Under the Limbo Tree Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Dominic Schunker and Offworld Publishing Ltd. All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing: 2019

  ISBN 978-1-9162175-0-8 (eBook)

  ISBN 978-1-9162175-1-5 (Paperback)

  Offworld Publishing

  www.offworldpublishing.com

  This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary.

  Contents

  1. Upside Down

  2. Disease

  3. Logistics

  4. Dreams

  5. The Fly

  6. Two Ninjas

  7. The Field

  8. Living in the Enemy

  9. Mountaintop

  10. Finality

  11. A Chat with Reverend Dillon

  12. A Soft Rock

  13. Percy Wattleboys

  14. One Ninja

  15. Mira

  16. The Treetops

  17. Goluwan

  18. The Kiss that wasn’t a Kiss (Part 1)

  19. The Beacon Tree

  20. The Kiss that wasn’t a Kiss (Part 2)

  21. The Brightness of a Reflection

  22. Cease and Desist

  23. Roses

  24. Whippings

  25. Company

  26. Tabletop

  27. Mind Games

  28. The Anchovy Question

  29. Voice

  30. Car

  31. Defence is the Weakest Defence

  32. Digging out the Winkle

  33. Shops

  34. Memphis, April 4th 1968

  35. The List

  36. Demons

  37. Dragons

  38. Jack

  39. Empty Bottles

  40. The Letter

  41. 6pm

  42. File

  43. Escape

  44. Constance

  45. We’re not Enemies

  46. Turning the Corner

  47. The Note

  48. Reccie

  49. Heather

  50. $83

  51. New York

  52. Sixty Minutes

  53. Folding it all up

  54. The Limbo Tree

  About the Author

  Subscribe

  Thanks

  Coming Soon

  Story

  Bonus

  Acknowledgments

  Emily had half a fingernail full of foundation up her nose and mascara was increasingly looking like don’t bother today. The day was already threatening to annoy but there was something else on her mind, some little niggle her dream left behind.

  It was the day she was under that old scraggly tree up at the point, sitting between the two big fat roots. It was a perfect fit. She was running her hands across the roots beside her, looking out across the sea and then she felt something different. She looked down and there was a little square cut out of one of the roots, like someone had carved a little chair for a little mouse.

  But in her dream, she saw something out of the corner of her eye and she looked up. There was a man standing over by the edge and he turned and smiled at her, like he’d been waiting for her to wake up. He started walking over to her. She was sure she'd seen him somewhere. It felt like he was all around her, strong and safe.

  And then suddenly, she was falling, looking up to the cliff edge as the tree was getting smaller and smaller. Down and down she fell. She tried to twist round to see how close the rocks were but then she woke up, swung her arm round to protect her from the rocks and knocked a glass of water off the bedside table. It took eleven seconds for her to be fully aware of where she was and slow her breathing.

  She had a look at the morning’s makeup effort and had to chuckle. Her brother. When she was fifteen, she was just getting the hang of makeup or no makeup, her brother had spiked her foundation with this stuff. At first, it looked as fabulous as she hoped but, after a couple of hours, it had turned to a mid-purple. Lunchtime at school was a testing time and Chalky the Clown stayed with her for the rest of term.

  Today, Emily was late for work. A second look and she quickly decided to remove it all and try again when she got there. Things didn't seem to be coming to her aid as they should this morning. Her phone had told her it was charging last night but clearly decided not to bother after that. The kitchen bulb went with a pop when she attempted coffee so she had no coffee and poured hot water on her shoes in the bargain, and the bus decided to not bother opening the doors for at least a minute despite the driver pressing all manner of buttons. She was being stared at like some tramp, like she was banned from buses. The doors finally opened. She got herself half inside then they freaked out again and closed on her, pinching her left shoe off and leaving it outside the bus.

  The driver was unsympathetic. He was getting ready to haul the thing away, make up time. He actually looked annoyed when she insisted, ‘Er... No. No one’s going yet. Clothing stolen from me. Open the doors please.’ The driver was already her day’s new enemy and she got the little tingle to prove it. She wanted to slap the moody face of that beardy-faced driver. He punched the door button and sat back with an exhale that informed everyone else on the bus it was all her fault.

  The doors objected and hissed and tried and eventually opened enough for her to reach down and retrieve the shoe. She righted herself with an ease that wasn’t out of place and defiantly showed the shoe to the driver, prove to the miserable sod what his machine had done to her.

  The thing about Emily, and a lucky thing it was for the driver, Emily was in the springtime of a new life. Instead of unleashing a parable of his ending, she took time to wonder if he was OK, reasons to be miserable, 1-2-3. Had his morning started with an upside down coffee mug or was it something else nibbling at him?

  Her new approach to her new life, see the good in everything, try not to assume its problems, had spared the driver from something she’d regret saying before she got through the doors at work and she awarded herself a little star for it. He was probably just a dick though.

  So, now, being everyone's focal point didn’t phase her. Initial embarrassment over, just salvage some dignity and expand on it. She took a moment or two to apply a scowl to the other passengers though, complicit in their ignorance and their contentment with some morning sport, especially the ones who were grinning.

  Pretty soon, the bus made its way round the lanes and pulled up within striking distance of work.

  ‘Jesus, late much?’ said Agnes as Emily tried to hurry through the front doors to the office.

  ‘Nes, Jesus, morning. Got a spare one?’

  The sun was making itself known and the various elements of the day were stretching. Emily had moved to Adster a couple of weeks ago, job in the local rag. Her family had come from here way back and, after Erik the spiteful viking back in London, who could still seriously go and fuck himself by the way, the peace and quiet of local life was perfect. Local life needed to step up in one or two areas, like bus drivers, but she truly felt she was home. Her springtime was functioning.

  The job offer came from nowhere. She’d been sitting at yet another table in yet another restaurant waiting for Erik to show up. It was a table right in the middle of the place as well, her stood-upness clear for all to see. She applied a dignity to the situation symptomatic of today’s bus trip. She finally got up and left, telling the head waiter that the idiot who booked it would be paying and please leave him a message to go and fuck himself. That was it for Erik. Apologies and excuses and flowers
did nothing but confirm he was a complete dick and, as it tended to do, respect absconded and took attraction and everything else with it. Emily’s logic presented an extrication without much fuss.

  There was a letter when she got home one evening, pushed under her door. Handwritten, no stamp. Her first thoughts were that this was another faux romantic pile of balls from Erik. Jesus, please don’t let there be mandolins and a bended knee somewhere in her evening. But it wasn’t Erik.

  We’re looking for someone in Adster. I believe you have some sort of history there. Would love to talk.

  Signed by George Brown, Editor, Cornish National Gazette.

  What, so this George Brown came to her flat and physically slipped it under her door. She felt quite important for at least four seconds until she realised it wasn't handwritten, just looked like it. George Brown had obviously got a list of reporters and the Cornish National Gazette was engaged in a head-hunting frenzy in the capital.

  But suddenly her new tingle told her it made perfect sense. She thought about leaving London for the first time since she got there and it felt good. It felt really good. Cornwall. Fuck Erik and fuck London.

  George Brown was milling about and caught her as she settled at her desk.

  ‘Em. You’ve not got time to settle. You’re late. You need to get out to the courthouse isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry, George. Iffy morning. Yes. The court.’ Emily checked her watch and the guy she needed to cover would probably be about to wrap up his brief appearance. It was only about two hundred yards away. Time for a healthy jog there.

  Emily was back on the street and reached the courthouse in a credible time for shoes that had been leaked on and boiled, stolen by a bus door and now clattering up the steps just as her target was half way down them. ‘Balls,’ she said to herself. She’d missed the actual courtroom but here he was.

  ‘Mister Penhaligon,’ she said, struggling to get any battery life out of her voice recorder. ‘Mister Penhaligon, Cornish National Gazette.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, fucking terrorists,’ said Penhaligon.

  Penhaligon's solicitor, Bodger, was alongside but had the weary, underappreciated look of a man who just didn't bother any more. Penhaligon always said what he felt and with a fair bit of colour in the bargain. The papers loved him. Guaranteed full page every time. The PR battles had never been engaged and he saw no reason for it. It’s not a fucking game show, he said. His brief to Bodger and his firm was just get money off people, Bodger, and stop him from getting caught doing stuff. This time, though, he’d been caught but not nearly as caught as Emily thought he should be.

  ‘So, how do you feel about the ruling this morning?’ She was winging it but assumed what everyone else did and she’d soon find out. ‘How much do you think you’ll have to pay to the victims?’

  ‘Victims, my bollocks. Opportunistic fuckers. And fuck all is the answer to your question.’

  ‘Well, the judge was considering about twenty million north of that, Mr Penhaligon. But let’s just forget the money for a moment. How do you feel about the fact that some of them will die because of this?’

  ‘Fuck that, I’m appealing and, if they still behave like inbred pricks next time, I’ll appeal again and eventually these scamming fuckwits will die and they can all fuck off in the bargain.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Mr Penhaligon?’

  ‘It's a fact of life.’

  ‘So still, even now, you don’t feel you should pay people who worked for you, people who got poisoned?’

  ‘I fucking do not. It’s Emily isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. And you would know that how?’

  ‘One thing you’ll learn about me, young Emily. I tend to know a lot more than people think.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Tell you what. One day, when you’re fed up with old George over at the how-to-blow up-a-tractor Gazette, there's always a job with me, know what I mean?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Have you got clean hands?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Question too hard, dimples? Have you got clean hands?’

  ‘I suppose I do. Why?’

  ‘Well, come and give me a hand in the toilet then will you, there’s a good girl. You know, the older you get, some things aren’t as easy anymore.’

  ‘Wow… I think I’ve just been sick in my mouth a little. The very foulest idea on a sunny Tuesday morning. Thanks. I won't get that out of my head quickly. And may I say, in response, er… no… and you would appear to be the world’s grossest man.’

  ‘I might well be thinking of you not getting me out of your head a little later if you know what I mean, dimples.’

  Penhaligon couldn’t help crack up with a derisory laugh, which even surprised Bodger, and a Roll Royce Silver Shadow swooshed up alongside. He gave Emily a smile she didn’t ask for and the driver opened his door for him. The driver shot her a look that reminded her of another driver today and there went one of those people who just got away with things.

  There was no point debating his character. The paper had sent her because every newbie had to have their first session with Penhaligon. It was the nastiest of the nasty. So very nasty.

  Emily’s voice recorder had actually managed to perform. Finally, this morning, something. She already had Penhaligon threatens victims headline all ready and set. Thanks to the absence of her idiot phone, she’d have to trawl for a footage photo, but she’d find one where he looks particularly pig evil.

  When Emily heard about Penhaligon and the chemical plant thing, Agnes told her she'd get this detail pretty soon so she looked into it and she was a true demon at looking into things. That’s why George hired her.

  This was old school stuff. Golf with the Chief Super and all. Penhaligon had the local police tucked away nicely for a rainy day. It was indeed raining for him currently, but something didn't make sense.

  The plant had been haemorrhaging cash for years and suddenly it burnt down but this trial didn’t even consider the notion it could have been deliberate, which was what most everyone was thinking. This trial was all about negligence.

  Now people were dying, it had currency, but where was any mention of a police investigation into it and possible manslaughter?

  Emily’s mind couldn’t shake why no one was there when it happened, just a few stragglers, folk that had to be there even on a day off. They were the ones who got poisoned. They were the ones who probably wouldn't make it. But where was everyone else?

  The explosion happened at 6pm. Normally, there’d be a full complement of people there in the thick of it, but that day, there weren't. None of these questions were asked in the trial. If she could just find any indication that people had been sent home and that wasn't a normal thing to happen, someone would have to look at it again. The police would be pointless or they'd have done it already, so the insurance company would have to lend weight. They were going through the motions but the trial hadn’t even waited for that.

  Penhaligon's cocksure bluster, like some red-faced port-drinking illustration from the regency, just told her something was rotten. That idea wouldn’t be new to the folks around here but she had to do something about it. There was something missing. Or maybe not missing, chosen not to see. Agnes had also said don't get involved, just cover it, and that was the icing. She had to do it. The first page she’d read told her. She didn’t have to do the tedious gigs like trees that turned pink overnight, but subject matter was uninspiring and this Penhaligon thing was happening. She smelt a rat pasty, perfect for her rehabilitation, a catalyst of her springtime. She’d be having a much closer look at Penhaligon.

  But first. That super double mocha latte that was so rudely removed by light bulbs and buses.

  The rain was in full symphony in Middle Street, bouncing off walls and cobbles, pub signs and bins, the odd speeding raincoat, finding rhythm from time to time. The streetlights and one or two bars distorted into the puddles to create upside-down Adster.

  Insi
de number five, Bullit sat on the doormat with his back to his front door and twirled his finger round the top of his glass, kicking up a bit of froth, making a little beer vortex in it and he enjoyed thinking of nothing more than just that for several seconds.

  And then, as was his way in the last week, his focus returned to the hermit chaos of his hallway and back to his utterly fucked up, literally nothing-ever-the-same-again life.

  There were empty milk cartons and beer cans, the odd instant soup packet and half a three day old baguette. He’d even transplanted the kettle from kitchen to bottom step.

  The universe had taken a giant shit on him. It had all become clear last Tuesday, even before last Tuesday, when the dreams started. And earlier tonight just sealed it.

  The dreams were just him in everyday situations, going to the shop, getting the bus, but everyone looked at him really strangely, backing off him, they couldn’t get far enough away from him. They wouldn’t talk to him and didn’t listen to him when he asked what the hell he’d done? He wasn’t invisible, just toxic.

  But there in front of him was her, with her arms outstretched, wanting him to go to her, wanting to pull him in. The two of them were up on the point under that big old scraggly tree. She was the most beautiful human being he’d ever seen. He could see her whole life behind her eyes, she was kind and warm. In the midst of his apparent exile from humanity, he’d never felt love like that before. He wanted to protect her from everything nasty, keep her safe.