A Strange Experience, by June Webber, Real Ale

This was not the town I had left five years ago, a thriving manufacturing centre with full employment. Now it was looking shabby and down-at-heel, with litter blowing down near deserted streets. I said goodbye to my mates outside the Cat and Fiddle and crossed the street to take a shortcut through the shopping mall. I remembered it as gleaming white concrete, packed on Saturday afternoons when we used to hang out, eyeing the latest fashions and the pretty girls. Now the concrete was grey and crumbling, covered in graffiti. Most of the shops had closed or moved to the new shopping centre on the edge of town. My head was spinning with a combination of jetlag and three pints of real ale – or was it four?  I had forgotten how strong it was. I turned a corner and heard strange music like wind chimes and smelled a powerful aroma of herbs and eucalyptus. In the former Body Shop, there were tea lights burning along the edge of the shop window in front of gold figures of Egyptian gods. A middle-aged woman in a long kimono beckoned me.

 ‘Come in.’ she said in a sultry voice, ‘We are expecting you. We are giving free massages this afternoon.’

They must be desperate for customers, I thought, but the prospect of a massage was appealing and maybe I could buy something for my mum. In a back room was a leather couch with two girls either side with long, black hair, dressed in sequinned bras and loose baggy trousers.  It seemed I had been mistaken, and it was no longer a perfume shop. The two girls removed my shirt and trousers, revealing my scarlet underpants. I could feel the blood run to my cheeks and felt embarrassed about my pot belly. I lay down on the couch on my front, and the young maidens sank their fingers into my flesh, kneading and pommelling. I felt all the stiffness from the long plane journey melt away and drifted off into a sort of trance. I woke and remembered I had promised to be home for dinner. I jumped down from the couch and grabbed my phone. ‘Sorry but I have to go now.’

'No, stay longer, stay, stay.' chimed the girls like a Greek chorus, holding on to my arms.

I began to panic. Was I being prepared for a ritual sacrifice, or was I supposed to satisfy these maidens?  I broke free and ran out of the shop, through the main door and straight into the bus station! Lines of passengers waiting for buses stared at me, some sniggering, some nudging others, and mothers covering their children’s eyes. I held my phone in front of me in an effort to cover myself. Just then a patrolling policeman arrested me and took me to the police station, where I was breathalysed.

‘Have you been driving, sir?’ he asked.

‘No, I left my car in Australia,’ I replied, ‘I came on the bus. Can I phone my mum and tell her I’ll be late for my dinner?’

‘Where are you, still in the pub?’ she asked.

I decided not to admit I was at the police station.  I was given a blanket and gave my statement. The police officer rolled his eyes and sent a young constable to the shopping centre. He returned with a pile of my clothes, which I identified.

‘I found these in an empty shop,’ he confirmed.  ‘It was unlocked, but there was nothing else inside other than some burnt out candles and old brass ornaments.’

 I was released with a warning and caught a bus home. My mother didn’t believe me either. ‘It’s time you grew up lad and stopped making silly excuses, and your dinner’s burnt!

About the author

June Webber is a great grandmother living in Dorset. She is a member of a local creative writing group and Zoom writing and poetry groups. She has had poems published, two stories in The Best of CafeLit 11 and one in CafeLit13.

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