Museum of Old Beliefs by I. Peter Lavan (cool books to read .txt) 📖

looking for an easy meal.
The fed birds fled, not wanting to be caught at what they were doing, the slightly scruffy less fussy ones hung around as a rather rotund man, whose puce face was partially covered by a Father Christmas type facial hair sat beside him, neither looked or acknowledged each other for a moment.

“Tom.”

“Pete.”

He’d accepted the hip flask.

“Amy still got you signed up for the temperance movement?”

He, “Umm’d,” as he nodded, the flask still in his mouth; malt was much more effective then the damned pills.

“Still think she has designs on putting you into a home?”

“Amy and some damned female doctor have been having regular coven meetings to see about me going into hospital for more tests and treatment.”

“Slippery road mate.”

“More needles, prodding’s and potions.” He took another swig.

Tom’s habit of reaching round his high-waist trouser clad belly bulge and scratching down the side of his groin when talking had not diminished, he nodded. “Still having to pay to attract chicks?”

“A teacake’s cheaper then Thailand.”

“At least mine don’t go cheep.”

“You’re right they marry you, take your money then bugger off back.”

Tom’s gruffor was in keeping with his character; he started the ritual of lighting the tobacco in his old knarred briar.

He reluctantly offered the flask back. “Thanks.”

“Got it for you.”

“Edradour?”

“Eighty-three.”

“Eighty-three, Cheapskate!”

Tom playfully punched him on the arm with the hand that held the lighter, knocking him over sideways way beyond where the girl had sat.

“Talking of birds, I got accosted by a beauty on the bus.” He creakily managed to sit back up.

Nonchalantly, Tom continued scratching his groin. “Sexually?”

“I wish,” he hesitated for some reason he needed to recoup some of the face he lost with Sabine, even in front of his friend who didn’t even know her. “However she was coming on to me, wanting to know my wildest dreams and such.”

“Thought the doctor said you have to stop the Sildenafil Citrate?”

“Wouldn’t need it with this one old pal.”

“Yuh Sure…”

He reached into his pocket. “Her card you disbeliever.”

There was a quizzical look on Tom’s face, somehow he thought he knew what Tom was thinking, ‘drugs and whisky mixing?’

“No, you don’t stop the whiskey, it’s the only vice I have.” He took the card back and put it in his pocket.

“I bet the bird on the bus was juicy Jessie from the terminal café.”

“Terminus café, no her names Sabine, Sabine Trudeau, didn’t you see it on the card, oaf?”

He went to pass Tom the card again. Tom held his hand up, the puzzled look returned to his face.

“Anyway I’ve decide I’m going to see her at the Museum, I’ve got business with that young lady!”

“Museum?”

“Yes, museum.”

Tom’s laugh seemed to echo away with, “tomorrow.” He couldn’t remember Tom leaving but he had taken the whiskey with him, the tight git.

The walk to Leopold Street was lost to the days haze. As he arrived, for some reason he dare not enter the street, instead he stood at the corner and leant forward on the fox, peering down the street. It was exactly as he remembered it, nothing new. There was the lingerie shop where he lingered longer then he ought, what had been Woollies, the butcher, the bakers and the interior lighting shop, but no museum. With a somewhat slight relief mixed with a slight disappointment he dared the threshold and began to walk down the street. He stopped as usual outside the lingerie shop window, partly through repeated habit and partly to look for Sabine’s card to see if there was a hint of an address. As he fumbled about in his trouser pocket, he looked into the shop. The pretty girl with the bright red hair was shaking her head at something, the made up manager pointed towards him, then checked her watch. Unusually, there were no middle-aged matrons looking to change their curves with corsets. The fumbling search only revealed his bus pass, his keys and wallet, no card, it disturbed him, he had an aching feeling he might have dreamt the meeting with Sabine. A lot of things were disturbing lately, he had increasingly found dreams had become very real, and some of reality had become almost dream-like. He damned the doctors drugs Amy kept feeding him. He stopped searching, Tom must have taken it. He waved to the girls in the shop, the redhead cheerily waved back, the man-age-r gave him the finger, he put his hands back in his pockets and gave her a special rummage, everything was normal, he wasn’t dreaming.

It was with some despondency he walked the rest of Leopold Street, looking for a sign of hope and hope looking for a sign. All there was, were Victorian coal-smoked buildings with sedate façades and new glass, nothing he knew was new, not even a new old museum. Before he turned into Carlota Lane he stopped for one final shufti, it was then he saw a little sign, a little sign on ornate black railings he’d never noticed before, directly opposite his lingering stop. He hesitated for a moment. Suddenly the concrete of the pavement turned into a mire of mud, stopping him moving back down the street. He waited, willing movement back into his feet. Determination set him off, slowly at first, his feet shackled by apprehension, then anticipation managing momentum. He moved slightly quicker, trepidation grew expediential as he approached the dark, highly polished wood sign; expectancy swelled, stopping his body, leaving it tight and taut and breathless as he read on the small wooden plaque in the same italic writing he’d seen on Sabine’s card, Museum of old beliefs.

He shuddered time and movement back into his muscles. Looking down the twelve dark cellar type steps, he saw a broad medieval style metal studded door. Four times he put his right foot down onto the first step. Four times, for some reason, he pulled it back onto the street. He waited, wanting to move down the steps, every sense electrified, but he couldn’t, something deep inside held him, stopped him, froze him from moving forward. He turned, immensely disappointed with himself, frustrated, crestfallen, upset. He shuffled down the street with cognitive reasoning there was tomorrow. The further he moved away, the more he brightened, today would just make him look too keen, too interested. He looked at his watch to take his mind off the reaction of disappointment, he’d just have time to spend with Jessie before going home, she would take away the feeling of failure, she was funny, and she always cheered him up…

The water had cooled, shifting his mind to now and why he didn’t go down the steps to the museum. He couldn’t understand, Sabine was gorgeous, and sexy, in fact she would be his perfect dream woman, should there be such a thing. However, even now well away from the steps there was the feeling that if he had gone down to meet her there would have been change, a change there would be no coming back from. On the other hand; would that be hardship with his life how it was presently. Then again there was Amy, but then again, that in itself could be a good enough reason to spend time with Sabine. He was tired; he’d make a decision in the morning. He give todge one final rodge, still no real response, better really, he’d need the toilet before sleep.

3

“Oh Dad!” dragged him away from the needles inserted into his brain and the massive pipe about to be swaged into his urethra.

“It’s you Amy, thought it was that damned nurse again.”

“Look at your bed Dad.”

He had an uncomfortable feeling sitting, not only did his pillow look like it had been a major player at the La Tomatina in Bunyol, there was an unpleasant coolness at the back of his thighs that could only mean one thing.

“It’s them damned drugs you keep feeding me, they are making it so I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

Amy started stripping the pillowcases. “Don’t know if I can look after you any more Dad.” Then realised she had spoken out loud, she quickly changed the conversation. “You still having the dreams about being in hospital?

“You better do the whole bed.” He answered getting out. “Yes, at times I don’t know which is real, the hospital or this! I’m going for a bath.”

“Shower ’d be quicker.”

“Going for a bath.”

“Throw your night things out so I can wash them. No don’t take, oh Dad!”

As he lay in the bath he had a realisation that he hadn’t eaten for a while, but even so he wasn’t hungry. Also he had a weird sensation that someone was fitting a cannula into his arm but as he looked down there was nothing to be seen, with a shrug he got out of the bath and dried himself. Amy had put his clothes out on his naked mattress.

There was a plastic bag and suitcase close to the door, a quick search inside revelled most of his clothes, Amy must be taking them to the cleaners, unless? As he set off downstairs to confront Amy what was going on he had another odd sensation in his arm, a cold numbing feeling. He could hear Amy calling him from somewhere, but as he reached the bottom step the house and furniture had become ethereal, Amy’s calling sounded to echo away into the distance. Damned drugs, damned daughter, no matter what they said, he was coming off them. He’d prefer that his condition quicken then spend the rest of his life in this half-state or in a home.

He had no explanation why, but as he passed the telephone in the hall there was an irresistible urge to pick it up. He stood watching, waiting, listening to see who was about, before picking it up.

“Amy we will do what ever we can to make your dad comfortable.” He knew the female voice.

“I know Doctor, I know it sounds pathetic, but I don’t know what I can do to help.”

“At this late stage there is nothing you can do, just be there, if you can, talking helps, but we can’t tell how much is registering.”

“Dr Livingston I assume.” The echoing depth of his voice shocked him.

“Hi Pete, decided to join us?”

“Dad?”

Peter could visualise them both talking. “Deciding what to do with me.”

“We didn’t know you were with us Pete.”

“Hi Dad.”

“Dr Livingston I need to come off the drugs.”

“No Dad.”

“One thing at a time Amy, how you feeling Pete?”

“Bit groggy, bit surreal really.” He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t resist adding, “and incredibly randy!”

“Daaaaad!”

“It’ll be the drugs Pete, they sometimes have that effect.”

For some reason he was on a roll. “No doctor it’s you, I know when you wear your white coat, you are only wearing silk stockings and suspenders underneath, or is it just those hold ups you wear, I prefer the suspenders they’re like a frame for your...”

“DAD!”

“I stopped wearing a white coat a long time ago.”

“But not the stockings?”

“That’s between me and my partner Mr Thomas.”

“Partner? Male or female?”

“Dad.”

“I know doctor