Yesterday, fueled by budget filter coffee and Aldi lager, I indulged in a twenty two hour gaming marathon. It helped to distract me from difficult emotions. I played the shit out of the MMO I’m addicted to, farming materials mostly, bashing digital rocks with a pick axe and crying. By 4am, I had sweated out enough caffeine and alcohol to pass out in my gaming chair.
Five minutes ago I awoke to find that I’d slept through my alarm, and missed the funeral of my one true love.
Ella. Gorgeous, uncompromising Ella. From the moment we met, I knew she was ‘the one’. The most amazing person. So beautiful to me and so funny. So sassy too, headstrong and confident.
We dated for three years, and then something bad happened. I let her down and she never forgave me. In the months that followed, our relationship fell apart. I did everything I could to make things right, but all my clumsy efforts did were make things worse. Then one day, inevitably, I got home from work to find Ella and her stuff gone. She left me a note on the kitchen table.
“Bye Custard. Off to find a real hero.”
I’m not sure what hurt me more. That note or last week’s text from my mate Fahim telling me that Ella was dead.
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I may have missed the funeral, but there’s still time for me to get to the wake. I’ve written a poem for Ella. Perhaps I’ll get to the pub in time for the speeches and be given the chance to read it out.
I dress as hastily as I can, spending far too long trying to find a pair of matching black socks. I’ve got a black suit jacket ready, bought from the local Hospice shop a few days ago, but the only black tie I have is a bow tie, from when I temped as a waiter at my uncle’s catering company. I’ve got one shirt with a collar, but it’s a Hawaiian shirt, so I settle instead on a black Corrosion of Conformity t-shirt. I open a drawer and grab Ella’s pendant necklace, a little red phial on a thin gold chain, put it around my neck and slip it under the tee. On goes the bow-tie and the suit jacket, an I’m ready for a quick check of myself in the mirror before I leave the flat.
Jesus.
I look like an overweight metal Chippendale.
There’s no time to remedy my outfit and so I slip on some Crocs and head out the door to catch the bus down the hill to the Old Bull pub.
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I arrive to find the place packed with mourners. There’s a good mix of family and friends, some smiling and chatting, some with red eyes and ruined mascara. There’s an old lady in a chair snoring. I think it’s Ella’s great grandma.
I’m heartened to see a formidable turnout from our guild, The Hopeless Canutes. Most of the members are there — including Simon who is even more of a recluse than I’ve been since the split with Ella. There are a couple of members cosplaying as their characters. “It’s what Ella would have wanted” they’ll tell me later. Maybe I’ll think, but only so she could take the piss.
As I push my way to the bar, I’m intercepted by my best mate Fahim and his partner Angela. I can tell he’s desperate to ridicule my outfit, but to his credit, he keeps the insults to himself. “Good effort man,” he says instead, looking me up and down. He folds me in to a big Turkish hug and the tears stream down my face. I can’t stop them.
“Here you go Doon,” says Angela, handing me a tissue and giving me a perfect sympathetic smile. “So good to see you mate. Really. In person I mean. It’s been way too long.”
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“I know, I know,” I say, backing out of the hug and wiping my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m, you know. I’m trying.”
“Yeah. It’s all good man,” says Fahim. “I’m sorry it’s taken something like this to get you out of hiding.”
I nod and blow my nose.
“How was the funeral?” I ask.
“Sad” says Angela. “You know. Moving. A lot of people spoke, said nice things.”
“I wrote her a poem,” I say, patting my pockets to locate the crumpled bit of paper it’s scribbled on. “Maybe I could read it later.”
“Yeah,” says Fahim. “Maybe. You know, I’ve got something for you. From her.”
“Yeah? Something she left at your place?”
“No. It’s something she left you in her will.”
“No shit.” I don’t know how to feel about that. The last I heard from Ella was the stone cold note she left on the kitchen table. Of course, I tried to track her down after that, to talk to her about things, but there was no trace. She disappeared entirely. I later heard she was on a round the world trip and had cut ties with everyone. Even her mum.
“There was someone from the solicitor’s here earlier,” Fahim explains. “He was looking for you. Someone Goodfellow.”
“Hob, I think his name was,” says Angela. “I think he was Welsh or something.”
Fahim nods. “Let’s get some drinks and we can go and find a quiet corner, so I can give you the thing. What can I get you man?”
“I’ll have a Rising Bull please.”
“What’s that again?”
“Asahi Super Dry and a Red Bull, in a pint glass. I used to drink them here all the time. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”
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We sit down and I take a few sips and instantly feel better, as my heart gets the jolt it’s been craving. Fahim hands me a simple brown envelope.
“Here you go. You should be honored. You’re the only one she mentioned in her will, so the solicitor said.”
“That’s weird. Didn’t mention any of her family?”
“No,” says Angela. “Just you.”
“Be honest. Have either of you opened it and taken a peek?”
“No!” Says Fahim. “Course not. Though I’ve given it a good feel. I think it’s a key. Probably a spare key to your place that she still had. I think there’s a letter in there too.”
I hold the envelope and turn it over in my hands.
“Are you going to open it then?” Angela asks. “I’m dying to know what’s inside.”
I down the pint and take a deep breath. My hands go to rip the package open but I pause. What if it’s harsh words or something intensely private? What if it’s Ella delivering some home truths from the grave? I’m not sure how I’d handle that. I’d probably dissolve into a blubbering mess.
Instead, I slip the envelope into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “I’ll look at it later. Let’s get the drinks in so we can toast her memory. What can I get you both?”
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I get home just after eleven thirty, drunk as hell. I put on the kettle and turn on my PC and then take out the envelope and rip it open.
I take a deep breath, and stifle a preemptive sob before spilling out the contents on to my bed.
There is a key, but it’s not the one to my flat. It’s a big, ornate iron key. I pick it up and see that it’s decorated with a skull with one eye socket. There a two bits of paper also. I pick one of them up and unfold it to reveal a page of red text punched out on an old typewriter.
> Ravenswood Station
>
> Closed 1957. Deep level, well hidden. Perfevct… Entrance behind Duke of Devonshire. Look for ion gate with spikes, steps behind.Take steps down. Lots of them. No lights so need torch. Remember - wyrds don’t
>
> work here. Carful!
>
> Bring coin for ferryman. Any will do. Shinier the better. He’s a grumpy arsehole but
>
> he’s fair.
>
> Take right passage at foot of steps. NOT LEfT. LEFT IS DEATH! Use key to call.
>
> Wait for train. Board any.
>
> UPDATE. Ferryman dead. Suspect A-. Makes things easier.
I’m confused. I know I’m drunk, but surely this wouldn’t make any sense even if I was sober. Is this a joke? A mistake? For some reason, I give the paper a sniff. It doesn’t help me understand it any better.
I unfold the other piece of paper and it’s two words, in Ella’s unmistakable handwriting.
> HELP ME.