Post by franklinmarsh on Sept 21, 2010 13:48:14 GMT
You Are Chalkie White….And I Claim My Five Pounds
For Ortega
Reg Harris’s hands trembled slightly as he turned the page of The Daily Bugle and saw the smudged, unclear picture of a man whose face was partly obscured by a fanned-out wad of fivers.
‘TODAY!’ he read, ‘Chalkie White will be in Frinton! If you see him on the promenade between 5 and 6 pm, all you have to do is approach him, state confidently and clearly ‘You are Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds!’ and one of Chalkie’s crisp new fivers could be yours! Don’t forget to give your details, and make sure that you are carrying a copy of The Bugle! Good luck!’
Reg glanced uneasily at Muriel’s ice cream smeared face. He’d been a little silly with the holiday money. The pub and the betting-shop had done very well. He could do with an extra fiver.
‘Chalkie’s here today, Moo,’ he remarked.
‘It’s a con, Reg,’ she replied through a mouthful of mint and choc chip. ‘They never turn up. It’s just to get you to buy the paper.’
‘But they print a list of successful claimants,’ protested Reg, leaning back in his deck chair.
‘All made up,’ jeered Muriel.
Reg fumed impotently, trying to think of an excuse to get himself to the promenade.
‘***********
‘Oi, mate!’
David Tedworth jumped and turned, shaking slightly. An angry looking youth with slicked-back hair was heading towards him, waving a newspaper. A spotty teenage girl of sickly appearance trailed behind him.
David found himself backing into a wall.
‘You ARE Chalkie White an’ I claim my five pounds,’ said the youth belligerently, waving the paper. The girl popped a chewing-gum bubble, sniffed and said ‘It ain’t him, Chris.’
‘I…I…don’t know what you mean,’ stuttered David, now beginning to sweat and shake uncontrollably. No! Not now! Not this! He was meant to be resting, avoiding any intense situations…
‘It’s you in the paper, innit?’ snarled the youth. ‘You owe me five quid!’
‘I’m…no…it’s…’
‘I tole you it ain’t ‘im, Chris. ‘Sides it ain’t even five o’clock yet.’
The girl tugged at the boys arm. He shot one last embarrassed glance of annoyance at David, then allowed himself to be dragged away. David felt his shirt clinging to his lower back, sweat stinging his eyes. His lower lip trembled, and his breath came in short gasps. Please, no. Not now. Not when there was a chance of recovery…. He pushed himself away from the wall, and looked around , disorientated. Where was the guest house? He began to shake again.
********************************************
Chalkie White sat in The Red Lion, sipping a pint of bitter. Chalkie’s real name was Sidney Jenkins and he hated everybody and everything, except the giggling bird in the corner who looked as though she might come across if he could get her drunk enough. If she did, he’d hate her afterward, and if she turned him down he’d really hate her, but at the moment she was the focus of his attention. Along with the wad of five pound notes in his suit jacket that he was supposed to be doling out to members of the great unwashed who recognised him, spouted that stupid bloody line and waved a copy of the rag that employed him under his nose. Well, fuck ’em. He was going to get as pissed as a parrot with their money, prise the looker away from her sour -faced mate with his funds, get a knee-trembler under the pier, crash out in his fleapit hotel, then move on to the next God-forsaken sea-side dump in the morning. Of course , he’d be sacked when the paper’s bosses discovered his scam, but so what? He’d have had a booze and sex-filled summer. He swaggered o up to the bar, conscious of the girl’s eyes upon him. He made sure she got glimpse of his impressive roll, and ordered another pint with a whisky chaser, turning to see her looking at him open-mouthed. He smiled, winked and jerked his head.
‘**************************************************************
David staggered through the back streets of the little resort, eyes glazed, teeth gritted, fists clenching and unclenching. Since the Teddy-boy, three other people had confronted him with newspapers, quoted that mysterious saying and then demanded money. He was at the end of his tether, he could take no more. He had to get back to safety or….
As he passed a betting-shop doorway, a hand shot out and grasped his arm. He shrieked and turned to look into the part pasty white, part sunburned red raw face of Reg Harris, eyes desperate behind thick glasses, toothbrush moustache waggling as the wet lips formed those horrific words; ‘You ARE Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds!’
David screamed and wriggled, trying to escape Reg’s grasp. The elder man hung on.
‘Come on, Chalkie,’ he pleaded, ‘I need that money.’
‘I haven’t got your money,’ shrieked the struggling David. ’Let me go!’
Reg waved the paper as David dragged him toward the busy road by the promenade.
‘It says here if I identify you, and say…’
With an almighty effort, David wrenched himself free. He fell into the road and was hit by a Ford Zodiac, flying through the air to land beside the enormous floral clock on the roundabout.
Reg and the car driver stared in horror. Bartlett Malone, Municipal Gardener, hurried across to the prostrate David.
‘You alright, Son?’
He placed his shears beside the body and tried to sit the young man up.
David’s bloodshot eyes flew open, and Bartlett stared into madness. David began to chuckle. He looked around, and seized the shears. He opened them and moved the blades to rest against Bartlett’s neck. The gardener was having trouble breathing.
David murmured ‘You are Chalkie White, and I claim my five pounds.’
The two blades met.
‘********************************************************************
Chalkie was well pissed. Brenda was giggling on his lap. He was well away here.
‘C’mon, darling’, he husked. ‘Let’s go somewhere a little more…private.’
They tottered out of the pub and Brenda screamed. Everywhere they looked resembled a butchers shop. Heads, limbs, disembowelled pensioners, halves of dogs….chip papers and blood-stained kiss-me-quick hats blew like tumbleweed through the carnage.
Chalkie gaped. Although the naked figure was soaked in gore, it bore a marked resemblance to him. Not exactly a mirror image but….
The maniac edged towards them chuckling and drooling. Chalkie tried to put the terrified Brenda between himself and the lunatic.
A red arm lashed out and sent the trembling girl careering into carousels full of saucy postcards.
Chalkie felt cold steel against his neck. The gibbering figure in front of him spat out the words ’You ARE Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds!’ Chalkie lost his head.
*************************************
Brenda came to. She heaved herself up through a sea of naughty nurses, huge-breasted wives and girlfriends, nudist camps and dire puns. Gaining her feet, she unsteadily navigated her way towards the pier. A scrabbling noise made her fearfully glance to her left and gasp in terror.
David, still naked, still bathed in scarlet, clambered on to the roof of the bandstand . He stood, silhouetted against the setting sun, Chalkie White’s head clutched by the hair in one hnd, Bartlett Malone’s crimson bladed shears in the other, head thrown back.
Brenda covered her ears and sobbed as a savage, primal scream erupted from David’s drooling maw.
‘WISHYOUWEREHERE!!!’
End.
For Ortega
Reg Harris’s hands trembled slightly as he turned the page of The Daily Bugle and saw the smudged, unclear picture of a man whose face was partly obscured by a fanned-out wad of fivers.
‘TODAY!’ he read, ‘Chalkie White will be in Frinton! If you see him on the promenade between 5 and 6 pm, all you have to do is approach him, state confidently and clearly ‘You are Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds!’ and one of Chalkie’s crisp new fivers could be yours! Don’t forget to give your details, and make sure that you are carrying a copy of The Bugle! Good luck!’
Reg glanced uneasily at Muriel’s ice cream smeared face. He’d been a little silly with the holiday money. The pub and the betting-shop had done very well. He could do with an extra fiver.
‘Chalkie’s here today, Moo,’ he remarked.
‘It’s a con, Reg,’ she replied through a mouthful of mint and choc chip. ‘They never turn up. It’s just to get you to buy the paper.’
‘But they print a list of successful claimants,’ protested Reg, leaning back in his deck chair.
‘All made up,’ jeered Muriel.
Reg fumed impotently, trying to think of an excuse to get himself to the promenade.
‘***********
‘Oi, mate!’
David Tedworth jumped and turned, shaking slightly. An angry looking youth with slicked-back hair was heading towards him, waving a newspaper. A spotty teenage girl of sickly appearance trailed behind him.
David found himself backing into a wall.
‘You ARE Chalkie White an’ I claim my five pounds,’ said the youth belligerently, waving the paper. The girl popped a chewing-gum bubble, sniffed and said ‘It ain’t him, Chris.’
‘I…I…don’t know what you mean,’ stuttered David, now beginning to sweat and shake uncontrollably. No! Not now! Not this! He was meant to be resting, avoiding any intense situations…
‘It’s you in the paper, innit?’ snarled the youth. ‘You owe me five quid!’
‘I’m…no…it’s…’
‘I tole you it ain’t ‘im, Chris. ‘Sides it ain’t even five o’clock yet.’
The girl tugged at the boys arm. He shot one last embarrassed glance of annoyance at David, then allowed himself to be dragged away. David felt his shirt clinging to his lower back, sweat stinging his eyes. His lower lip trembled, and his breath came in short gasps. Please, no. Not now. Not when there was a chance of recovery…. He pushed himself away from the wall, and looked around , disorientated. Where was the guest house? He began to shake again.
********************************************
Chalkie White sat in The Red Lion, sipping a pint of bitter. Chalkie’s real name was Sidney Jenkins and he hated everybody and everything, except the giggling bird in the corner who looked as though she might come across if he could get her drunk enough. If she did, he’d hate her afterward, and if she turned him down he’d really hate her, but at the moment she was the focus of his attention. Along with the wad of five pound notes in his suit jacket that he was supposed to be doling out to members of the great unwashed who recognised him, spouted that stupid bloody line and waved a copy of the rag that employed him under his nose. Well, fuck ’em. He was going to get as pissed as a parrot with their money, prise the looker away from her sour -faced mate with his funds, get a knee-trembler under the pier, crash out in his fleapit hotel, then move on to the next God-forsaken sea-side dump in the morning. Of course , he’d be sacked when the paper’s bosses discovered his scam, but so what? He’d have had a booze and sex-filled summer. He swaggered o up to the bar, conscious of the girl’s eyes upon him. He made sure she got glimpse of his impressive roll, and ordered another pint with a whisky chaser, turning to see her looking at him open-mouthed. He smiled, winked and jerked his head.
‘**************************************************************
David staggered through the back streets of the little resort, eyes glazed, teeth gritted, fists clenching and unclenching. Since the Teddy-boy, three other people had confronted him with newspapers, quoted that mysterious saying and then demanded money. He was at the end of his tether, he could take no more. He had to get back to safety or….
As he passed a betting-shop doorway, a hand shot out and grasped his arm. He shrieked and turned to look into the part pasty white, part sunburned red raw face of Reg Harris, eyes desperate behind thick glasses, toothbrush moustache waggling as the wet lips formed those horrific words; ‘You ARE Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds!’
David screamed and wriggled, trying to escape Reg’s grasp. The elder man hung on.
‘Come on, Chalkie,’ he pleaded, ‘I need that money.’
‘I haven’t got your money,’ shrieked the struggling David. ’Let me go!’
Reg waved the paper as David dragged him toward the busy road by the promenade.
‘It says here if I identify you, and say…’
With an almighty effort, David wrenched himself free. He fell into the road and was hit by a Ford Zodiac, flying through the air to land beside the enormous floral clock on the roundabout.
Reg and the car driver stared in horror. Bartlett Malone, Municipal Gardener, hurried across to the prostrate David.
‘You alright, Son?’
He placed his shears beside the body and tried to sit the young man up.
David’s bloodshot eyes flew open, and Bartlett stared into madness. David began to chuckle. He looked around, and seized the shears. He opened them and moved the blades to rest against Bartlett’s neck. The gardener was having trouble breathing.
David murmured ‘You are Chalkie White, and I claim my five pounds.’
The two blades met.
‘********************************************************************
Chalkie was well pissed. Brenda was giggling on his lap. He was well away here.
‘C’mon, darling’, he husked. ‘Let’s go somewhere a little more…private.’
They tottered out of the pub and Brenda screamed. Everywhere they looked resembled a butchers shop. Heads, limbs, disembowelled pensioners, halves of dogs….chip papers and blood-stained kiss-me-quick hats blew like tumbleweed through the carnage.
Chalkie gaped. Although the naked figure was soaked in gore, it bore a marked resemblance to him. Not exactly a mirror image but….
The maniac edged towards them chuckling and drooling. Chalkie tried to put the terrified Brenda between himself and the lunatic.
A red arm lashed out and sent the trembling girl careering into carousels full of saucy postcards.
Chalkie felt cold steel against his neck. The gibbering figure in front of him spat out the words ’You ARE Chalkie White and I claim my five pounds!’ Chalkie lost his head.
*************************************
Brenda came to. She heaved herself up through a sea of naughty nurses, huge-breasted wives and girlfriends, nudist camps and dire puns. Gaining her feet, she unsteadily navigated her way towards the pier. A scrabbling noise made her fearfully glance to her left and gasp in terror.
David, still naked, still bathed in scarlet, clambered on to the roof of the bandstand . He stood, silhouetted against the setting sun, Chalkie White’s head clutched by the hair in one hnd, Bartlett Malone’s crimson bladed shears in the other, head thrown back.
Brenda covered her ears and sobbed as a savage, primal scream erupted from David’s drooling maw.
‘WISHYOUWEREHERE!!!’
End.
