Scott's Close Call (Part One)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“Yes?” Scott said as he opened the door of the isolated farmhouse to the man who had been hammering on it continuously loud enough to raise the dead for as long as it took him to finish wiping his bottom and pull up his jeans (why does someone always call when you're home alone taking a shit?)

The caller was perhaps fifty years old, he was unusually tall and thin with a mop of silvery hair cut perfectly straight an inch above his ears as if someone had used a bowl as a guide, and his skin was as white as snow.

Scott had never seen anyone that pale before. The man looked ill, he looked like there was not a single drop of blood running through his veins. His skin looked strange, and his face looked slightly lopsided (not human, not human, his flesh looks more like dough than skin!) And that wasn't all. The caller's oversized, impossibly blue eyes stared blankly at a spot somewhere to Scott's right as if he was blind or under the influence of some powerful sedative, and he was wearing the most stupid grin imaginable (close the door, you prick, slam it in his freaky face and call the police!) “Yes?” Scott repeated. “What do you want? If you're looking for my mum or dad they're not here, they're off gallivanting on the coast for the weekend (wise move, you complete cretin).”

“Good, good. What do I want,” the man said slowly and precisely, his idiotic grin replaced with a sombre expression that made him look as if he was carrying all the world's troubles on his shoulders. He sounded like he was repeating what he had heard and at the same time mulling it over in his meticulous but painfully slow mind. “What do I want, what do I want..... I want water!” he said, an expression of revelation rolling across his face as if he was delighted to find the right word. “The vehicle I am using has stalled a short distance away, I need water because the radiator has overheated. What is gallivanting?”

“Oh, it means to play around, to have fun – haven't you heard the term before?” Scott said, suspiciously eyeing the man's clothing. The caller was wearing a baggy, old fashioned navy blue pinstripe suit with huge lapels that must have dated back to the seventies, though it looked brand new, as did his crisp white shirt with a ridiculously oversized collar and his massive, multicoloured kipper tie. “I'll get you some water. How far away is your car, would you like me to give you a lift?”

“Lift?” the man replied. “I..... don't understand.”

“A lift to your car, can I drive you there? Lots of folk say I don't look old enough to drive, but I'm nearly nineteen.”

“Yes, I know. The car is a short distance away, we can walk. Your name is SP Bell, is it not? Scott Paul Bell.”

“Yes, how do you know that?”

“I work for the government. I know a lot of things about a lot of people. It's my job to know.”

“Aah..... I'll go and get a jug of water, I'll only be a minute.” Scott closed the door on the stranger, and as he filled a large plastic jug from the tap in the kitchen he called his father on his mobile phone. “Dad,” he whispered as if he thought the man might overhear him. “There's a man at the door asking for water, he said his car's broken down nearby. I'm getting the water but he – I don't know, he looks strange and he behaves even stranger, and I don't know what to do. Somehow he knows my name, he says he works for the government and it's his business to know.”

“What do you mean by strange, Scotty?” his father replied. “You'll have to expand on that a little,” so in a nutshell Scott related all the oddities he could remember about the character. “Just give him the water then,” the old man said after a moment's thought, “but I guess it's best not to go with him – we have no neighbours overlooking us, remember? Mind you, you're big enough to look after yourself, I suppose. And you could always take the dog with you, she won't stand for any nonsense.”

“Right. OK, dad, I'll catch you later. Give my love to mum, and you two enjoy yourselves.”

“Let me know when he's gone, just so that we know you're safe.”

“Will do.”

As Scott came out of the back door and walked around the side of the house with the family's coal black English bull terrier German shepherd mix the caller threw himself against the wall beside the front door and emitted a weird high-pitched keening. “Not like animal! Not like!” he yelled.

“She won't hurt you,” Scott reassured him, but the poor fellow was obviously terrified. As Bella sniffed the stranger's legs she emitted a low growl and most uncharacteristically she snapped at him. “It's OK, I'll put her back in the house,” Scott said, putting the jug of water down and grabbing the dog by the collar. Bella barked furiously at the man, and Scott had to practically drag her into the house – he'd never seen her take such a dislike to anyone before.

When he returned the man was still spread-eagled against the wall. “Not like animal, not like animal,” he mumbled over and over again (this guy's a fucking fruitcake, buddy, get in the house and load your old man's shotgun).

“I've shut her inside,” Scott said, picking up the jug of water. “Come on, I'll help you get your car running, I'm pretty good with engines.”

“Help with car,” the man said, scampering after Scott.

“What are you doing up here in the Peaks, then?”

“What am I doing up here in the Peaks,” the man repeated as if he didn't understand the question, something Scott was beginning to get used to.

“Are you on holiday, are you just passing through Ridgedale, or do you have some sort of business here?”

“Business. Work here for the government,” the man said blandly, treating Scott to another one of his fool ear to ear grins. “Business finding Scott Paul Bell.”

Scott pretended that he hadn't heard that. The natural thing, he guessed, would be to ask the stranger why he had been looking for him and, more importantly, what he intended to do now he had found him - but somehow he didn't think he wanted to know the answer to those questions. The man looked feeble and he moved pretty clumsily, and Scott was sure that he could push him over, run home and let the dog out if he tried any funny business. And if things turned really shitty he could always grab the shotgun.

As they walked down the lane a car came speeding around the bend, a battered Mondeo going way too fast, and the man acted in a similar way to when he saw the dog – he flattened himself against the hedge and emitted an odd, high pitched whine of fear. “Not like! Not like!”

“Right,” Scott replied, unable to think of anything else to say (we've got a right weirdo here, but I guess there's no need to panic just yet because not every weirdo is a dangerous weirdo). “What's your name?” He was struggling with his mistrust of the stranger. Fear was too strong a word, because the man was - well, he seemed to be shit scared of anything that moved.

“Name? What name?”

“You do have a name, don't you? You already know mine, so it's polite to tell me yours.”

“Aah, my name..... My name is Purple, Ingrid Purple.”

(This situation is getting curioser and curioser, more and more crazy and surreal and possibly, just possibly life-threatening). The improbable name that the man claimed as his own flew straight out of Scott's mind the moment he clapped eyes on the vehicle pulled in tight against a gate leading into Derek Willoughby's cow pasture. “Wow! It's a nineteen fifty three Morris Minor Traveller, and somebody's made a fantastic job of restoring it. Have you done the work on it, erm, Ingrid?”

“Work? What work?”

“The work on your car – there aren't many of these around any more, surely you know that, it must have took some time and cost you or whoever you bought it from a small fortune to restore.”

“Fortune? Restore? Restore as in fix, mend, rejuvenate?” Scott stared into Ingrid's crazy, vacant blue eyes in disbelief (he's struggling with plain sodding English because he's a long, long way from home, sunshine). “Vehicle not restored..... Vehicle is new.”