Author: Chris Burchett

It’s six in the evening and a westward sky has that slightly indefinable band of Paines Grey washing up against the burnished, retreating sun. At thirty-eight thousand feet, I stare out at the nothingness, the steady, low-pitched hum of engines felt, maybe just imagined, comfortably reassuring, somewhere behind.

The flight is interminable, a generous scotch, over ice, already in hand. I see the staff in the galley preparing dinner. I have the roast beef on order, Bearnaise sauce, chat potatoes and a green salad on the side. There are fresh berries over a delicate, coffee-based gelato, following. On medical advice, I will have just the one glass of red, but it will be the best that the house can offer. On the flight up to London last month, they had a wonderful Hill of Grace Syrah, I was hoping for another drop – 1998 was such a wonderful year! But on this Emirates flight, I have to doubt such offerings.

Through the window, never-ending emptiness, I can feel the silence. I note icy cold beads of moisture trapped between the double glazing are battling existence; the exterior hostility and the comparative ambience of the cabin. I idly wonder how the moisture gets into the cavity.

Another assignment. This time, two targets; the first in Muscat, then up the Gulf to Dubai. Two tobacco traders, both in breach of contracts, both to be reminded of Australian commitments, both to be forcefully told of the cost associated with delivery failures! I am acutely aware of the on-ground turf wars, following Border Force’s interception of our most recent consignments: but that is not my concern. I am just the Contract Enforcer!

I recall the cynical banter from the family – accusations of me; the lush, on the company purse, drifting around the globe wining and dining. I try unsuccessfully to paint a judicious slice of my international routines; the endless, lonely hotel suites, living out of a suitcase, the late-night encounters. I think they saw my life as some sort of permanent junket – if only they knew.

This trip should only take a couple of weeks. On arrival, I will secure a ‘piece’, packed with the essential silencer and ammunition. It’s prearranged but always just a little risky, I’m ever alert for possible slipups. Then the stakeout, the last-minute refinements to maximise the educational outcomes and my all-important exit strategies.

I like using the anonymity of bicycles for my getaway, although in some circumstances tuk-tuks or rickshaws also give me that capacity to disappear into a crowd. In the UAE, I think a small motorbike will do the trick.

I can see reflective silver slivers out of my window: other planes, pods of travellers, other destinations, their sleekness reflecting the last of the sunset, their cometlike vapours, trailing. There is a change in background noise, the engines are slowing—thirty minutes to arrival.

The pointy end of this assignment is drawing nigh. I briefly review my operational imperatives. I smile; yep, all my ducks are aligned!

Can you imagine a house simply disappearing? One moment it’s there, the next it folds in on itself, like closing one of those kid’s 3D panorama storybooks, concertina-like, and just disappears into a hitherto unknown abyss. Our house slides into an old gold mine!

Thank God we’re all at the supermarket. We turn into our street and confront a phalanx of emergency vehicles: cops; ambos; fire engines; red and blue flashing lights everywhere – the whole nine yards, as they say in the movies! We park and join the crowd, fifty metres back from the large hole that is replacing our house.

We muscle our way through the police cordon and identify ourselves. “Yep, we’re all here, we’ve been to the shops”, I tell the cops. There is an immediate and discernible shift of tempo, a collective relaxation of shoulders. It might’ve been imaginative, but my “Hang on. Has anyone seen Roger” sees those same shoulders stiffen again. “Our dog!”, I explain.

There is a chopper above. A TV camera is in my face and a reporter is insinuating herself into the conversation. “Do you know about the gold mine”, she asks, but before I can answer, follows up with “Who is Roger?” She is shouldered from the posse of Emergency personnel. I hear another question yelled over their shoulders. “Do you have any idea why?”

The ground burps. There is a tearing screech of tortured metal and then a thunderous crescendo as we see our neighbour’s house do a little shimmy, one side slumps, and then the house completes an ever so graceful slide into ‘our’ hole.

That gets everything moving. The next thirty minutes sees the whole street empty. The neighbours desperately collect a few valuables before we end up in the park at the end of the street!

Turns out Roger took off when things went pear-shaped. We reunite at the motel that night.

I reassure the family that everything will be OK. Probably false bravado, but I believe that this madness will somehow resolve itself. Maybe we will wake up!

We stay in the motel for several months. Bureaucratic prevarications are never-ending. We establish that the City Council knows of the old mine’s location. It also establishes that my work to restump the house has had no impact on subsequent events.

Letters arrived in the post advising that last century, the Council took the legal precaution to absolve itself of any possible repercussions from suburban development over the old diggings. They reassure us that they are here to help. Our legal class action confirms the efficacy of their earlier legal precautions.

Our group successfully challenge the insurer’s suggestion that the collapse is an ‘Act of God’, contesting that God never worked in the mine! They settle with a pittance, enough for us to build a Tiny House.

While the rug is effectively pulled from under us, we are survivors. We move to another town, well away from gold mining activity! We don’t reinsure with anybody. Stuff ‘em!

1. Deep dark deeds

The dark, uneven floor is littered with what my ears tell me are probably pottery shards. I stub my toe on something and am loathe to move the torch beam far from the floor. There are larger bits of pottery, that for the moment remain unidentifiable.

An hour earlier I tied my large string ball to a tree at the catacomb’s entrance. The two-kilometre-long string is now mostly gone, despite assurances that it would get me in and out safely. I only have a smidgeon remaining from the hefty two-foot-thick bundle of twine I start with.

I fail to note the stairway’s erosion; I fall into the darkness. For a moment I am back on the Egyptian freighter that last month ferried me from Alexandria. I remember my sudden fall down a steep companionway.

Now I am on a hard, stone floor, my torch, still shining, a metre or so from my outstretched hands. Fighting rising panic, I crawl and recapture its beam. I have only fallen a couple of metres, but it is enough to have my senses on high alert. I draw comfort from the torch’s presence and move its beam to illuminate my surroundings. I see the crumbling stairway; no wonder I fell, as most of the steps are missing.

I am at the edge of a bell-shaped chamber, maybe ten metres across, the roof five metres above me. I play the torch across the nearby walls – I see a frieze: intricately patterned red, yellow and white tiled symmetry, a metre above the floor, running around the cavern’s perimeter.

I make my way to the wall and have a closer look. Its simplicity is elegantly beautiful. I have a vision. It is two in the morning, pitch black, save for my bedside clock’s digital display – a series of numbers: five, five, two, two, five, five, two – a never-ending series of numbers stated, then reversed, repeated ad infinitum. I marvel at my brain’s tangential capacities.

My torch wanders further, picking up a very large block of stone. It looks like a coffin – the right shape and there is a partially displaced stone lid. I look inside. OMG, there is a skeleton – I hesitate to say a ‘mummy’. A bony arm rises upwards from the bleached jumble, caught in final rigor, a bony finger latched over the lip of the sarcophagus. I play the torch. An involuntary shiver has me stepping back, another block of stone, another fall!

This fall breaks my string, my umbilical to light and life. I panic but find and retie the ends. Emotions are surging – an urgency to share this fantastic discovery and a possibly draining battery galvanise my decision to start retracing my steps.

The battery did well, but it eventually splutters and leaves me to crawl the last twenty minutes in darkness. There is palpable relief when a corner reveals a tantalising, distant light.

I need Harry, my old Sydney-based mate, who happens to be a Private Eye.

2. Help arrives

I ring the last number I have for Harry. It is early, before 06.00 in Australia. Nobody picks up. After several attempts, I have to assume the contact is cold. I remember he marries a parliamentarian, an Asian Australian lass – Helen Chung, if my memory serves me correctly. I Google her and I get an MLA email contact.

My email goes unanswered for another couple of days, then a terse four-liner arrives, advising of Harry’s retirement, his present uncontactable circumstance. She tells me that he is trialling retirement aboard a coastal freighter running between Cairns and Bamaga, off coastal Cape York. She insists that I not try to contact him again! I respond briefly, schmoozing, with a bit of historical banter. I query the shipping endeavour, but she is not forthcoming, save suggesting I contact Isabella Tomjanovic, whose CV lists pathology and criminal investigation as her two interlinked professions. Helen includes an email contact.

Isabella is friendly and as I give her a brief rundown on how I have come to be in Israel and of my discoveries and suspicions, she confirms an interest to be involved. “Why contact me?” was her second response. I tell her of Helen Chung’s referral.

I share some background information; my contract with the NSW Museum, requesting that I investigate what they suspect to be dodgy provenance on a collection of recently offered, extremely valuable Israeli artefacts. I talk about how my preliminary investigations have led me to a Tel just north of Beersheva. I talk about Harry, my memory of his Middle Eastern forebears, his interest in antiquities and the intervention of Helen, warning me off any further contact.

I tell her about the local police, who are less than helpful, about as useful as a frieze on a melting iceberg. They are alleging that I am possibly an antiquities smuggler, and after I inform them about the skeleton in the Tel, that I am possibly interfering in a crime scene. They are not interested in fingering anybody and even suggest I could be a terrorist, after seeing the recent Egyptian departure stamp in my passport. For good measure, they are threatening to deport me!

I need a ‘friendly eye’ in the country. Isabella agrees to help and her El Al flight arrives four days later. She has her sister’s looks – fantastic – a trim figure, stylish clothes and a demeanour that exudes capability.

Clandestine preliminary briefings occur at her Tel Aviv hotel and later, at her room at the Hotel Negev, in Beer Sheva. I am clean-shaven now and have a reddish rinse through my hair. I think I look twenty years younger, and with my new pink suit, presenting quite the new me. She is complimentary, in a paternalistic, sisterly sort of way!

Isabella has bought a dozen cheap ‘burner’ mobiles – we split the haul. I move to Gaza, where I can quietly continue my background research on the antiquities trade and possible Palestinian connections. She arranges to visit the Tel and the crime scene.

3. A lonely parting. 

The only clothing on the skeleton is that uniform – possibly an Australian issue, but any identifying insignia has long gone. I play my torch up and down the remains. There are still wispy bits of dark hair on the skull and a hole – looking very much like a 303 calibre, straight across the top of the skull.

I am nervous – the location, deep inside some sort of ancient, manmade hillock is playing on my psyche. I am never much for confined spaces and the two-kilometre crouching-crawl into this place is spooking me badly. Being by myself isn’t helping, although, on Brad’s advice, I have taken the precaution of carrying an extra torch! A judicious comfort.

The outstretched skeletal arm holds my attention; in particular, the bony finger hooked onto the rim of the sarcophagus. It confirms the nature of this bloke’s death – unnatural, and an incompetent kill at that, poor bugger; to die, alone in this dark cold cavern!

I want some of that hair and I lean into the sarcophagus. I can’t quite reach the skull but by dragging a nearby block of stone closer, I gain extra purchase. I am within a ‘bee’s-dick’ of falling into the bloody coffin, but I reach the hair and pop a few strands into a forensic bag. In regaining my balance, I send the outstretched, skeletal arm clattering back to rejoin the rest of the jumble.

OK, I think I’m done here, as I play the torch across the skeleton one last time. I catch just the merest hint of a reflection. I look again at the skeleton. There, next to the fibula, on the floor. I carefully reach in again – God I hate doing this, but my fingertip moves the bone to reveal a metal clasp around the remains of a small book. I scrabble further and before I know it, I’m arse up, lying spreadeagled across the top of the bones.

As I gently disentangle myself, I see a metal hat badge partially hidden by the skull – an emu and a boomerang and the words ‘Light Horse Fifth AIF’. So, he was a Digger! With my treasure, I clamber inelegantly out.

I retrace my route, scrambling back up the broken staircase, and rewinding the twine onto the spindle. I commit to never, ever getting into one of these situations again! I have two items that might help the investigation – the hair’s DNA might be traceable. As a former pathologist at Sydney’s Chippendale Morgue, I still have privileged access for DNA analysis. The library at Canberra’s War Memorial will be crucial to identifying who the poor bugger was and possibly unravel events leading up to his lonely death.

From my hotel room, I call Brad and discuss my findings and intentions to take both items back to Australia for analysis. I’ll have it completed soon. I send him a picture of the hat badge and my preliminary assessment that this guy was not an antiquities smuggler. I dump the ‘burner’ phone.

4. Herrings, possibly red ones.

Isabella rings me from her hotel before she begins her flight straight back to Sydney. She sends me a picture of a bronze Light Horse military badge and suggests she will have a DNA analysis of the skeleton’s hair in a couple of weeks. She also shares her preliminary assessment of a probable disconnect between the skeleton and the smugglers.

I return to Gaza, via a circuitous route back through Cairo, then across Rafah, the Egyptian-controlled border crossing. I again book into the Grand Palace Hotel, overlooking the calming Mediterranean waters. I have a meeting with the Museum’s library staff in the late afternoon and in the interim, climb the staircase to my room and join the rest of the community in a midday siesta.

Gaza is a wonderful city, despite its aggressive Israeli encirclement. There is still a community life that continues in the streets – the food stalls, the coffee shops, the hectic, honking traffic, the donkey poo, the dust and the motorbikes – a friendly warm whole. Surprising historical links back to the Light Horse, and Beersheva in 1917 remain, and with Australians also based in Gaza in 1942, my accent delivers extra warmth and friendship.

Museum staff confirm the thefts of their recently acquired collection of 2nd-century Roman armaments. The four spears, found at the back of a Beer Sheva tel, they consider them priceless. They want them back and suspect they are already out of the country. Their intel’ suggests an Australian destination.

Their security further notes unusual consignments going to individuals associated with a gang calling themselves D’shakher. I had the privilege of crossing paths with these guys before – they were fencing a stolen Greek marble frieze. I would need to be vigilant – they dispense with niceties when their interests are under threat.

I know they have a local connection in Gaza. I get talking to a spivvy sort of chap at the library, not authorized to speak publicly, suggesting the thieves were Israeli, not Palestinian, simply using Gaza as a ruse. I retire to a cubicle to consider the state of play.

• I am sure the skeleton is an incidental ‘red-herring’, albeit it was in the same Tel that held the ancient Roman weapons;
• The skeleton’s hooked finger at the top of the sarcophagus indicates foul play, possibly during the First World War. The diary might provide explanations;
• Local intel suggests shipments are leaving Gaza consigned to the Sydney-based gang. The Israeli links to D’shakher membership, and their penchant for never leaving loose ends untended, are both well known.

I stake out a suspect warehouse and photograph four guys coming and going regularly. I also break into the premises one night, finding a large crate on a loading dock. I photograph the Sydney addressee and high-tail it back to my hotel.

The next day I follow a small truck back through the Rafah checkpoint into Egypt and to the Suez port facilities at Al Sokhna. I deduce my Middle Eastern work is done. It’s back to Sydney for me.

5. Gaza erupts 

I have flights back to Sydney booked on Monday and spend the intervening couple of days tidying up my investigation and alerting both Interpol and the AFP of my findings. I suspect the Vaucluse address on the crates, seen in the Gazan warehouse belongs to the D’Shakher hierarchy and I provide details of the ship that was seen loading the crates at Al Sokhna docks.

‘That’s a wrap’, as they say, and I retire poolside at the hotel. I ring Isabella, forgetting the time difference. “Brad, it’s two in the morning!” She’s pleased with my progress but reluctant to share her own results until we’re together.

My mind returns to that poor bastard dying deep underground in the Tel. It will be interesting to see what the skeleton’s hair analysis and her discussions, viz the precious old diary with the War Memorial’s staff turn up.

So, what to do with my remaining 36 hours in Gaza? It is Saturday, maybe a visit to the Museum of Archaeology?

Mustapha, my Interpreter/Driver and I hear the radio announcer break into the music program. ‘Hamas is raiding kibbutz, killing and taking hostages, firing rockets.’ We pull over, listening intently to the garbled account of some uprising! I switch channels. I can’t find Gaza FM, but pick up an Israeli station reporting massive rocket and insurgency attacks, mostly centred from Khan Yunus, down near Rafah and the Egyptian border crossing.

Moments later we hear the air raid sirens wailing. We leap from the car as the first of a series of missiles fly overhead! We are crouching between the car and a brick wall when the next barrage arrives, the high-pitched screech, whistling, deafeningly close. It must have missed us by a whisker; we feel and hear the thuds as the debris starts to fall around us.

The radio has Netanyahu promising to wreak unholy revenge, to destroy Hamas, to flatten Gaza. What the hell is happening? Missiles are pommeling the city, buildings crumple, fireballs rise and evil-smelling, toxic fumes blanket the city.

We turn the car around, hoping against hope to get back to the hotel in one piece. We round the corner at the moment the Grand Palace Hotel folds into itself, vomiting a huge fiery conflagration. A deafening explosion is followed by an eerie silence, then screams, sirens, people running – mayhem announcing that my world is losing its shape!

The radio is advising that the attacks are more deadly. Reports are talking about wholesale slaughter, hostage-taking, bodies in the streets. Gaza is being sealed off, the IDF are gathering at the Gazan/Israeli border crossings, a huge call-up of reservist troops is scheduled. Netanyahu is establishing a Government of Unity, threatening to exact massive revenge.

I need to find an escape route! The idea of catching my flight from Tel Aviv is fading by the hour. Mustapha suggests we drive north. His family, and fuel are loaded. Thank God I have my passport and wallet in my coat pocket. More incoming rockets. We head for the underground carpark at the nearby hospital.

6. Isabella’s attention shifts 

A tropical beachside, pina colada sipping and the bloody phone is ringing. Bloody 2.00 a.m. It’s Brad. “Are you still in Gaza?” He is and has provided Interpol and the AFP with shipping details and the consignee’s address. “I reckon we have earned a dinner at Doyles when I get home, Rock Oysters, salmon and cold beers. Watcha reckon?” He hopes to depart Tel Aviv on Monday.

The morning news carries images and sketchy details of a Palestinian attack: Hamas, slaughter, and Israeli hostages in southern Gaza and in the city. My calls to Brad ring out! I trust he has the wits to stay away from whatever is happening.

I was going to tell him about my skeletal findings – his name, for a starter – Arthur, (he prefers ‘Artie’) Makepeace. His diary provides a snapshot of his time in Egypt and Palestine with the 4^th Light Horse Regiment.

Arti grew up in Inglewood, central Victoria, the son of Eucalyptus Oil producers. His identity disk, tucked into his diary, will shortcut discussions at the War Memorial, in Canberra. He talks of his close mate Goldie, ‘Goldilocks’ Seppelt, from somewhere north of Adelaide, recruited into the Light Horse about the same time, and their shipboard meeting, en route to Alexandria. Goldie is creating a complete sensation with the local girls, drawn to his intense, white-blond hair.

The pyramids dominate their weeks of acclimatised training encampment, before the eventual deployment to Beer Sheva. General Harry Chauvel is calling the shots. The diary gets to the ‘pointy’ end in the last couple of pages. I quote

“We’re finally going to see some action tonight. Chauvel wants a nighttime attack upon Beer Sheva where the Turks have a stranglehold on the precious, accessible water It is heavily defended, with machine guns, and even aeroplanes being used to drop explosives.

Goldie and I ride together. We get about three hundred yards before both our horses are shot out from under us. I also cop a graze across the top of my head, bleeding a lot, but I’ll live. We make our way towards a nearby hillock, the bastards are still trying to ping us. We crawl into a cave. Goldie fixes a bandage around my head.

I ring all Brad’s burner phone numbers. They ring out.

Guttural voices approach. We retreat further into the darkness. There is a tunnel, we crawl quietly, as the Turkish bastards fire a weapon into the cavern. A bullet whizzes past, missing us by a whisker. Our trench torches work well. Batteries are uncertain, only mine in use at the moment. The Turks have given up looking for us. My head is hurting badly, although the bleeding has mostly stopped.

My battery is flickering—Goldie’s works. We fall out of the tunnel into a bell-shaped room. An old stairway has crumbled and …

The entries stop. A couple of misshapen words suggest their lamps are giving out. But I now know how Arthur arrived at his final resting place!

7. Isabella – a new focus

Over the top, some might even say hilarious, but my interests and responsibilities have completely shifted. Engaged to uncover antiquity-smugglers, now solved, leaving me with a deliciously intriguing trail of Artie’s to follow.

I now know he was from Inglewood, in Victoria. He is a casualty from the 1917 Charge of the Light Horse regiment that were seeking to wrest control of the vital water supplies locked up by the Turks within Beer Sheva. Artie’s diary records his final poignant moments, wounded, and with his mate Goldie, hiding out in the depths of the Beer Sheva tel.

I have been in contact with the library staff at the National War Memorial, establishing that Artie remains listed as MiA. His diary is going to change that! But they also tell me that Xavier Seppelt’s body was recovered from the battlefield, close to where the Charge commences. Putting two and two together, I surmise Goldie presumes Artie is dead, he leaves the Tel and is gunned down trying to get back to his lines.

My DNA hair analysis needs to be matched. Staff at the Loddon Council offices put me in contact with the local Historical Society and in less than a week, I am emailing Bessie Makepeace, who is declaring that Arthur was her Great Uncle. She now lives in Castlemaine and would be delighted to meet up, to share her DNA.

News from Gaza confirms Brad is probably on the edge of a precipice. I continue to call his mobile numbers ineffectually. My hopes for a positive outcome are flagging, as time erodes my expectations.

I am driving down to Castlemaine, but have arranged to meet Larry Jones, Inglewood RSL’s President en route. I stop for a few moments at their War Memorial, noting the MIA asterisk against Makepeace, E.A. I meet Larry at their lodge and he hands me a photo of Artie, one of those typically uniformed poses, held on a dwindling number of mantlepieces, leather-framed, dusty. I turn my car south towards Castlemaine.

I take a call from somebody in DFAT. They want to confirm Brad’s details and are seeking photo ID. She opined that the Department are expecting to find any remaining Australians in Gaza plastered to smithereens. I thanked her for her advice!

Bessie Makepeace’s twinkling eyes sit above a smile that is both welcoming and teary. We hug as she bundles me inside for a cuppa and cakes. Her 90+ years are incidental, as she busies herself around the kitchen. Questions fly at me over her shoulder as the tea cosy is positioned, biscuits arranged and cups brought to the old deal table. She is bursting with curiosity and excitement, that smile threatening to split her features.

She has already cut a lock of her hair and presented the plastic bag to me. She has a fading memory of the many stories being told, often in hushed tones, by the returning soldiers and recalls photos of a young man going off to war.

8. Collateral mishap

A massive explosion, rubble, smoke, fumes gushing down the corridor towards me. I am knocked off my feet by the force of the blast.

As things clear, there is sunlight streaming from what was the ceiling of our subterranean space. What remains of a car is rocking backwards and forwards, precipitously suspended through the rupture. The occupants have not fared well, although someone is moving – a man in the front passenger seat! Inshallah, I might be able to get to him!

Through the rubble, I fumble and release the seatbelt and he tumbles down into my arms. A bloodied soul, alive but with uncertain prospects. I undertook a quick triage of the other passengers, confirming everyone else has not survived!

There is a deep cut running across his scalp. I call for help and between us we get him onto a blanket amongst the rubble. His pulse is flagging and there is blood seeping through his coat. We need to move him from below where the car continues to rock, ominously. We carry but mostly drag him further down the corridor. It is a good thing that we are only a hundred metres from our makeshift clinic.

Settled with the other wounded, I reach into his coat pockets, finding a wallet, and an Australian passport. ‘Brad Gentle’, hailing from Sydney. I wonder what he is doing in Gaza – probably a journalist, reporting to the world what the Israelis are doing to us!

I walk over to what serves as our Nurse’s Station. A bit of a joke really, maybe even hilarious to allocate such an optimistic label – we are out of drugs, water is being administered by the half cupful and our only light, a series of candles, plus the newly accessed sunlight, now reflecting back along our burrow!

I record his details in the Register, noting briefly the circumstances of his arrival. I walk back to the suspended car and with several others helping, we extract the bodies of the driver, probably his wife, and two small children. We take their bodies into another corridor, to what has become a morgue.

How can this be happening? So many of us, we are not Hamas. Last week I was a doctor in the hospital, today I and one hundred and fifty others, mostly from the medical centre, try and offer medical support to our neighbourhood’s human collateral. We can only assume that the earth-shattering detonations above mean that our hospital has been targeted by the rockets.

One of the walls of the clinic has a portrait of Netanyahu. A target has been drawn and it is plastered with red splotches, blood-soaked bandages thrown with a curse, as the living make their final journey towards Jannah.

I looked after the journalist for several days, but sepsis set in, his temperature soared, and his pulse got weaker. I logged his passing in the Register and hoped his spirit was not unduly compromised by our Islamic funerary rites.

There is nothing unusual about shadows. They are synonymous with sunlight; dark, two-dimensional splotches duplicating the world about.

What’s unusual about the present circumstance is that there is no sunshine. It’s midnight, moonless and I am stumbling along the laneway, making my way homeward after a boozy session at the local. I sense, rather than see this shadow, just a few paces behind.

I stop to take a leak. I excuse myself to the supposed nearby humanity, explaining the sudden urgency, my ageing prostate, an unavoidable indiscretion. There is no response. I turn to add further explanation to the shadow’s creator, but there is nobody – just a dark shading across the nearby ground. I notice it deftly sidesteps to avoid foot-wetting.

How many pints? I count a couple of thirst quenchers, then two or three, maybe there were four, as we play pool, and I reckon I have one or two ‘roadies’. Not enough to deaden the ever-pressing regrets, but enough to buoy my egotistical front!

I lean against the wall to get a handle on things. I fumble with the tobacco and papers. Finally, I roll and light a functional smoke. I revel in the forbidden hit to the back of my throat, the delicious sensation as the nicotine threads its way down to my toes.

I am here in the laneway, by myself, save for the ‘presence’ – this dark human form nearby. I am drunk and my wallowing, scornful loneliness is threatening to overwhelm me.

At this point, my legs buckle and I fall heavily to the ground, my back still against the wall, my legs akimbo, splaying out into the road, my bum promising a significant bruise in the morning. My brain is working overtime, trying to find a rational explanation for my here and now. Things are foggy.

I throw out a question; seeking reassurance. I am sure I hear feet shuffling in the gravel and some movement within the dark greyness. There, did you hear that? It was a definite throat-clearing gurgle as I turn to gain confirmation from …? I draw on my smoke, there is a discernible arm movement from the shadow.

Nothing makes sense. My mind wanders around the last few months; the drinking, the hangovers, the verbal stoushes, the breakages as dishes and accusations fly. Consuming loneliness following the final, slamming door. My sober apologies unheeded, weightless but weighing a tonne upon my soul. I am sinking into a deep, deep pit, the booze’s braggadocio, my temporary evening prop, gone.

I wake to blinding light, and a familiar, splitting head. I am crying and snivelling as I sit in the dirt. Where to from here? Dark thoughts, eternity posing as a provocative, circling possibility.

The dark shape sits beside me in the laneway. I see and smell wet trousers and some of last night’s dinner, moist and sunk into the dust.

The shadow rises from the gravel, turns silently and walks off down the lane.

*A heartfelt thanks for Carl Jung’s exploration of ‘shadows’.

Losing my head was an unfortunate mistake. An invitation to attend the Tribunal Revolutionaire, an all-expenses-paid holiday at la Bastille and then away it went – the ‘national razor’ dropped, and that was that!

Silly, careless when I stopped to think about it. I know I was outspoken, loud sometimes, just a drunken, forlorn bore, but I did enjoy my cousin Louis’ company. He dressed immaculately and was generous, to a fault. Those soirees at Versailles, the champagne, the costumes – merveilleux.

He and I would hunt stag, sometimes pheasant across the estate or enjoy a dalliance in a woodland glade, the perfumed companions always such a joy! These were exquisite times, although head winds were definitely blowing.

Hardly a week went by without some boisterous street protest. La Bastille was bursting at the seams, le Widower was in constant demand, with reports that it has become a hazard even for the executioner, with the residues causing dangerous, slippery surfaces. The peasantry were revolting!

Difficult times were upon us. I was left sightless, at what was to become the Place de Bastille, left to wander – blinded, as the city fell into mayhem and I heard degenerate crime was rampant.

I found eventual refuge in the towers of Notre Dame – splendid elevation, and reasonable security. The only inconvenience was meeting up with that infamous tenant, that windbag Quasimodo. Supposedly gone centuries before, but actually just in retirement. He scared the hell out of me.

But he taught me several survival tips. The deadly boredom of death – the unending non-existence. I needed to amuse myself, to pass the time. I found strolling on the streets, of an evening, restorative, joining the throngs of deceased, wandering amongst the living. We would compare notes as the revolution swirled around us. Executions were responsible for many joining the outings.

On occasions, Quasimodo amused himself with devilish ‘guest appearances’. He’d laugh uproariously.

I was still unsure of my modus operandi and was often out on the streets by myself, mingling with the left bank set, once even returning to the Place de la Bastille. But the memories were overpowering. Screw them: I never returned!

Time moved at a funerary pace. We heard about the new decrees, promising egalitarian liberty and fraternity. There were decades of unrest. Armies came and went: soldiers, armaments, destruction but our creamy white sandstone towers remained secure.

Centuries passed, new technologies, new fashions in vogue. At some point, the universities poured out onto the streets demanding egalitarian reform. Our cathedral remained aloof, above the occasional spot of social unrest.

In recent times Quasimondo rarely travelled beyond the towers, whereas I needed the stimulation of the nighttime crowds. The laughter, that heady excitement in the cafes. I was back in the towers by daylight.

But it was all about to change! Some bureaucrat decided the Cathedral’s bells needed retuning. Digital replacements were temporarily installed. An electrical short circuit, a fire destroyed the cathedral, and we lost the roof over our heads – so to speak!

It took her several weeks to tell me. I think if she had confided her ‘vision’ earlier, maybe at the moment when we were first inspecting the property, I would have resisted purchasing that beautiful old house.

Its’ acre sat fronting the little river that wended its way through the village; the water easement effectively provided additional acreage, maintained by the council: a bonus. Our laneway was a cul de sac, just us and four other sandstones, all built when craftsmanship and pride mattered.

The south-facing verandah, with the old Ornamental grape, that doubled as a windbreak taming most of the late summer heat, was our preferred Friday soiree venue. Whiskey for Ginette, Ouzo, over ice, for me. We were sharing a plate of biscotti and Taramasalata.

“Do you remember that afternoon when we were waiting for the Estate Agent and we were looking over the fence?” “Yep. It was commanding, wasn’t it? I think I fell in love with it at that moment, more so as we moved through that enormous front door, the bay windows, the lead lights, the ceiling roses, the Baltic flooring, the generosity of the rooms.”

“I saw something!” “Whaddyamean, ‘ya saw something’?” “In that bedroom window. There was an old lady. She had long white hair, staring, silently out, like she was assessing us. You probably don’t remember but I made a beeline for that front bedroom, to introduce myself. There was nobody there, just a noticeable chill to the air!”

“That’s ridiculous,” I countered, as long-held fears started to scramble into my cerebellum; my voice quavering as I asked, “why didn’t you tell me before?” I had a deep-seated fear, childhood nightmares, irrational fear of ‘bears under the bed’.

She started to backtrack. “I’ve never seen her again. I think she may have been a forlorn figment of my imagination.”

Over the weeks, I gradually regained my composure, but then I heard old Missus Friedrich talking to Ginette over the fence. They didn’t realise I was pruning, nearby.

“Did ya see her?” “Yes, she was standing in that front room.” “Mmm, dear old Phyllis, she was a good friend and neighbour to my Mum. I only vaguely remember her. She and Mum would be at this fence for hours, some days. Gentle, but married a bloody bastard. He ended up murdering her, and the rumours were that the Screws ‘did for him’ before they could ‘ang im. A right bastard!”

She continued: “She always knows when new owners are coming. She stands at that window, quietly assessing them. Never known to do anything else, just looks and then quietly fades away. Until the next sale.”

The hairs on my neck were erect, goosebumps raised like sandpaper, rational thought swamped. I was badly spooked. I found myself turning extra lights on when moving between the rooms, avoiding being by myself in the evenings. Yes, total, irrational behaviour, but nonetheless, a visceral fear was gnawing.

It wasn’t long before Phyllis was at the window again.

A ghost story’ include words white, screw, wind and forlorn

Men! Two husbands and a brother-in-law, dead or as good as! And now I am forced, by circumstance, into an industry dominated by self-important misogynists who dismiss me out of hand. It is time for women to stand up, to unite. I have joined the Social Democratic Labour Party, and steer the Women’s sub-committee. It’s time for change!

My musical and linguistic accomplishments, and my teaching skills all go unused in the hurly-burly of the art world’s demands for exhibitions and promotional soirees. Both are greased with large amounts of alcohol, opiates and braggadocio.

Aah, my Theo, I miss you so. I remember your note, just five years ago, asking me to come to Paris and marry you. We had barely met, just a few times when your work brought you to Amsterdam. Brash, youthful, but interesting. I let you dangle for the moment. I had my studies at the Institute to complete and I had an offer of work in London for a few months.

You never really got over Vincent’s death, blaming yourself for the physical distance between you two; he in Arles, you at the other end of the country, in Paris. Your grief took a toll, adding to the effects of the pox from your earlier whoring. Six months after Vincent’s suicide, you followed him into the soil.

I have little Vincent, my constant joy. We are left with a small apartment, widowhood and the shame of a family suicide. My darling Theo. I have your legacy of over 200 unsaleable paintings, hundreds of sketches, letters between you and Vincent – and no income! I need my wits to turn these intangibles into a livelihood.

Holland and my familial roots beckon. I leave Paris. I teach piano and use my French and English language skills in manuscript translations. I open a small boarding facility. I am making do, but Vincent’s legacy continues as my main project.

I force myself to reengage with the art milieu, following up with Theo’s old contacts, sometimes dancing to the tune of the gallery owners, just to secure one or two of Vincent’s paintings or sketches exhibited. I gift a painting to a friend. It generates interest and two paintings sell!

Vincent’s voluminous correspondence with Theo has marketing value. I compose a note, attaching two of the letters, and send them off to a publisher. They agree to publish and their editorial staff help me prepare the material for print. The initial run of 1,000 copies sells steadily, in the Netherlands, in France, the UK and eventually in the USA. I work on the translations of Vincent’s work into English. It is time-consuming!

I continue to wheedle the galleries. It happens slowly – the long-sought appreciation: sales start to happen on a regular basis and by the turn of the century, Vincent’s paintings, and the works of the others in this post-impressionist movement, begin to be sought by the collectors.

The family gains a steady income. A note from a legal friend advises me to ensure absolute copyright over Vincent’s writing, sketches and paintings remains within the family. In my will I ensure this is transferred from me to young Vincent, and to any future issue. The move is to pay off handsomely.

I am content. My son has married a wonderful girl, their first baby is due shortly. These days I tire easily.

My earliest memories are of the six of us ice skating on the frozen canals running through the centre of Zundert, close to Father’s church. Vincent is a tentative skater, never keen to race with us, preferring the long straights where he would skate at his own pace. As the light closed in, we knew that Mother would have crispy potatoes, drizzled with rich, garlicky butter on the table ready to recharge hungry stomachs.

After school, Vincent used to stop off at Uncle Fredrich’s art supply shop. I watched my brother delight in arranging, rearranging, and then rearranging again the tubes of paint. He explains to me the colours he is creating, based on which tubes are next to each other.

Uncle sent each of us a note, offering us traineeships as we finished our schooling. Vincent was delighted to get out from under the oppressive religious dictates of our father, while I used the opportunity to seriously apply myself to a career prospect. I completed my training and secured a job with the Dutch office of the prestigious French art dealers, Goupil and Cie.

Vincent increasingly went his own way, wandering off with materials supplied by Uncle, into the surrounding countryside. The reality of money to secure materials never seemed to dawn on him and he eventually relied on me for paint, brushes and canvas, my lasting commitment.

The other children went their ways, the girls married off, and our eldest brother apprenticed into commerce. It left Vincent and me together, under the intimate influence of the artistic world, albeit he at the ‘pointy’ end, me supplying the necessaries.

We shared a small room in a local boarding house. I occasionally convinced him to come with me into town, to the cafes, the music halls, and to taste the delights of the brothels. But again, there was a disinterest, withdrawing into his sketching and painting, compulsively, often burning a candle well beyond my bedtime.

I was transferred to the London offices of Goupil. Vincent visited me a couple of times and in one of his weekly notes, declared an intention to move to Paris where the new Impressionist movement was gaining attention. I bankrolled the move.

Our letters were a lifelong habit, his increasingly frenetic ones were often detailing his ideas for a painting, sometimes including detailed sketches, ideas for new colour combinations, shopping lists, and the occasional mention of his domestic circumstances. He rarely responded to the specifics in my missives.

I appreciated his innovative bold colour combinations and his layered brush strokes. Despite my best efforts, he could not realise a sale in the conservative markets of Europe, still favouring a staid interest in the neoclassicists. But Claude Monet and Pierre Renoir were out in the pleine air. They were about to launch a revolution. These were exciting times and my decision to open my own art supply shop was superbly, albeit, accidentally timed.

The gallery attracted a small group of young men, the banter, the cross-fertilization was electric. None were selling their works; all were frenetically decrying the bourgeois surroundings.

I introduced Vincent to the crowd. Gauguin and he struck up a tentative rapport and plans were being made for Paul to follow him down to his newest haunt in Arles, where I had arranged for Vincent to receive help from Dr Rey for his growing medical uncertainties.

At about this time, I married my adorable Johanna and young Vincent was born within the year. Life was good, although Jo miscarried not long after Vincent’s first birthday. We were both devastated, but to add misery to the mix, my doctor was advising that my own feelings of tiredness, and sometimes delirium, might reflect a pox, from earlier exploits!

Things got worse. A note arrived advising that Vincent and Gauguin had had a massive falling out and that Vincent, in a moment of delirium, attacked himself with a knife. Dr Rey has stitched the wound but the doctor reports that Vincent is behaving very erratically.

I convince Vincent to move back closer to me and I have arranged lodgings with a Doctor Gachet, in Auvers sur Oise, just north of Paris, near the junctions of the Oise and the Seine rivers. The doctor runs a clinic for those with mental issues and is also a keen painter. He and Vincent briefly share a passion.

I see that Vincent’s paintings are losing their vibrancy; dark, violent pallets, nighttime scenes, full of almost satanic swirls, dark shapes. I visit him in Auvers and we spend a very happy, settled week together!

It was to be the last time we were out and about. Weeks later I made a frantic journey from Paris. I arrived in time to hold my brother, as his self-administered gunshot wound proved fatal!

Oh Vincent, why? I fear my own mortality as I am increasingly bedridden, nursed by Jo as the deliriums gain intensity.

I am working closely with Jo to ensure she works the market in my absence, to find and promote Vincent’s work. I know Vincent will be her salvation.

The sunflowers are intoxicating, growing from here to forever, as far as my eye can see, as I pack my easel, paints and brushes onto the trusty bike, and head back. The evening chill is a reminder that summer is faltering, the laneway leaves will be starting to fall, offering a new palette to consider, and capture.

Doctor Rey’s smile is as welcoming as ever as I prop his bike against the old stone wall. We share a pipe and watch the sun shimmer into the distant fields before we go inside. He mentions a letter from Theo that is on the small white noticeboard outside my room.

I sit on my bed and open his letter. As ever there are updates on the family’s Paris doings, plans for a holiday to Brabant, to see our ageing parents, little Vincent’s scratched knee, after a fall from the apple tree, the steady recuperation of Johanna after her miscarriage, and the business.

Theo talks excitedly about his move from London to Paris and the new ‘post-impressionist’ devotees who are starting to frequent his art supply, cum gallery shop. Paul Gauguin; Paul Cezanne and the boisterous crew gathering of an evening to drink that throat-scouring Brittany apple concoction, Chou’chen, or Absinthe in the Montmartre cafes. Theo is keen for me to return, enclosing the rail fare and a little extra.

In the quiet of my room, the invitation rolls around my head. I remember the dismal, cold wetness of the cobbles, the dull gloom of my Parisienne days considered against what I find here, the bluest skies, a hot vibrancy, riotous colours, the friendship of Doctor Rey, the reverend Salles and my little room’s security. I long for artistic company, and write, suggesting the painters consider decamping to Arles.

An advisory note from Theo coincidently arrives on the day that Gauguin steps down from the train. Our first argument is about our quarters, then the food, the heat and my bicycle. We paint frantically, obsessively – the cafes, the spivs, the girls, sometimes pressed even to draw breath between our artistic output and argumentative frenzy. He retreats back to Paris.

My nervous attacks continue. I have a ‘shaving’ accident. Dr Rey stitches my wounds.

The sunflowers continue to hold my attention. I sleep at midday beneath them, dreaming of a ‘School’ forming among their yellowy heads. I exhaust the local supplies of Cadmium yellow, Prussian blue, and Chrome orange but Theo resupplies me. I wake and continue capturing the excitement of these fields until the late afternoon light dictates a halt.

A note from Johanna advises of Theo’s increasing miasma. She is told it is a dimension that leaves him at times wondering who, what and where he is. She implores me to come back to Paris. A compromise is achieved as Theo negotiates my lodgings at Auvers sur Oise, just to the north of the city, with a Dr Gachet.

I write a cheery note, describing the laneways and farmlands beside the Oise. I attempt several portraits of the Doctor, even a couple of self-portraits. Theo visits and we share precious days together before his return to Paris.

He is gone, and sadness descends. I am alone. I paint and the Cadmium warms my soul.

But, it is time, I think. I have the means. It is time.