Page 58 of Lost Souls

The elderly man moves round so that he can see Arnie and look him straight in the morose, hangdog eye.

“Are you kidding, pal?”He grins. “The world’s a wonderful place. And hey, just think what it would be like if you’d never been a part of it.”

Arnie pauses in his hefting, closes his eyes and thinks about what this stooped but wise old fellow has just said to him. He hears a parade in progress. In his mind, he pictures a vast cohort of gleaming, red-uniformed, baton-twirling people. On closer inspection, he can see that the paradeis being led by some familiar figures – people he knows well or has encountered sometime throughout his life. There’s his wife Melisande, in a stunningly provocative and joyous outfit. And here are a beaming Dorita and Ron, from his domestic sound booth, accompanied by his erstwhile stars, Brent and Cleo. Close behind are Big Louie and Lyle, happily arm in arm with me; a delighted Noreen; Rosie in herAnniecostume; the hairy landlord from the Wordsworth Arms; and a petite, smiling, grey-haired lady, wearing a sweatshirt that saysMOMon the front.

Behind them, joining hands with a glittering array of America’s foremost, grade-X erotic talent of all sexes are panhandlers, the homeless, the halt and the lame. What unites them all in this massive gathering is the look of total ecstasy on their faces and the fact that they have all come together to mark the occasion of Arnie Garth’s non-existence by singing ‘Oh Happy Day’ in resoundingly euphoric unison.

Arnie opens his eyes and turns to the gently smiling old gentleman. “Thanks for nothing, wrinkledick,” he says.

***

While Arnie is hovering between a not-so-wonderful life and a pretty messy demise, a flight from Las Vegas is about to begin its descent.

The door to the toilet at the rear of the plane opens and Melisande emerges, looking slightly flushed. A few moments later, Big Louie follows her out.

Melisande notices an elderly lady in a nearby aisle seat staring up at her in some shock.

“Oh,what?” says the legendary star, curtly. “Like you’ve never made it in an airplane john with a well-hung, homicidal dwarf!”

The elderly lady simply shrugs contritely.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Honesty is like an icicle – once it melts, that is the end of it.

(American proverb)

Noreen has runout of wool, which she supposes was inevitable in the circumstances. So Cleo is selflessly helping to increase the supply by allowing the rabid knitter to unravel an old woollen dress of hers, which wasn’t exactly flowing to begin with.

The owner of the dress is kindly wearing it, in order to avoid unnecessary tangles. She is consistently walking across the room to check the window, which at least helpsto keep the strands taut.

“Knit even faster, hon!” she suddenly urges. “His cab just pulled up.”

When Arnie returns a few minutes later, using his own key, Noreen leaps up and runs over to him in order to bestow one of her fondest and most asphyxiating hugs. Aside from stunning the man and reducing his supply of oxygen, she also succeeds in leaving Cleo wearing little more than a woolly pelmet.

“Hey, ease up, lady,” says Arnie, extricating himself and regaining his breath. “It’s only friggin’ mint cake.”

“Screw the mint cake, Arnie,” says Noreen, showing an impressively swift uptake of the local vernacular. “I was so worried. I thought you were dead!”

“Watch this space,” says Arnie, before his mind can fully process how someone without any vested interest whatsoever might be the slightest bit exercised over whether he lives or dies. “So… Noreen,” he says, more gently, “how’ve you been? Cleo treating you okay?”

“Champion, Arnie. And I am making you a nice, warm cardie of your very own.”

“Where I’m going, that’s just what I’ll need,” he moans. Yet, once again, he finds himself wrong-footed. “Hey, back up! You’re… you’re making something for me?Why, Noreen? My cash has all been stopped by my… my creditors. I can’t even pay you for the friggin’ wool.”

“Oh Arnie, it’s a gift. I made it for you because… well… because…”

She finds that she can’t truly put her reasons into words. Nor can she fathom why she has reasons in the first place. Yet when this very curious man, who has rescuedher from the mob (two very different mobs, actually, Cumbrian and Nevadan), dragging her halfway across the world in the process, and with whom she has had enough adventures to last a lifetime, puts his hand into his pocket and delivers up a by now pretty crushed slab of warm Kendal Mint Cake, with only the tiniest corner bitten off, she knows that she just has to hug him all over again.

It is when she is delivering this mother of all embraces and Arnie is smiling hopefully (even as he gasps for air) that Noreen notices the photograph. It is one of several on Cleo’s wall, beside her lovely, faith-based movie posters. Noreen walks towards it, still clutching Arnie to her solid frame.

As she takes in the picture, she drops her human package onto the ground with a thud.

“Hey! Don’t stop now, babe,” says Arnie, who has been quite pleased with how this is going.

Instead of resuming the hug, Noreen Millburn gives Arnie Garth a massive slap across the face that sends him crashing against the wall. Right next to the photo that Noreen has spotted.

It is a picture of Arnie and Melisande’s wedding. The bride wears a sweet little white leather micro skirt with fetching white half-cup peek-a-boo bra and lacy veil. Cleo – like the other bridesmaids – is dressed as a naughty schoolgirl. The ripped best man wears only a fig leaf – and this not very adeptly.