The Stalker – II

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May 24, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment

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My police interrogators used the hackneyed ‘good cop, bad cop’ technique at my three interviews. “Didn’t you realise how dangerous it was to go bathing in the lake after dark?” “Why was Mrs Reinhart-Hernandez not wearing any clothes?” “Had you both been drinking?” “Why didn’t you report the accident; there are numerous Help Point telephones located in Green Park?”I certainly got off extremely lightly at the Inquest. Although the Coroner made no specific reference to my involvement, I couldn’t avoid her icy glare as she delivered the misadventure verdict. A helpful court official directed me to a rear exit and I was able to avoid the waiting Press photographers. Within hours I was on a train out of London, headed back to Wales.I was morosely reflective throughout the journey westwards and determined to find a quiet ‘bolt hole’ in which to hide and lick my wounds for a couple of weeks. Some years before I had gone on a religious retreat to an old Benedictine monastery, set on Bardsey Island off the Lynn Peninsular. Would Yr Haven still be there? A quick internet search on my iPhone revealed that it was and, fortuitously, a silent retreat was scheduled to start on the following Monday. I immediately reserved a place.The boat trip across from Aberdaron was decidedly choppy and even sheltering behind the wheelhouse I was soaked through by Ankara escort the time the little ferry docked. A monk was waiting on the landing stage to greet the visitors and lead us up a tree-lined track to the Victorian-era monastery. With a back-drop of menacing black storm clouds, it looked even more intimidating than on my previous visit.The old monk showed me to my compact guest room (retreatants weren’t obliged to reside in cells like the monks) and left me to unpack the few items I’d brought with me in my back-pack. My reading matter was to be Peter Ackroyd’s 1000-page biography of Charles Dickens, the historical figure ‘responsible’ for that fateful meeting with the late Carlotta Reinhart-Hernandez.At the door to the Refectory, an hour later, the Abbot greeted us all courteously and directed us to a long oak refectory table, where we were to take our cold supper. From a low pulpit a monk read from the psalms.As the great bell in the monastery tower struck 7 o’clock, we eight retreatants rose and filed out towards the chapel for Vespers. The short service was taken by the Abbot and I lingered behind after it ended. One or two monks remained, prostrated in prayer, but I was the sole visitor to stay in my seat in this cold and gloomy chapel. After the last monk eventually shuffled out, I rose from Ankara escort bayan my pew and approached the altar which was flanked by single rows of tall choir stalls. Incense still hung in the air, though I detected a subtle ‘undercurrent’ of a fragrance by Elie Saab. I took a seat and studied the huge tapestry altar cloth. Its vertical gilded threads seemed to become iridescent as the flame in the chancel lamp flared up brightly. Seated in a choir stall directly opposite me was a smiling Carlotta. Her long flame red hair was draped in the same way across her freckled face, she wore her signature verdigris eye shadow, but an incongruous mode of clothing tonight was her tangerine-coloured diaphanous gown. On her left upper arm was a purple armband.“Hello stranger, fancy seeing you!”“Going to a fancy dress ball?” I countered, in a half-hearted attempt to conceal my amazement at this apparition.“Obligatory for all First Year Interns, I’m afraid. And I have YOU to thank for it, you bastard! I simply detest orange!” Pointing menacingly at me with her crimson talons, she spat the words out. The monastery bell tower above boomed eight echoing strokes.She leaned back in the choir stall, stretched her long legs and kicked off her gold pumps. “What on EARTH possessed you to choose this God-forsaken dump, Escort Ankara Nicholas?”There was really no answer to such blasphemy. I shrugged. “I needed time and space to reflect. To see where my life might be going.”She blew a raspberry. “Hippy clap-trap! You’ll be telling me next you talk to the fucking trees.”I ignored the slur. “What’s with the armband?”“In the new realm which I now inhabit I’m still a probationer,” she replied sulkily.“Meaning?”“No naughtiness.”“Nothing at all in that department?”“Nichts, rien, nada.”“Well knowing your insatiable appetite, that’s a toughie.”“Tell me about it,” then Carlotta added with a smirk: “But I’m allowed to butter my muffin.”“So how big is this ‘new realm’?”“You’ll find out soon enough,” was the opaque reply.“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have an early night. I’m bushed from the journey.”“Don’t worry, didums – you’ll certainly be seeing me again!” The chancel lamp flickered and now the choir stall was empty, though her shoes remained on the altar step.I had a wretched night, troubled by watery images of bottomless pools, above which wraith-like figures in orange cloaks hovered above a floating corpse. Millais’ painting of Ophelia came vividly to mind. From my east-facing window, I glimpsed a bright dawn and decided to take a walk along the beach before I breakfasted in the refectory.Except for some noisy gulls, the seashore was deserted, with the calm sea lapping gently against white pebbles. An extra strong wave drew back the water, making the stones click in unison. It was almost like a cackle. Scratched in the exposed shingle were the words: ‘ONLY TWO MORE DAYS TO LIVE.’

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