Halloween Is For Idiots

This is the story I wrote for this ‘Spooky Stories’ event last night. It is called ‘Halloween is for Idiots.’

It was the day of another alarming news bulletin, but that was not why Roy Hadwin was standing on the ledge outside his London apartment threatening to jump. He might have been Hamlet’s ghost in his white shirt, the fog of his breath an ectoplasm.

-I’m going to do it this time, he cried. You think I’m joking, but this year I mean it.

He swallowed from the glass of scotch he was holding.

-Just have a couple more drinks before I go, he chuckled, and scrambled back inside.
Roy Hadwin, Steven Allott, Peter Russell and Nick Demetriou had been at medical school together thirty years ago and were now middle-aged men at the top of their professions. Once a year they got together- without wives- to let their hair down and behave as they did when they were young, which meant larking about and drinking a lot. It was an old joke of Roy’s to climb out on to the window ledge and threaten to jump.

-One year the wind will change while you’re out there, said Steven, a grey-haired man who kept llamas. It’s a long way down.

-Tell you what I saw down below. People dressed up for Halloween- all pointy hats and painted faces- blood on their mouths, that sort of thing. And you know what- I had forgotten that it is Halloween.

-And rightly so! said Peter, who looked all wrong in the Saint Laurent biker jacket he was so fond of. He still fancied himself as Elvis, but looked more like Prince Edward. Halloween is for idiots. So-called intelligent people celebrating pagan customs. Bread and circuses. It’s madness.

-There was quite a racket going on when I pulled up, said Nick, who had been born in Athens, and who spoke in the most polished English accent. Didn’t see anything though. In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule. That could hardly be more true of our times, eh? It’s Nietzsche, in case you are wondering.

-Nietzsche! cried Roy. Bloody hell Nick- trust you to be able to quote Nietzsche at us. Now come on boys- how are your glasses?

And he went around with the bottle, his dark strong fingers almost encircling it.

-Of course we might be missing something, said Stephen. Perhaps they’re not out celebrating Halloween at all; perhaps they are members of this protest movement- it is the sort of thing they would do, isn’t it? What have you done to your thumb, Roy?

-O that? said Roy. Cut myself shaving.

-No! cried Peter. Roy Hadwin, the master surgeon, cut yourself shaving. Are you losing your touch, old man?

-Ha-ha. No boy, I should say not. Had six cases this morning and didn’t lose one of them. I should change this dressing though. Gosh, it’s dripping blood.

-And are they all managing without you? asked Nick; or are you likely to dash off at any moment to check on them all; hold somebody’s hand for an hour or two?

-No no, said Roy; not tonight; tonight they can bleed, convulse, collapse, drop dead, anything they fancy really. My pager is in safe hands, my mobile phone is switched off – can you believe that? I am entirely at your disposal.

-When’s the last time you did that? said Stephen. This day last year, I bet.

-You give us all a bad name, said Peter, crossly.

-O come on Peter- they all know that I’m bonkers- nobody expects the rest of you to do what I do.

-Patients do. They hear you saying Call me any time, day or night, and they think that’s the norm. Tiniest drop of blood on the dressing and Roy Hadwin has to go round to see it- midnight, one am, makes no difference.

Somewhere in the unacknowledged places of their minds, they knew how damaged they had become. When they were young and starting out, they had nursed an idea that they could be both excellent doctors and compassionate ones; and had learned – quickly and certainly – that it is not possible to be both; so the compassion had been ditched.

-He loves it though, Peter, said Stephen; don’t you Roy? – all those patients and their relatives and the nurses saying Don’t you ever sleep Mr Hadwin? You should look after yourself better. They all mother him- everywhere he goes. How Judy puts up with it I’ll never know.

Roy grinned.

-Ah, that’s the secret, boys. She never does get to see me, so she doesn’t have to put up with me, you see. As long as I don’t wake her up when I get home.

-And then she takes you to the Caribbean for two weeks once a year, where she makes you relax, said Nick.

-She does; yes she does. Well, she tries. I go there under lock and key you know. No pagers, no phones; she even searches my luggage to make sure I’m not taking medical journals to read. It’s like having a holiday in Alcatraz.

-You’re a very fortunate fellow Roy. You found the perfect woman, and the only woman who would put up with you.

-True, Nick, it’s true. Marriage; it’s a great blessing.

Peter snorted.

-Marriage; death of a thousand cuts.

Peter had been married and divorced several times. Every time he swore it would be the last.

-And to think- I went out with Judy before you did. You probably would never have met her if it wasn’t for me.

-Roy wooed her with his romantic poetry, said Nick. You couldn’t compete with that.

-Poetry? Roy? Roy the rugger-bugger?

-It is, however true, Peter, though I’m surprised she fell for it. I used to write things like-

O Judy don’t ever let me down
If you do I’ll strangle myself or drown
Even when you give me a disapproving frown
I want to hang myself with your wedding gown

-Hang yourself with her wedding-gown?

-Be honest though, Peter; you wouldn’t have made it last. Woman would have to be a saint to put up with you.

-Yes, well; if we could get off the subject of wives…what have you done with her tonight, Roy? Sent her to the mother-in-law?

Roy looked sheepish.

-I’ll be honest boys, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. The thing is, believe it or not, she’s one of these protestors. She’s out there now, blocking Whitehall or wherever.

-Lot of women like her doing that, said Nick; you don’t surprise me at all.

-Well, I’m shocked, said Stephen. Judy, of all people. The proper lady- refined, well-dressed, perfect manners; and she’s out there with this lot. It’s bloody dangerous, apart from anything else.

-It could be; yes, it could be; said Roy; But you know she has thought of that; she went on some training course, and she knows what to do to look after herself. I mean they tell you how to protect yourself against tear gas, for example.

-Rubber bullets? said Nick.

-Ah…I think so, yes. But you know what she said to me boys- this was a shocker – I want to get arrested. And she means it.

-What did you say?

-I laughed and said I’ll come and bail you out, and she said no don’t do that.

-Badge of honour, isn’t it? said Peter. Of course they want to get arrested.

-Eschatology, said Nick; that’s what it boils down to. End of the world stuff. End of capitalism; end of democracy; end of all this – and he waved his arm across the expanse of the room – all this will come down too.

-You’re right Nick, grumbled Peter. They’ll tear all this down and re-wild it. Give it a few decades and there’ll be wolves and bears roaming where we are now.

-Then we’ll eat them, said Roy. And on that merry note, it’s time to eat. Judy has put some wonderful grub out for us. There is a piece of beef still oozing blood- it looks magnificent.

-And you’re giving us something decent to drink with it, I’m sure, said Stephen.

-Bordeaux, Stephen, is where we are off to. Tell it not in Gath, it’s the Haut-Brion.

-My my. How can Judy bring herself to prepare all this and then walk away and leave us to it?

-She’ll be entirely happy- don’t you worry. In fact she probably is with the mother-in-law. Who knows – perhaps they’ve gone to play the bingo. They’ll enjoy that much more than they would being with us old farts. Come through- it’s time we ate.

While they were eating, their shouting and laughter could be heard in the empty room they had left. So too could the ‘racket’ that Nick Demetriou had mentioned. Roy had left the window open and a conglomeration of random cries, chanting and cackling, rose from the street and came in through the window. Their empty whiskey glasses were on the coffee table, but the empty bottle, smeared from Roy’s cut thumb, was on the piano, obscuring a photograph of him and Judy on holiday in the Bahamas. There was a thumbprint of blood in front of her mouth.

When they came back, Stephen was making a fuss of Roy, whose white shirt was spattered with blood.

–Go and change your shirt; and change that dressing too. You’re in a right state.

-I’ve never seen such a mess, said Peter; carving that beef and splashing blood all over yourself.

-All right all right boys, said Roy. Enough of this- one of you lot open a bottle and I’ll clean myself up.

He came back in a clean white shirt and with a clean bandage on his thumb.

-Good grief- that’s a lot of noise coming from out there. Whatever’s going on?

Nick was looking out.

-I can’t see anything. Is there a Halloween party going on do you think? Or is it the protest?

-I don’t think so, said Peter; it’s sounds as though it’s from right outside. Listen.

The four of them gathered by the window. They could hear a chant.

-Listen, listen, said Stephen; it sounds like they’re chanting Roy. Listen- Roy…Roy…Roy…

-Don’t be daft. Oy,oy,oy is what you can hear. It’s the protestors.

-Perhaps Judy is on the protest, after all, and she’s got them chanting for you Roy, said Nick. Perhaps she objects to your capitalist life-style.

-Surely not, said Stephen; Roy’s the nice guy, visits his patients at two in the morning. We’re the villains, with our private practices and gas-guzzling cars.

-Don’t be daft, said Peter, drunkenly. You’re imagining things- why would they be shouting Roy? He leant out of the window and shouted –
Shut up. Halloween’s for idiots.

-Let’s just close the window, shall we? said Roy. Enough of this nonsense. And fill your glasses boys. Judy might come back any time and put a stop to our fun.

-Are going to have the pleasure of seeing her then? asked Stephen.

-I’m not sure. She’s gone to a show with a couple of girlfriends. They might have something to eat afterwards, but maybe not. I expect it finishes about now.

-But I thought you told us… Stephen began; and then – That’s the third version you’ve given us of where she is tonight.

-You have to take everything with a grain of sand – no, not sand, salt, said Roy, when I’m pissed. It’s all just a laugh. Now, iechyd da. This is a bloody good cognac, so I hope you enjoy it. Here’s to the four of us- to friendship.

The four of them joined in a rather ragged agreement.

-I can still hear shouting, said Nick.

-It’s coming from the back, said Peter, and suddenly sprang from his torpor. See if we can see anything out there.

As he pulled the door open, the wave of sound was shocking. It was so loud that it was difficult to tell what was being shouted and chanted. Was it Trick or treat, or Truth or death? Beneath it all, what sounded like Roy…Roy…Roy.
Nick led them to the back of the apartment and threw open a window.

-Nothing, he said; nothing out there. Where the devil is it coming from?

He had taken charge, and went into the bedroom without asking. Roy’s bloody shirt was lying on the bed. It was covered in dried blood; you could hardly see that it was white. Nick went to the window. He was less drunk than the rest of them, and now he seemed to sober up completely.

-No; nothing. He opened the wardrobe. Nothing there either.

He began laughing.

-What the devil is going on? I can hardly hear myself think for this chanting. You sure it’s not a party next door, Roy?

The three of them turned to Roy. His nose was bleeding and the blood was running into his glass of cognac. The chanting got louder.

Roy…Roy…Roy.

-Roy, said Stephen. Are you all right?

He had to shout to make himself heard.

-Roy, shouted Peter; snap out of it man.

Roy was staring at nothing. He carried on gulping cognac. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, examined the blood on it and gave a wild laugh.

-I’ll have to stop wearing white. Sod it; it doesn’t matter.

The cry of Roy…Roy...carried on, and then, with startling clarity, above the hubbub-

Where’s Judy? Where’s Judy, Roy?

Roy pushed past the others and staggered, running, back to the living room. He threw the window open and began clambering on to the ledge. The others caught up with him and pulled him back.

–Roy…Roy…Truth or Death…Where is she Roy?

Nick said – Roy, should I call a psychiatrist or the police? Where’s Judy?

Roy shook himself free of their hold and picked up the cognac bottle. He put it to his lips and drank from it like a thirsty man on a hot day drinking from a water bottle.

-Police; exorcist; coroner; someone like that. She’s in there. He gestured to the cupboard in the corner of the room. But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.

He began weeping and the tears that rolled down his cheeks were of blood.