By Petros Cowley

The fifth in a sequence of very important stories for the edification of all mankind.

What’s this next room? Martin asked Quentin. Quentin said nothing.On the wall by the entrance there hung a panel. What’s this say? Transcendental Photography. By Jasmine Hat. Unusual name. A collection of photographs revealing the hidden aspects of our world. Taken on, blah blah, such and such a type of camera… Between spring two… Blah blah… The artist describes this new work of hers as ‘an attempt at using photography to transcend the limits of the human eye, subverting the rule of appearance over being, taking…’ blah blah blah, same old stuff. What do you reckon? Shall we take a look in here? But Quentin couldn’t reckon.

            So the pair walked in, Martin with his hands deep into his pockets, and they found themselves quite alone. It was a vast, domed room they’d entered. Its source was unclear, but a sterile light lay evenly, coldly over every surface and themselves. The air was so dry that breathing it felt like tearing into it, each breath another chunk. Not much in here, eh? Martin said, his words echoing around the dome. Indeed, the exhibition consisted of only six little photographs displayed regularly around the dome’s grey circumference, and when they drew towards the first one to get a proper look at the thing, they learnt that it wasn’t even there; temporarily removed for such and such a purpose. I don’t see any bottles here, Martin quipped, looking down at the label. Let alone doing that!They shuffled along to the next photograph and Martin got to chuckling.

            Corpulent, Bruce appeared in the doorway. So there you are, you two!

            Come and look at this great exhibition in here, Martin said to him. Transcendental photography, supposedly. Bruce went straight to the second photograph.

            A carrot sitting quietly, he read. To the third. Ah. A tree deep in thought with two joyous baguettes. Heh. Yes, I think I see what’s going on here. He went around the dome in a low, continuous laughter, waddling ponderously in his funny old way; the dome was filling with his noises. A gallery attendant was skulking about outside the entrance, and Bruce went over to ask what was going on with the exhibition. The attendant was confused and came in herself to have a look. She laughed and pulled out a radio, made a call, and the man on the other line said he would come and have a look himself. Shortly the man did arrive in a dishevelled suit and with a grey face like some sort of marsupial; he made his own sweep of the room.

            No, he stated sharply, bolting himself upright and frowning quite officiously; the others half gasped at this You’re right. There must have been some sort of misunderstanding. Someone was meant to have closed this off this morning. And with that, he sank back into a slouch and out he wafted. The first attendant shrugged and walked out after him, leaving Martin, Quentin, and Bruce alone in the dome with nothing to look at but each other.

            Great gallery this is, eh, chuckled Martin, turning to Bruce. I really am just so, so very grateful to you for having recommended it.

            I just said you might like to go. I didn’t recommend anything.

            Bollocks! (The word echoed thrice, and the men smiled.) Yes you bloody did! You’ve been here before, you said. Martin turned around to get Quentin’s opinion. Did he not, Quentin? The beautiful this, the thought provoking that? Now did he not? Quentin sat himself down on the ground and yawned.

            I just don’t know what you’re talking about, continued Bruce. I said I spoke to someone who had come here recently, and that you might find some beautiful and thought-provoking things were you to visit a gallery, not necessarily this one.

            You lying gobshite! You’re smiling! What’s your scheme here?

            What do you mean, scheme? Bruce chuckled.

            Why have you really brought us here? To this toilet of a gallery where the most interesting thing to be seen is the photography exhibition with no photos; just descriptions of photographs that don’t exist.

            You’re going mad, my friend. Schemes? Photographs that don’t exist? I know of no such schemes, I’m afraid. No, nothing of the sort.

            I’m onto you! I know you’re up to something. This is another one of your bloody tricks! They both laughed; the final word, tricks, had popped out of Martin’s mouth in a very stupid way and echoed like the bollocks. Ah, whatever. I’ll soon find out. Now can we get ourselves out of this ridiculous place, or do we need to suffer the next room, too?

            Bruce chuckled again and made towards the exit.

            Come on then, he said. Let’s go. And Martin followed him out. Quentin had to be called three times to get up from where he was lying supine on the ground.

            The three of them piled into their little car, a very old and beige Morris Marina. It belonged to Bruce; it had been his father’s; Martin sat in the passenger seat and Quentin stretched himself out in the back. Bruce turned the key and the haggard old thing got to growling. They set off into the taupe country, wobbling out of the car park, between the two leafless trees falling up at either side of the exit.

            Very deep in thought are those trees, eh, said Martin with a benign sort of laugh which Bruce promptly reciprocated. Wondering what sort of people would come to see such rubbish, no doubt. At either side of the road, the world had been covered forever with sheets of mud. Pallid little structures sprouted rarely up from the far horizons, the joyous baguettes: chimneys, a steeple top, so on, every now and then, less, less, less. Eh, I’ll tell you what though. I’ve been doing some photography of my own, you know.

            Oh? Easier than painting, after all.

            Well I thought I’d go out looking for inspiration. I’ve run out of things to paint. That’s why I made the terrible mistake of coming today, really. I’d really run out. I’d’ve listened to anyone who’d told me where to look. Even if that person was you, Bruce. Bruce laughed again.

            I told you you’re going mad, man. What did you take your photos of then?

            Well, I drew a sort of compass thing on a sheet of paper and span my pencil around at its centre. South East it said, so South East I went. I walked an hour or so that way and just took photographs of whatever I found that interested me.

            Such as…

            Hard to say, really. Lots of things. I’ll show you when we get back to the village if you’d care to see them.

            Why not? It’s a really very wonderful thing to take an interest in the hobbies of one’s friends.

            Well now I’m really suspicious! They both laughed. A pigeon or crow or some manner of bird leapt up before the car at the very last moment, vanishing into the murk above. Silly bird! I’ll go back and find my house upside down or something of that sort. Wouldn’t put it past you. He turned back to address Quentin. You remember when this sphere had my whole living room carried out into the fields when I was out in town that one day? Quentin had fallen asleep, but Bruce was laughing in a heavy old way behind the wheel; the car began to bounce as he thumped with his weight up and down. He wasn’t even a very tall man, just very heavy.

            Oh, he began, the look on your face when you came out of there! ‘Someone’s taken my front room!’ you came out and declared. And when you found it all out in the field! Set up nice and neat, just like it was in your home! ‘Maybe it’s the rest of the world that’s moved!’ Who said that one? That was a good one, it was! Martin was tutting but half a smile just couldn’t be repressed. Off they went in their silly old car down the winding ways of the country lane, out between the muddy fields, regaling one another with other such reminiscences. And down in its valley did the thatched rooves of the village finally appear like a well of warm nostalgia as the evening grew long overhead. Home. They had returned to Jangly Bottom. The lights in the windows of the black and white houses were coming on for the night as they entered. A great bald man was heaving past with a great and knobbly staff of wood. They rolled down the passenger window and gave old Wallace a merry hello.

            How was your gallery then, gentlemen? Wallace’s voice boomed as he approached the car with a really very affectionate smile, one that Martin and Bruce found themselves already to be reciprocating. They told him how awful it all was, about the transcendental photography, and they laughed all together so merrily. Looks like Quentin didn’t make much of it, either, Bruce added, nodding to the back of the vehicle. Quentin stirred back there and opened his eyes. He gave them a rub and sat upright, looked around out of the windows bewildered. Sent you to sleep, it looks, this gallery. They asked Wallace about the upcoming tomato competition, and then whether he wanted a lift to which Wallace told them there was no need at all, that he was just out for his evening stroll. I’ll see you all at Helen’s when the light gets too little, he said. Everyone waved, and on the car rattled, until it came to a stop outside Bruce’s cottage. A voice boomed through the heavens: The Jangly Bottom tomato competition will take place at eleven A.M. next Monday. That’s eleven A.M. next Monday.

            Out they three clambered onto the cobbles. Exited, Quentin stretched his body upwards, flaring his nostrils and juicing his eyelids; his mouth heaved open creaking; as he yawned with lazy greed a tear rolled halfway down his cheek where it finally gave up and sank into the fur; it was a long face Quentin had after all. He yawned and yawned and yawned up the last flecks of the daylight. It was soon night and they were in the pub. Martin had just returned with his camera to show Bruce his photographs. He sat down with a drink.

            Anything out of the ordinary, then? asked Bruce, deeply reclining into his seat. His smile was mischief itself.

            No, replied Martin after a pause, knitting his thin brows. His crossed eyes observed Quentin and Bruce simultaneously. Oddly enough, it all seemed very ordinary indeed… Oh, come on, tell me, what exactly have you done now?

            Bruce laughed viscously and turned the conversation over to Martin’s photography. Martin retrieved his camera from his bag and, after fiddling about with some buttons and dials and whatnot else, he slid the thing over across the table top. The first photo Martin thought pleasant enough: two adjacent trees which both appeared to wear a face in their bark, as though they were shouting at each other, arguing as they interlocked horns above. The same sort of response was elicited from the next few photographs; Bruce even began to smile. He passed the thing along to Quentin. Quentin looked over the next few and his response, again, was not a displeased one. That was, until suddenly he came across an image so terrible, so unsettling, so repugnant, that he looked up at Martin with a look to kill a blind man. The cider drooled from his mouth, for so stricken by terror was he.

            My God… he merely said, wiping his mouth finally. Martin tilted his head. Quentin passed the thing to Bruce to look at. He squinted at it, drew back his face, squinted harder, turned the device at numerous angles. And at last, gravely, he set the camera down onto the table and drew one portentous sip from his glass.

            That, he began, is the worst photograph ever. That is truly a sight that you had no business in preserving, Martin. Bruce’s head sunk and he fell deep into ethical cogitations. Stunned, Martin took the camera himself to get a look at the cause of his two friends’ extreme disrelish. He looked well at the thing, looked up at the others, looked back even better at the thing. Incredibly he was still smiling. He’d retreated so far into his own self that his expression was as good as theirs now, frozen in place. He just smiled. He just smiled.

            What? he asked. This looks to me like a normal photo. Hardly very different to the others, no? What exactly is so bad about this photo? In fact, I thought this one was the best of all. I was very, very pleased with it.

            Bruce looked up. His eyes were flushing with deep crimsons; he was crying.

            Martin.

            Yes?

            Martin, don’t let ANYBODY else see that photograph. Promise me you won’t. Promise me, Martin.

            Martin strained a laugh out of himself. It clattered so unreasonably about the room, like some nail-bomb; far too loud, much too abrupt. The severity of the other two faces stayed fixed.

            This is a good joke, you two, Martin said. Very good, very good. You got me! Yes, indeed, you got me very well!

            Bruce thumped his fatty hock of a fist down onto the table and he glared with murder at Martin.

            For god’s sake, Martin! Martin quivered, raised a hand over his face. Don’t you ever put that horrid thing before another pair of eyes! This is not a joke, Martin! Don’t even speak of it. Don’t mention it. We’re going to act as if nothing has happened, okay? He turned to address Quentin, too. Okay? Quentin nodded with much vigour.

            But nothing has happened, Martin despaired. At that moment, the giant body of Helen emerged from the kitchen door. Her cautious footsteps boomed as they pestled the ground.

            What’s wrong? Bruce, you look like you’ve been crying, my dear. She lay her giant hand on his shoulder to console him, and he began to sink on that side. What is it? What’s happened? Bruce was looking down; Quentin and Martin were deep in telepathy.

            Umm… Martin finally started. It was the gallery. It was just really very powerful, moving, some of the pieces they had there. Quentin nodded forcefully again in agreement.

            But, I thought you said it was rubbish? You called it a stinking disgrace to all mankind.

            Yes, Bruce added, we did. But the truth is, however, that we simply couldn’t face talking about it. Words just don’t measure up to the task of describing how moved we were by what we saw. It’s only now that the emotions can reveal themselves. He began to cry. Helen began to cry. She loomed down and embraced the chubby Bruce, wrapping her great arms around his lungs; his face ripened into a purple, and a creaking sound was escaping his throat. His eyes were about ready to set sail into the street when Helen at last released him. She patted him on the back and his face slammed loudly down onto the table. All three glasses ejaculated brownly.

            Oh, you poor dears! I’ve never seen art cause such an effect!

            The doors swung open, and high in the pub-murk shone the vast and hairless scalp of Wallace V. The giant trotted in with his flask in one hand and his staff in the other, wading through the pub’s brown air.

            Hello all!

            Bruce finally raised his head back up. They acted fast, waving back with widening smiles to the big old Wallace.

            Good evening, Wally! they said all as one.

            Entirely true. A very good evening it was out there, he replied so affably. It was bloody splendid. Made me bloody grateful to be alive. He vanished a chair beneath himself at the end of the table. And what a lovely thing it is to crown that walk with, coming here into the company of my friends.

            And we’re happy too, Helen began, now that you’ve come to join us. What can I get for you then, Wallace?

            Wallace gave a greedy wink to the others.

            A round of the trouncer, Mrs Hurler!

            Oh, you big monster! Helen giggled and she thundered off behind the bar. There was a pause, punctuated by a sigh of Wallace as he reclined in his seat.

            Is that your camera, there, Martin? asked Wallace.

            Oh, um, yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.

            Have you been showing some photographs you’ve taken, then? Might I have a look?

            No, Martin stammered. Wallace recoiled. I mean, no, I haven’t been showing photographs, I just took it out to help me look for something in my bag. He swiftly sent the thing back into that bag and Wallace laughed, pointed out the obvious.

            Look, Martin said, rising from his seat. I umm, I’m really very grateful for the drink, and it’s always a joy to see you, Wallace, and so please don’t think I’m leaving now because of you, but I’m really very tired. I really need to sleep. So, I’ll be off now, I guess.

            Wallace sent a perplexed look across the table, turned back to Martin.

            Well, I won’t force you to stay. But I’d like it if you did.

            Thank you, thank you, replied Martin, already passing out through the door, but I really am very tired. I’ll see you all tomorrow, eh?

            Of course. Martin left, and Wallace turned to Bruce. Your nose is bleeding, man!

            His thoughts a choking haze, Martin stumbled through the streets, stopping, starting, forgetting to walk, remembering. Had his photograph really been so terrible, this photograph he’d been so proud of? Yes. It was the worst photograph ever. He returned home at last and, after pausing in the hall to stare well at himself in the mirror for a while, he journeyed upstairs, hunching, to retire to bed out of shame. And when he reached his bedroom, he found it to be missing. He sat down on the carpet and wrung his face in his hands. He looked up, through the window – for his curtains were missing, too – and saw the moon. The face, the pale face in the moon, it was laughing at him. The night howled, the trees, unseen, susurrated in the breeze. The world was laughing at him. All the planets, all the worlds, the stars, in their one odium they were laughing at him. He sat excluded from all being. All was laughter, a laughter so contemptuous, a laughter directed at him. 

            He bolted up to his feet, hurried downstairs. In his little study he found his computer, an old tub of a machine which he touched maybe once, twice a year. He plugged in his camera, fiddled about a while until he managed to download all of his photos. He found a website for photography. All sorts of people were sending in their photographs. Nothing special, but many nice enough, a whole lot of nice enough photographs there were on this website, and with such support commented beneath them. Perhaps he too would receive the same support from these people on the internet. With a title and a little caption, he submitted his own photo. Serenity, he entitled the thing, and with that, he turned off the computer, reclined in his chair. His reflection appeared in the black screen, his crossed eyes. He smiled. He smiled. He smiled.

Two years later.

Now switch to Leamington. Through the English gloom went the Plumber on a matter of urgency to Flat 2 High Street, Royal Leamington Spa. A roughly hewn individual tumbling past, some upstanding member of the local community, no doubt, swore at him and spat on the pavement. Wary in his ways, averting his gaze, the plumber thought it best to ignore the man and went in through the gate, rounded the corner, and rang the buzzer for flat two. A black fluid dripped down through the moss and the grime of plastic canopy, congealing into the dust beside his shoe.

            Hello, said a muffled voice on the machine.

            Hello, the plumber responded. It’s me again.

            ?

            The plumber. I am plumber. I come for the plumbing to fix. 

            Ah! Hello! Yes, okay, come in!

            The thing buzzed. The plumber pushed at the door, but it wouldn’t shift. He rang again.

            Yes?

            The door. It is bad. Not opens.

            Ah. Okay, I’m coming down now. Don’t you have keys like last time?

            No. I had here to very quickly come. Urgent.

            Ooh. Okay. One second.

            As the plumber waited, he heard the gate push open around the corner. The swearing man had followed him!

            You bastard! said the gentleman in his rags. Look me in the eyes you bastard!

            Oh, replied the plumber, putting together his hands. Yes. I can. Yes. There they are.

            The gentleman snarled and collapsed to the ground. He began to snore immediately. And just then the door opened.

             He’s not with you, is he? Pete joked to the plumber. The plumber shook his head firmly and within his ability explained the situation. Both men laughed and headed indoors (once Pete had taken a letter from the little cage on the wall, a letter he smirked at before placing into his pocket). As they ascended the staircase, grey light drifting down through a high up window, Pete asked what the matter was with the plumbing.

            It is really bad, began the plumber. Your friend, the angry one. He was in the toilet sitting, angry, swearing to me. What he is doing in there is very bad. The plumbing in the whole street, it is broken. The blockage, it must be under this house. They figured this out. So, it is him, I tell my boss. He has all the plumbing broken. And now then I come here.

            Oh dear!

            And in the men went, around the tumble dryer which jutted out across half of the entrance, and up onto the occupier’s causeway they proceeded. Pete knocked thrice upon the door.

            Knock! Knock! Knock!

            Hello, John?

            Go away. Five minutes.

            Yeh, very good. Well look John, whatever the fuck it is you’ve been doing in there, you’ve destroyed all the plumbing for the whole street. The plumber’s here. Now will you get your bloody self out of there and let him in to have a look?

            For God’s sake! snapped John, flicking about at the lights. I said five minutes!

            Just then, the buzzer for outside went off.

            Probably that man, joked Pete to the plumber. The plumber laughed, but abruptly he stopped, looked into Pete’s eyes with a deep concern.

            Tell me, he said. If he is always in there sitting, how do you make a shower?

            Hehe. Well, I’ve bought myself a gym membership. It’s only a ten-minute walk away. It’s a twenty-four hour gym, too. I just go there. The buzzer went again, and shortly afterwards, again. It went a fourth time, and a fifth, again and again it went in rapid succession. Right, let me see what this chap has to say. You try and unseat the foul beast in there.

            What?

            Try and persuade him to get out of the toilet.

            Ah, okay.

            Oh! Pete tapped on the door again. I’ve a letter addressed to you, John. Addressed to ‘the Occupier’, it says. He slid the thing under the door, chuckling, and went over to answer the constant ringing.

            Yes?

            For shit’s sake, Pete, let me in. There’s a lunatic down here- Ow!- trying to eat me!

            Abraham!

            Yes, well done- Ow! Fuck off!- that is my name. Now come and open this door! Oo! Ah!

            Pete rushed downstairswith a hammer that had been lying on top of the tumble dryer and found Abraham fending off the upstanding citizen in the corner of the alley. Pete stepped out and waved the hammer about in the air, barking, and repelled the crazed figure back out into the street. He watched the man flee and then returned himself to Abraham.

            Abraham!

            What? replied Abraham, with an air of mere bother, brushing the marks off his jacket. Who the fuck was that man?

            Who fucking knows. He was harassing the plumber before. Some nutcase. Now, why have you arrived so early? Or even better: you’ve actually arrived! Abraham has, in corporeal form, in the flesh, bothered to actually visit me! Amazing!

            Well, yes, it’s me. Hardly very amazing, really. I’m right here. I had to come now, no later trains for some reason.

            Ah. Oh well, then. Come in! How does a ten thirty a.m. beer sound?

            So Pete shepherded Abraham in and they went up to the flat, opened the door, and manoeuvred around the tumble dryer.

            What’s going on there? Inquired Abraham, pointing at the plumber who was loudly arguing through the toilet door in his booming accent. Pete explained that John had taken residence in the toilet, or something of the sort, that he wasn’t coming out, but that now John had destroyed the whole street’s plumbing, so they have to get him out somehow.

            What?! Abraham replied, frowning like nothing ever before. Yeh I think I’ll take that ten thirty a.m. beer, in that case. What the fuck are you talking about, Pete? And so up they went, up the next flight of stairs, until they emerged into the kitchen. What sort of strange flat is this that you’re living in this year, then, Abraham asked, sitting himself down on the bog-thing. Oh! I’m sinking!

            Yeh, began Pete, opening the fridge. It’s all a bit hodge-podge, isn’t it? This used to be above a pub, and that’s why we’ve all those tables out back; it’s an old beer garden. And don’t mind the sofa, I think the inside’s gone.

            What do you mean, gone? Gone where?

            I dunno, it’s just gone. Now here, get this down your gob. I’ve got some whiskey we can have later, see over there.

            You’re very eager to drink today.

            Well it’s a cause for celebration! Abraham has bothered to come and see me! Pete sat himself down on a little stool in front of the bog-thing. Now do you know where the word for whiskey comes from?

            The larynx.

            Bloody hilarious you are. You should start a stand-up gig. Abraham smiled. No, continued Pete. It’s from the Irish, uisce beatha – water of life. We will drink the water of life!

            Great piece of information, that is. Thanks a load.

            Oh, shut up. Come up with something better to say, then.

            God. Abraham balled up his face. Where the fuck did you get this beer, it’s an atrocity! Eughhhh!

            The fridge.

            Shut up yourself, too, said Abraham, taking another sip, grimacing.

            And so they got to conversing pleasantly, drinking their foul drinks, exchanging bits and pieces of news; they hadn’t seen each other in about half a year, or thereabouts, so there was plenty to assuage the monsters of boredom with. They had to keep their voices raised, though, since things were getting really very thunderous downstairs between John and the plumber. The conversation had turned to the topic of Abraham’s holiday in the summer, which he had strangely very little to say about, when, all of a sudden, the racket downstairs fell to a silence. Pete listened with extreme concentration, putting a finger to his lips. Abraham stared at him.

            You said John’d been in there for how long?

            Shh! Listen!

            Pete’s face slowly lengthened, Abraham’s frown lowering. The door was heard to open downstairs. They heard John’s voice in an unusual clarity, then footsteps, footsteps which were mounting the staircase. Head first, John rose up through the floor!

            John! cried Pete. My god! You look emaciated! Abraham looked upon John with much bewilderment; John’d even been quite fat the last time he’d seen him.

            Hullo, mumbled John, dragging his legs across the room in their draping trouser-legs. He stopped at the sink, behind the bog-thing, so that Pete and he were talking over where Abraham was submerged.

            Well come on then, continued Pete, you must have something more to say than just hullo, after all that…

            I dunno what you mean. What’s this thing here?

            What thing?

            This bloody thing. What the fuck is it? He, John, raised it up over the counter for Pete to get a look at.

            Oh, replied Pete. That’s just been there with the washing up for ages.

            Yes, but what is it?

            Pete looked harder at it, grew strongly perplexed, rose from his chair even, to get himself nearer to the thing.

            I can’t even… It’s not even… It’s just… I can’t even see it. And it was here that Abraham turned his head to a get a look himself. How his heart dropped. He was soon hyperventilating. The other two looked down at him in horror.

            Eventually he began to calm, after maybe ten minutes; John had brought him a mug of tea. John and Pete sat on the ground before him intently; only the part of his head from the eyes up appeared out of the top of the bog-thing. Abraham explained himself with slow, measured words.

            I thought it was a dream, a psychotic vision. A man approached me one day in second year in the street with that … and he told me to take it to some village, Jangly Bottom, gave me a hundred pounds. He told me to go south along that one road for three miles until I come to a large tree, and from there, he said, I would be able to hear it, this Jangly bottom. He told them what happened in Jangly bottom here. I came back with it, the Jangler, and put it down somewhere. It was only really the next morning that I considered how strange all of it was. I looked and looked about the flat, but I just couldn’t find it anywhere. Where did you get it? Pete said he didn’t know, but hypothesised that it might have ended up in one of he or John’s bags that year. Abraham went on: About a week later, as I just couldn’t bare not to any longer, I went out looking for Jangly Bottom with the emergency pretext that I was coming to make sure everyone was alright after the big fight. So I walked along that road. I walked and I walked, but I found nothing. I spent hours out there looking for the village. But no, nothing, not even the tree. I was really very confused and scared, so I’ve been doing my best to suppress the whole incident ever since. And it was going well until now, of course. The others sat there in a profound silence for a little while, digesting what Abraham had told them. At last, Pete spoke. He grew very animated all of a sudden.

            Well, surely we should try again? It can’t have just vanished. He rose to his feet. Come on! Let’s go and find this Jangly Bottom! We’ve got the Jangler! So let’s go! This is fun! John, are you coming? John’s shock quickly abated and he conjured up some manner of excuse, saying he felt too weak and needed some rest, getting up and returning his weary self downstairs that instant. Pete tutted at him as he descended beneath the top of the stairs. Well surely you are not going to pass up the opportunity, Abraham?

            Abraham was a little hesitant here, but after a few further exchanges he succumbed and agreed to search for the Jangly Bottom with Pete. And so up he rose from the bog-thing with no small amount of difficulty, requiring some assistance. They took the abominable beers from the fridge, stuffed them into Abraham’s rucksack, and headed on downstairs to set off on their mission. They encountered the plumber sat there on the steps with an appearance so forlorn.

            What’s wrong, asked Pete.

            It is bad. It is very bad. I need a minute. I must prepare my head before go in again.

            Oh. Oh dear. Let’s have a look. He made to approach the toilet, but the plumber seized him by the leg.

            No! Please! Do not! It is really bad! Really bad! Do not! Please! He released Pete at last from his grip. Pete and Abraham looked at each other and shrugged, and Pete told the plumber that they were going out for a little while, that if he felt hungry, or thirsty, then he was free to help himself to whatever was in the kitchen upstairs. The plumber said his thanks, and with that, out the pair of them went, Pete and Abraham, with their Jangler, to search the wilderness for this Jangly Bottom.

So out they wandered under a charcoal sky, out of town along the southbound road. Soon there were no more houses, and soon after that the trees began to thin out, and but for the few at either side of the road, all became mud, forever, to east and to west. They’d been trudging along for over an hour and a half and Abraham was losing patience, or so he let on.

            Come on, he whined, I was out here for hours when I looked. We won’t find it. We really won’t. And anyway, we’ll have gone past it already; it only took me an hour when I went there. Come on, let’s go home now. Let’s just go back, and drink your water of life, or whatever it is.

            But Pete did not desist.

            Yeh, only because you’re walking so slowly. Now rather than whinging at me and slowing us down even further, why don’t you tell me more about that holiday?

            I told you, nothing happened, really.

            Well what did you see, even if you found it all dull? You must have gone outside.

            Again, nothing. Didn’t really see anything. Come on, it’s cold. Let’s turn back.

            So you just did nothing on your holiday. What are you hiding? What really happened? Even if you don’t want to say, it’ll at least pass some of the time, so you may as well say.

            Really, I just stayed inside the whole time.

            You just stayed inside the whole time, did you? Yeh, sure. You can’t give me a lie that bad and expect me not to push further. I’m not going to stop pestering you about this. Now please, tell me, what did you really do on your holiday? Was it another of these ‘psychotic visions’ that you’re still trying to suppress?

            No. What am I supposed to say? I really did just stay in bed the entire time.

            Pah! I’ll wait until you’re drunk, later, and I’ll ask you again, then.

            Suddenly, Abraham stopped. He frowned out upon the plane of mud to one side.

            Abraham, Pete said, don’t be like that. I’m just kidding. If you really can’t say, then I can’t for-

            No, wait, Abraham interrupted, Pete jolting in place and looking out into the field where Abraham was staring. I remember this field. You see all the birches?

            Birches?

            White trees. Remember in Minecraft? All these white trees, these were there. That slat on the horizon up there. Come on! This is Willy’s land!

            Abraham rushed out into the field, through the boles, leaping over a bank of watery mud. Pete hastily followed. They were sprinting.

            Wait! Slow down! called Pete, but Abraham would not. There had grown at least a hundred meters’ distance between the two men upon this muddy expanse when Abraham called back, pointing over at the trees. As Pete hurried after him, a huge tree began to rise over the horizon; it grew, and grew, and grew, until it reached maybe a quarter kilometre into the air. Abraham vanished beneath the horizon. When Pete finally made it over the top of the incline, he saw Abraham stood on a precipice, gazing down upon a valley. Pete drew closer. He saw a village down in the valley; a cluster of black and white houses, their thatched rooves, and on the other side of the village rose a heath with a chapel on top, its steeple lost within the dark grey mist. Side by side, the two men turned and smiled at each other through their panting; sweat was gleaming upon both foreheads. They descended the treacherous little hillside path with much help from the bannister; it had been raining all through the night and the ground on each step had turned to slippery gloop. Eventually, they had reached the bottom, the Jangly Bottom. They ventured in over the cobbles.

            It’s all rather silent, began Pete, just regaining his breath. You said we’d hear it? Abraham frowned, gazed around himself at the first group of houses.

            Well the announcements aren’t constant. But you’re right. This place looks- well, like it was abandoned just before we arrived. It’s so still. No signs of life.

            Very odd. Maybe they’re nocturnal.

            Hmm…

            They walked deeper into Jangly Bottom, and there really was nobody around. They came to the pub. Abraham tried the door, but it was locked.

            Where could everyone be? he said. Come on, let’s go and sit there. They crossed the street and sat down on a bench, taking out another couple cans of the abominable beer. It was so quiet. They could hear the liquid landing in the pits of each other’s stomachs.

            So that’s where the famous battle took place then? inquired Pete, nodding over to the pub. Abraham hummed in attestation. Right, Pete said next, rising to his feet – so quiet that Abraham could hear Pete’s knees popping – I’m going for a piss. Wish me luck.

            Well go then. Why are just stood there?

            I said wish me luck. You don’t want me to have an unlucky piss, do you?

            Fine. Good luck with your piss, Pete. May it be very well and lucky for you.

            Thanks, darling.

            So off Pete trundled into the nearby bramble, leaving Abraham alone to think about that night. The ridiculous names, the tomatoes, Nobbo and his tractor, the arrival of that cow! ‘The pub is no good place for a beast of that sort!’ Helen the Hurler. What nonsense! But it had been real. All of it was real. And here it was: Jangly Bottom. Deserted? What was going on? Where was everyone? Why couldn’t things ever be simple? Abraham, sat very confused.

            Abraham! Abraham! shouted Pete.

            What?

            It was a really lucky piss! Look! Up there! The church!

            Up on the heath, there was some movement. A figure was stood outside, a tiny silhouette set upon the abject grey. The vicar? Was that the vicar that Abraham had talked to after the brawl; when they walked around the church and the stars above seemed only meters away? Abraham, stood up, and they hurried over to the heath. As they approached, they began to hear a voice, low and solemn. It was some sort of service. The figure who was standing outside had since vanished into the trees, but there was a voice. There were people up there! They clambered up the heath and approached the doors of the chapel, put their ears to the wood and listened. The words were very pious and grave, but sounded like the sort of thing you might hear in a church. What was odd, however, was another noise. It was hard to make out at first; an ambient sorrow. It was sniffling, weeping, the sound of many people crying. Pete and Abraham frowned at each other.

            Abraham? came a voice outside the church. They turned and saw a frail grey man approaching them as he zipped up his trousers.

            Freddy the Bladder! What’s going on?

            Freddy sighed and looked sorrowfully down at the earth between them.

            Come, let us walk. I’ve a lot to tell you. They wandered in one bewilderment at either side of Freddy; Freddy pulled out some cigarettes and gave one to each of his companions.

            So what did Freddy tell them as they walked around the chapel? Well, things began some time before Abraham had visited them in 2020. And it was only after everything had happened that all the information came to light. A little before Abraham had visited, Martin, with the crossed eyes, had taken a certain photograph, a photograph so terrible that when he showed it to a couple of people in the village, they were so appalled by it that they told him never to put it before another pair of eyes again. The thing was, though, that Martin thought this photograph to be of particular excellence, so that night, after going home to wallow in shame, he thought it a wise thing to do to go and post this horrible photograph he’d taken onto the internet in the hopes that people there would appreciate it. And it stayed up there on some obscure website for photography, not receiving any particular attention, at least not at first. Now then, during the great brawl that night in the pub that Abraham had been present at, things reached a point of total chaos, and Martin received quite the thunderous blow over the head from somewhere. He became very ill, weak. He was saying all these strange things. He was bedbound for months. When he could finally walk again, it was only with a severe limp. Wallace V, meanwhile, had got it into his head that it was his fault – really, it could’ve been anyone’s, even the cow’s; everybody was battling everybody that night. But in any case, Wallace grew very morose for a while, unusually cold. It was only when Martin began to return to his normal self that Wallace did in turn. So things were slowly getting back to normal. That was until one day, over a year later. Supposedly, the terrible photograph which Martin had put up on the internet for all to see had been at last discovered. It did not go down well; in fact, terribly. Hundreds of millions of people were soon ridiculing him on the internet, saying how much of a disgrace, an embarrassment, they thought Martin for having taken such a photograph. (Pete did remember seeing something about this on the internet; the worst photograph ever – it was shared everywhere, this terrible photograph. Pete even agreed that it really was the worst photograph he’d ever seen.) And all of this quite got to Martin. Even though they, these people on the internet, had no idea who he was, just had his awful photograph, his first name, and a tiny little photograph of him, it really changed him, the way these people were deciding upon his character. He fell into a paranoia, the other villagers had to keep him locked indoors. Wallace grew cold again, would disappear for days on end. It was all his fault, he, Wallace, said. He was so terribly upset by what was happening to Martin. Then, one day in the spring, Martin escaped. He wandered totally delirious to Leamington. He’d been threatening to go there and take his revenge for a while at that point, so the other villagers went looking for him there, and there they found him in a pub in a total hysteria, frightening everyone around him. He was returned home, and in a fever, he died that night. When he heard the news, Wallace was a mess. He became a recluse, didn’t even attend Martin’s funeral. And now, why everyone is in the church? For Wallace’s funeral. His guilt, whether real or imagined, grew too much for him to bare. He took his own life, drunk himself to death the previous weekend.

            The three men came to a stop at last. They stood in silence, gazing out over the thatched rooves of the village. What a shame, someone said at one point, but nothing else. Abruptly, the muffled speech of the priest dropped to silence, and shortly after that the church doors croaked open. The villagers drifted out in tears. Even Big Willy’s cheeks were shining. They didn’t see Abraham – he was stood to one side. There was Annie, Pete the Newsagents, the Joy, Helen, even Nobbo, everyone else he hadn’t met, dozens of miserable characters blowing away down the hill. They were alone with Freddy again.

            Do you want to go in and pay your respects? he asked. Pete thought it wasn’t his place to, but Abraham wanted to. Freddy led him in, as Pete waited outside, pondering over all the strange things that Abraham had told him about this village he was looking down upon.

            Abraham came back out alone. His face was hard and his gaze uncertain.

            Well, asked Pete.

            Well what? He was just lying there in his coffin. His eyes were shut. He lay there with his staff. He looked like a wax figure, an imitation from poor memory. It was strange. It was wrong. He was, just an object. Abraham sighed and looked up at Pete with some resolve. Right. Shall we go back and get drunk?

            I think that would be an excellent idea. So off they set for home under funereal skies. Did you really never see that photo? I’m telling you, Abraham, it was absolutely rubbish. The worst photo ever. I’ll show you when I can get signal…

            A little more than an hour or so later, they were back at the flat. They were downstairs unlocking the door when they noticed a horrible noise emanating from upstairs, like no noise Abraham had ever heard before – as for Pete, he was quite aware of what this noise was, what it meant. They entered. The light in the toilet down the hall was flickering over and over; the noise was issuing from there. Pete swore, kicked the skirting board and waddled upstairs, Abraham behind him. They found the plumber sprawled out across the carpet, snoring. Abraham reached over and retrieved the bottle, the dregs sloshing about at the bottom.

            I think he’s had too much of the water of life, he said.

            Yeh, replied Pete, I think you may be right. Pete took the jangler out of his pocket and sank down into the bog-thing with it. Now really, what on earth is this thing? What is it supposed to do?