The Siggi Shortsword Suicide Saga
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Will the cosmic powers of Harri Krishna be able to save Roger’s holiday – and his marriage?
_____________________________________________________________________
The little flat in Castlebeach was perfect, even though, as far as May could see, there wasn’t a castle. Perhaps it was there but hiding. Or had been swallowed up by the sea. There was, however, as promised in the title, a beach. A white one. In plain view. And there was a pleasant species of forgetfulness of the supermarket world and the briefcase bazaar. It was modest, of that there was no doubt, but that was what gave it its charm. Just a plain bedroom, a living-room, a basic kitchen, and a huge balcony the size of the flat itself. It wasn’t cluttered up with things; it was Spartan: no phone, no high speed Internet, no boxes and cupboards filled to excess. It was evidence of a simpler life. Of a time before the computer atom was split.
Roger awoke the third morning with a Latin phrase on his lips. He turned over and said sleepily, “Et en arcadia ego.”
May was already awake and reading up in bed. She looked at Roger, his eyes were shut tight.
“What was that, Roger?” she asked peering over her reading glasses.
“Nothing,” sniffed Roger. He cuddled the pillow and let out a long soporific yawn. And then he snoozed on.
“Shall we have some tea?” he finally said when May had become engrossed in her book again.
May knew that that was a signal.
“I’m on holiday, Roger,” she said.
Roger vaulted out of bed.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “relax, that’s what I want, that’s why we’re here, RELAX.” He marched up and down the side of the bed a few times and then with a bound effusively opened the curtains.
“Cha cha,” he said and disappeared into the kitchenette. May could hear him footering about with kettles and mugs. She heard a short sonic boom as the gas was lit. Roger banged the kettle down and went into the bog. She heard him stream out last night’s bottle of wine. He was humming a tune she couldn’t quite place.
May’s escape to Scandinavia via her book was now definitely off. Postponed. She put the book down spine last. Would Algot Axel kill himself? Could Ingrid ever recover from her family’s multiple suicide? What of the Malmo Nazi paedophile ring? Would Detective Siggi Shortsword ever get to the bottom of it all? It would all have to wait for another moment. A Roger-free one.
“What shall we do today?” called Roger from the kitchen.
“We’re going to the beach, aren’t we?” called May back. “But first we have to take Flipper for a walk.”
May had started to form a plan. She only had volumes one and two of The Suicide Saga and she was training her way through it at top speed. She thought she could have a look in the little library behind the church to see if they had volume three. Roger could play in the square with Flipper for five minutes. His patience could stretch to that. After all, the holiday was supposed to be a sort of therapy, wasn’t it? As was Flipper! Even the name was supposed to be therapeutic.
May got up and looked out of the window. Jesus, it was paradisiacal. The white sands ran down to the water’s edge. The sun shone. She smiled. The holiday was working wonders for their marriage. Save it, it might. In the kitchen she could hear Roger rummaging and incanting his mantra. It wasn’t a tune he was humming; he was in touch with the oneness of the universe.
“Harri Rana
Harri Rana
Harri Rana
Harri Krishna
Harri Krishna
Harri Krishna”
It had been a good idea to choose peace and quiet and white beaches this year. A little boat sailed along the line of the horizon. May’s mind turned momentarily, and disagreeably, to last year in Prague. She had only gone into the knick knack shop for two minutes. And Roger like a madman spitting bile when they finally found each other beneath the death clock. Like a rabid dog he was. But, she reflected, that was a million years ago. Now Roger had his breathing techniques and his anger management certificate, and his psychic advisor and Harri Rana. And Harri Krishna.
May went for a shower and emerged in a white linen suit. Roger had set up breakfast on the balcony. Tea in the tea pot. Toast in the toast rack. Marmalade. White serviettes folded into neat triangles.
She sat down and smiled as sincere a smile as she could manage at Roger. He poured the tea. May marmaladed a piece of toast and bit in. Crunch, chomp, chomp.
“Roger,” she ventured, “I’d like to go by the library if you don’t mind. I’ve just realised that I don’t have volume three of the Siggi Shortsword Suicide Saga and I’d like to see if they have it. Five minutes, tops. No, two. Promise. You could play ball with Flipper in the little park next to the church.”
Roger raised his eyebrows and then, gaining control of his cynicism, assented.
“Good,” said May, “you know I’m having such a good time with these books, and they’re so terribly well written. Gripping, and the perfect commercial success: mass suicide, weird medieval cults, paedophilia and the whiff of a Nazi plot. I just love it. We all just love it, don’t we?”
The sun was beginning to frizzle the beach and the garden fauna as Roger and May pulled the cottage door shut and made their way towards the village. Another globally warmed July day on the West Coast. May took Roger’s hand. They walked along the row of cottages and entered the village.
“Back in a tick,” said May and letting go Roger’s hand disappeared into the library.
“Take your time,” called Roger after her. The library door sucked itself shut. Roger sat down on a bench and tossed the ball for Flipper.
“Fetch,” he said.
The library was quite small and May went straight to the fiction section. Blast it, she thought, they don’t have it. She turned round and there it was on a special display of best sellers. Ah, she picked it up and slipped it under her arm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a little sign “Free Internet Access”. Yes, I could, just a quick look at my emails. She moved over to the desk. Just a quick one she promised.
“Good morning, could I have a computer?” she said.
Outside, Roger was getting edgy. He paced up and down the path. Sat down on a kid’s swing for a minute. Paced again. Flipper was snoozing under a bench. Harri, Harri Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Harri, Harri.
“I’ll get a paper!” he thought in eureka fashion and marched off towards the Main Street. In two minutes he was back impatiently flicking through the summer paper. Invented stories and fill-space pieces. His ire was rising unstoppably. Not even the Hindu Gods would be of any help soon. Where the hell was she? He looked at his watch. Time marches on. The day is already lost. Five minutes tops? More like twenty-five. Or forty-five for full indignant explosive effect. He looked at the library doors intensely. Tried to stare his way in. Into May’s consciousness. A set of little signs barred his entrance. No food or drink. No dogs. He looked askance at Flipper. Yes the day was already lost. His whole life was being slowly lost waiting outside shops and libraries, waiting for May to choose the right bloody shampoo from four thousand possibilities. And the dog, another complication. Why had he listened to May about the dog? Oh why, oh why?? It began to bark. Roger tried ignoring it. Woof woof woof. Shut it! Woof woof WOOF WOOF. Some passersby were looking at him in a disapproving way. They were disturbing the peace. Roger’s neurosis had him by the shame ducts.
“Shoosh” he hissed at the hound. The dog would not be shooshed. It was now down on its haunches in attack position. It started swinging itself round in semi-circles and growling at Roger. Some old women were trying to meditate on some benches nearby. They stared at Roger. Tut tut. Roger squirmed and moved closer to the door of the library. The dog was now taking dives at him and sinking its teeth into his trousers. Roger picked the animal up suddenly and slung it over his shoulders. He moved across the grass and peered in the window to the library. May was sitting peacefully in front of a computer and a young girl was standing over her. They were chatting and laughing together, throwing their heads back in silent chortles through the glass as if the day would never end, as if Roger’s patience would never end. As if Roger were a saint. And she was flaunting the no-technology holiday rule. Their agreement. The pact they had made. A holy of holies. That had been the deal, no mobile phones, no electronic gadgets. And no bloody Internet!
Roger lost it. He marched into the library foyer with Flipper over his shoulders growling and writhing. Everybody in the library turned to look at him.
“What the fuck!?” he screamed at May and, turning on his heel, stormed back out the building indignantly. He slammed the door behind him. May could feel the whole room redden with embarrassment. She got up meekly and excused herself.
Outside, Roger, catharsis passed, was serenely reading his paper on a bench. He looked up.
“Let’s go,” he said as if nothing had happened. But the wrath of May had to be faced. She stood over him, face, neck, shoulders and toes still crimson with shame. She didn’t have the third volume of the Siggi Shortsword Suicide Saga.
“What happened,” she began with an angry stammer in her voice, “to Harri Krishna? And to Harri Rana?”
Roger blew up again. He jumped to his feet and grandly crumpled up his paper and slammed it into a wasp-infested rubbish bin.
“Harri Krishna, Harri Krishna, Harri Krishna,” he began screaming the great Indian God’s name madly, “I’m fed up, get it? Fed up spending my life waiting for YOU!! Back in a tick! Five minutes tops! Tops!! I’ve had it! Had enough!!”
May bit her lower lip and said more calmly, “I was just taking a quick look at my emails, the girl had to make me a member, give me a password! You’ve had enough!?”
“Ah, a password, okay,” said Roger nodding his head rhythmically, “Well, I’m going back to Glasgow on the next train. Keep your password! Keep the car! Keep Flipper! Keep bloody reading the fuckin’ Siggi chainsaw massacre. Keep your bloody life!!”
With that Roger stormed off with a horde of revenge seeking wasps in hot pursuit. May watched him hopping and jumping in the air. After a bit, he disappeared over a slope. May sighed and picked up Flipper’s lead. So much for Roger’s psychic anger advisor. And for the cosmic powers of Harri Krishna. She headed for the beach. It seemed a pity to completely spoil such a glorious sunny day.
Roger fumed for a full fifteen minutes on the train. How could she treat him like that? Indignant he was. Alone with his rage. Then, slowly, he began to calm down. The red mist dispersed. He tried a tentative Harri Krishna. Then another. His thoughts slowly turned to that other world beyond this one of anger and impatience and discontent. Back in control, he got up and got off the train at the next stop. He would catch the first train back to Castlebeach. May would be on the beach. She would give him pelters, that was for sure. The famous silent treatment. For an hour. Two. He would have to suck up, make an array of Perrier award standard jokes. But he knew that they would end up with a nice lunch and a bottle of wine and a long siesta. For she loved him despite it all. And he loved her too, despite it all. No, he just loved her. Through the mist of his pinball emotions, Roger had the feeling that perhaps he might just have gone too far this time. He sat down on a little bench to wait for the train. He too would be back in a tick. Would always be back in a tick.
“Harri Harri Krishna
Harri Harri Krishna
Harri Harri Rana
Harri Harri Ranni”
He said under his breath.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Will the cosmic powers of Harri Krishna be able to save Roger’s holiday – and his marriage?
_____________________________________________________________________
The little flat in Castlebeach was perfect, even though, as far as May could see, there wasn’t a castle. Perhaps it was there but hiding. Or had been swallowed up by the sea. There was, however, as promised in the title, a beach. A white one. In plain view. And there was a pleasant species of forgetfulness of the supermarket world and the briefcase bazaar. It was modest, of that there was no doubt, but that was what gave it its charm. Just a plain bedroom, a living-room, a basic kitchen, and a huge balcony the size of the flat itself. It wasn’t cluttered up with things; it was Spartan: no phone, no high speed Internet, no boxes and cupboards filled to excess. It was evidence of a simpler life. Of a time before the computer atom was split.
Roger awoke the third morning with a Latin phrase on his lips. He turned over and said sleepily, “Et en arcadia ego.”
May was already awake and reading up in bed. She looked at Roger, his eyes were shut tight.
“What was that, Roger?” she asked peering over her reading glasses.
“Nothing,” sniffed Roger. He cuddled the pillow and let out a long soporific yawn. And then he snoozed on.
“Shall we have some tea?” he finally said when May had become engrossed in her book again.
May knew that that was a signal.
“I’m on holiday, Roger,” she said.
Roger vaulted out of bed.
“Okay, okay,” he said, “relax, that’s what I want, that’s why we’re here, RELAX.” He marched up and down the side of the bed a few times and then with a bound effusively opened the curtains.
“Cha cha,” he said and disappeared into the kitchenette. May could hear him footering about with kettles and mugs. She heard a short sonic boom as the gas was lit. Roger banged the kettle down and went into the bog. She heard him stream out last night’s bottle of wine. He was humming a tune she couldn’t quite place.
May’s escape to Scandinavia via her book was now definitely off. Postponed. She put the book down spine last. Would Algot Axel kill himself? Could Ingrid ever recover from her family’s multiple suicide? What of the Malmo Nazi paedophile ring? Would Detective Siggi Shortsword ever get to the bottom of it all? It would all have to wait for another moment. A Roger-free one.
“What shall we do today?” called Roger from the kitchen.
“We’re going to the beach, aren’t we?” called May back. “But first we have to take Flipper for a walk.”
May had started to form a plan. She only had volumes one and two of The Suicide Saga and she was training her way through it at top speed. She thought she could have a look in the little library behind the church to see if they had volume three. Roger could play in the square with Flipper for five minutes. His patience could stretch to that. After all, the holiday was supposed to be a sort of therapy, wasn’t it? As was Flipper! Even the name was supposed to be therapeutic.
May got up and looked out of the window. Jesus, it was paradisiacal. The white sands ran down to the water’s edge. The sun shone. She smiled. The holiday was working wonders for their marriage. Save it, it might. In the kitchen she could hear Roger rummaging and incanting his mantra. It wasn’t a tune he was humming; he was in touch with the oneness of the universe.
“Harri Rana
Harri Rana
Harri Rana
Harri Krishna
Harri Krishna
Harri Krishna”
It had been a good idea to choose peace and quiet and white beaches this year. A little boat sailed along the line of the horizon. May’s mind turned momentarily, and disagreeably, to last year in Prague. She had only gone into the knick knack shop for two minutes. And Roger like a madman spitting bile when they finally found each other beneath the death clock. Like a rabid dog he was. But, she reflected, that was a million years ago. Now Roger had his breathing techniques and his anger management certificate, and his psychic advisor and Harri Rana. And Harri Krishna.
May went for a shower and emerged in a white linen suit. Roger had set up breakfast on the balcony. Tea in the tea pot. Toast in the toast rack. Marmalade. White serviettes folded into neat triangles.
She sat down and smiled as sincere a smile as she could manage at Roger. He poured the tea. May marmaladed a piece of toast and bit in. Crunch, chomp, chomp.
“Roger,” she ventured, “I’d like to go by the library if you don’t mind. I’ve just realised that I don’t have volume three of the Siggi Shortsword Suicide Saga and I’d like to see if they have it. Five minutes, tops. No, two. Promise. You could play ball with Flipper in the little park next to the church.”
Roger raised his eyebrows and then, gaining control of his cynicism, assented.
“Good,” said May, “you know I’m having such a good time with these books, and they’re so terribly well written. Gripping, and the perfect commercial success: mass suicide, weird medieval cults, paedophilia and the whiff of a Nazi plot. I just love it. We all just love it, don’t we?”
The sun was beginning to frizzle the beach and the garden fauna as Roger and May pulled the cottage door shut and made their way towards the village. Another globally warmed July day on the West Coast. May took Roger’s hand. They walked along the row of cottages and entered the village.
“Back in a tick,” said May and letting go Roger’s hand disappeared into the library.
“Take your time,” called Roger after her. The library door sucked itself shut. Roger sat down on a bench and tossed the ball for Flipper.
“Fetch,” he said.
The library was quite small and May went straight to the fiction section. Blast it, she thought, they don’t have it. She turned round and there it was on a special display of best sellers. Ah, she picked it up and slipped it under her arm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a little sign “Free Internet Access”. Yes, I could, just a quick look at my emails. She moved over to the desk. Just a quick one she promised.
“Good morning, could I have a computer?” she said.
Outside, Roger was getting edgy. He paced up and down the path. Sat down on a kid’s swing for a minute. Paced again. Flipper was snoozing under a bench. Harri, Harri Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Harri, Harri.
“I’ll get a paper!” he thought in eureka fashion and marched off towards the Main Street. In two minutes he was back impatiently flicking through the summer paper. Invented stories and fill-space pieces. His ire was rising unstoppably. Not even the Hindu Gods would be of any help soon. Where the hell was she? He looked at his watch. Time marches on. The day is already lost. Five minutes tops? More like twenty-five. Or forty-five for full indignant explosive effect. He looked at the library doors intensely. Tried to stare his way in. Into May’s consciousness. A set of little signs barred his entrance. No food or drink. No dogs. He looked askance at Flipper. Yes the day was already lost. His whole life was being slowly lost waiting outside shops and libraries, waiting for May to choose the right bloody shampoo from four thousand possibilities. And the dog, another complication. Why had he listened to May about the dog? Oh why, oh why?? It began to bark. Roger tried ignoring it. Woof woof woof. Shut it! Woof woof WOOF WOOF. Some passersby were looking at him in a disapproving way. They were disturbing the peace. Roger’s neurosis had him by the shame ducts.
“Shoosh” he hissed at the hound. The dog would not be shooshed. It was now down on its haunches in attack position. It started swinging itself round in semi-circles and growling at Roger. Some old women were trying to meditate on some benches nearby. They stared at Roger. Tut tut. Roger squirmed and moved closer to the door of the library. The dog was now taking dives at him and sinking its teeth into his trousers. Roger picked the animal up suddenly and slung it over his shoulders. He moved across the grass and peered in the window to the library. May was sitting peacefully in front of a computer and a young girl was standing over her. They were chatting and laughing together, throwing their heads back in silent chortles through the glass as if the day would never end, as if Roger’s patience would never end. As if Roger were a saint. And she was flaunting the no-technology holiday rule. Their agreement. The pact they had made. A holy of holies. That had been the deal, no mobile phones, no electronic gadgets. And no bloody Internet!
Roger lost it. He marched into the library foyer with Flipper over his shoulders growling and writhing. Everybody in the library turned to look at him.
“What the fuck!?” he screamed at May and, turning on his heel, stormed back out the building indignantly. He slammed the door behind him. May could feel the whole room redden with embarrassment. She got up meekly and excused herself.
Outside, Roger, catharsis passed, was serenely reading his paper on a bench. He looked up.
“Let’s go,” he said as if nothing had happened. But the wrath of May had to be faced. She stood over him, face, neck, shoulders and toes still crimson with shame. She didn’t have the third volume of the Siggi Shortsword Suicide Saga.
“What happened,” she began with an angry stammer in her voice, “to Harri Krishna? And to Harri Rana?”
Roger blew up again. He jumped to his feet and grandly crumpled up his paper and slammed it into a wasp-infested rubbish bin.
“Harri Krishna, Harri Krishna, Harri Krishna,” he began screaming the great Indian God’s name madly, “I’m fed up, get it? Fed up spending my life waiting for YOU!! Back in a tick! Five minutes tops! Tops!! I’ve had it! Had enough!!”
May bit her lower lip and said more calmly, “I was just taking a quick look at my emails, the girl had to make me a member, give me a password! You’ve had enough!?”
“Ah, a password, okay,” said Roger nodding his head rhythmically, “Well, I’m going back to Glasgow on the next train. Keep your password! Keep the car! Keep Flipper! Keep bloody reading the fuckin’ Siggi chainsaw massacre. Keep your bloody life!!”
With that Roger stormed off with a horde of revenge seeking wasps in hot pursuit. May watched him hopping and jumping in the air. After a bit, he disappeared over a slope. May sighed and picked up Flipper’s lead. So much for Roger’s psychic anger advisor. And for the cosmic powers of Harri Krishna. She headed for the beach. It seemed a pity to completely spoil such a glorious sunny day.
Roger fumed for a full fifteen minutes on the train. How could she treat him like that? Indignant he was. Alone with his rage. Then, slowly, he began to calm down. The red mist dispersed. He tried a tentative Harri Krishna. Then another. His thoughts slowly turned to that other world beyond this one of anger and impatience and discontent. Back in control, he got up and got off the train at the next stop. He would catch the first train back to Castlebeach. May would be on the beach. She would give him pelters, that was for sure. The famous silent treatment. For an hour. Two. He would have to suck up, make an array of Perrier award standard jokes. But he knew that they would end up with a nice lunch and a bottle of wine and a long siesta. For she loved him despite it all. And he loved her too, despite it all. No, he just loved her. Through the mist of his pinball emotions, Roger had the feeling that perhaps he might just have gone too far this time. He sat down on a little bench to wait for the train. He too would be back in a tick. Would always be back in a tick.
“Harri Harri Krishna
Harri Harri Krishna
Harri Harri Rana
Harri Harri Ranni”
He said under his breath.