expected her to look at all times. ‘How are you feeling now?’ she said.

 

‘I..’ Bob shook his head and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I had the strangest night.’

 

His wife looked at him quizzically. ‘You certainly did. You knocked over the wheelie bin pulling into the driveway. That’s not like you. I don’t know what you were drinking. Honestly, Rick’s a bad influence on you sometimes. I know you were celebrating but..’

 

‘I hardly had anything, that’s the thing. It was just a few whiskeys.’

 

‘And I spent hours cooking your favourite and you turned your nose up. Just wanted to go to bed…fully clothed I might add. And you were breathing so heavily. I had to slap you to make sure you were alive.'

 

‘Christ woman, I was breathing!...Hey not…seafood linguini?’ Bob had a flashback of the plate of worms and insects the greenkeeper had offered him.

 

‘It’s in the freezer now.’ Tanya picked up a nail file and began rubbing it on the end of her nails.

 

‘Have you had your nails done?’

 

‘Yes. The technician persuaded me to have purple. I quite like it…a bit goth maybe.’ She laughed.

 

‘Technician?’

 

‘Yes that’s what they’re called.’

 

Bob went to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. ‘You know, I think I was spiked,’ he said, ‘there was a barmaid, last night. I didn’t trust her and everything so..just so odd.’

 

‘Pwwwrh. Spiked, you? Wanted her wicked way with you did she? Maybe thirty years ago but not now surely!’

 

Bob stared out of the window and to his horror, a yellow Dacia Duster was parked outside his house, there was somebody inside it waiting. ‘Hey who’s that out there in that horrible yellow car?’

 

Tanya put her nail file down and got up. ‘Oh him again. He’s a journalist from the local paper, he wants to interview you about Brite’s Clump, he popped over last night when you were out. Apparently there’s going to be a protest.’

 

‘Mmmm,’ Bob took a deep breath, ‘Maybe we should rethink it.’

 

‘What? What’s to rethink, it’s housing, folk need it.’

 

‘I know but something doesn’t feel right. I think I want to keep a bit of green, you know, just a little, a park or something. I need to speak to Rick about it.’

 

‘You’ve gone soft, Bob. You’d better go and have a shower. Monty wants his walk and I need to tell that journalist to be on his way.’