Escape From Samsara Read online

  ‘Ah, I’m glad you asked me,’ replied Mrs Gann. ‘When you practice Christian Mindfulness your heart will open to the love of Christ and you find eternal salvation. When you practice Buddhist mindfulness you will be damned to suffering in hell for all eternity.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ replied Barry. ‘Shall we look at the garden now?’

  Being shown around a garden by a new client for the first time was always a bit of a tense affair. This was due to the fact there was normally an expectation that Barry would be able to identify and wax lyrical about the unique cultivars on display in their precious and most prized of gardens. The problem Barry had was that he didn’t really like plants, in fact he found them pretty dull. This could be seen as a bit of a handicap for a gardener, but he had got away with it through most of his career with a simple game he’d invented called “botanical bluff”. At horticultural college, he had memorized the Latin names of two of the world’s largest plant families. So when Barry was asked to identify a rare plant in someone’s garden he would always reply, ‘I’m pretty sure it belongs to either the Asteraceae or the Fabaceae plant family.’

  Given that the sum of plants within these two families weighed in at forty-four thousand, Barry was quite often correct, if somewhat unspecific.

  ‘Please pull up the ivy growing in the flower borders, but whatever you do, leave it alone on the fence,’ proceeded Mrs Gann, ‘That fence desperately needs to be replaced and I fear its only that blessed vine keeping it standing. We are lucky enough to have the vicar of our parish living next door, and his wife is a very keen horticulturalist. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about native roses and she has won East Sussex County Parish Gardener competition five years running.’

  ‘Doesn’t the vicar judge that?’ asked Barry.

  Mrs Gann ignored the question. ‘Have you found the love of Jesus Christ in your heart, Barry?

  ‘Not yet,’ Barry mumbled.

  ‘We will just have to see if we can fix that, won’t we?’ And with that, Mrs Gann trotted off up the path to the house.

  Barry picked up his trowel, wondering how that could be ‘fixed’? He had read the ontological arguments for intelligent design which he had found quite compelling. From his perspective, though, it seemed as if the entire universe had been designed to maximize his stress levels. Using this as the premise for any causal proof of God, one could only surmise that if a prime mover did exist, he very probably had a stick up his bum.

  Barry had just knelt down to start weeding when he heard a rustling behind him. He turned round and saw Little Timmy staring up at him. Barry smiled.

  ‘Hello, Timmy, has Miss Miggles woken up from her nap?’

  Little Timmy stared blankly at Barry for a few moments before belting out, ‘Listen, you grotty little slave, ignore what my mother just told you and go and weed Miss Miggles’ shit pit over there. She hasn’t been able to have a decent poo in days due to all the nettles stinging her ring piece.’ As Timmy turned and marched off toward the house he shouted, ‘I’ll be watching you from my bedroom, so put your fucking back into it!’

  Kneeling on the grass, in a mild state of confusion, Barry wasn’t quite sure if that had actually happened. Maybe he had imagined it? He collected himself and then leant forward to tug away at the stubborn vine again.

  Just as he was finding his rhythm, he became aware of a barely audible female voice from behind the fence. ‘What’s eating my beans?’

  Barry pretended not to hear and went about his weeding.

  The voice repeated, ‘What’s eating my beans?’

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ Barry stared at the fence.

  ‘Yes,’ came back the voice. ‘You’re a gardener, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll start again, shall I? What’s eating my beans? It’s not slugs as I’ve drowned all of them. How about woodlice or birds? Can woodlice climb up beanpoles?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I need an answer for this today!’ came the voice, which was now clearly audible. ‘So what is it? Birds or woodlice?’

  ‘ Birds… I think,’ Barry spluttered.

  ‘Good. I’ll net them. That’ll keep the blighters out.’ The voice tailed off as the mystery woman wandered off, mumbling to herself.

  Barry inhaled as he returned to the ivy and then lost himself to rumination. Who the hell talks to someone through a fence without even introducing themselves? Must have been the vicar’s wife, I suppose. Who the hell would choose this bizarre job for themselves?

  Some of the misconceptions people have prior to taking up a career as a gardener are:

  You get to spend lots of time on your own, communing with nature.

  Your body tunes in to the rhythmic and seasonal flow of life.

  You get to work at your own pace.

  You mainly plant flowers and pick strawberries all day long.

  Gardening is good for your mental health.

  Barry would strongly advise you to spend a week working alongside a gardener before making any final career decision. After being covered in dog shit, ripped to shreds by rusty barbed wire, and made to pay two hundred pounds for cutting through a broadband cable (conveniently running through the middle of a hedge), you may want to realign your assumptions.

  The ivy clearance was progressing quite well until Barry looked up and saw Little Timmy hanging out of his bedroom window.

  ‘Oi, baldy, hurry up! Miss Miggles’ got a turtlehead! Don’t make me come down there!’

  Barry’s lip was firmly entering the pre-quiver phase. ‘I’ve left my gloves at home so I can’t pull those nettles up. I’ve been clearing the ivy out of the border like your mother asked me to!’

  ‘Don’t do that, you simpleton, what are the wood pigeons supposed to eat? A Big Mac? Miss Miggles loves chasing the wood pigeons! Any gardener worth his salt would know that.’

  Darth Vader would have been proud of the glare Barry aimed at Little Timmy. Okay, keep calm, remember what the doctor told you… Just keep a lid on it… The little bastard! Shit, what would a Buddhist do? Chant… Yes… do that.

  ‘May all beings be happy, may all beings be well, may–’ Alas, it was all too little, all too late, for a glorious rage had descended. Barry tore nettles out of the ground with his bare hands.

  In no time, they were red raw but he felt no pain. Hell hath no fury like a gardener scorned.

  Little Timmy came running out of the back door of the house.

  ‘I have just been speaking with mother about the horrendous job you are doing, and she’s quite simply beside herself with stress and it’s all your fault! What are you going to do about it, you lopsided midget?’

  A look of terror was plastered over Mrs Gann’s face as she came out to find what all the fuss was about.

  ‘For goodness sake, keep your voices down. The vicar’s wife might be in her garden. Can someone please explain what’s going on here?’

  ‘Mummy, this terrible man told me he wanted to play with your tits. I was telling him off for being so rude.’

  ‘How dare you!’ spat Mrs Gann as she turned to Barry. ‘I knew you were trouble when I first laid eyes on you.’

  ‘What!’ howled Barry. ‘Your son is a liar and a lunatic. I think he has serious psychological issues.’

  ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my son. Unlike you, pervert!’

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ said Little Timmy squaring up to Barry in a misguided attempt to intimidate him. ‘You’d better get this mess sorted out or I’ll go upstairs and wake up Daddy.’

  On any other day, Melanie would have been deep in la la land at 11 am. Today, however, she had not long got back from a nightclub and was crashed out on top of her bed in a rather slinky lace mini skirt. She was torn from her slumber by her wife’s shouting, and knew instantly it had to be an emergency, as her wife had never before been heard creating a scene, God forbid! She went flying down stairs to join the garden uprising.

&nb
sp; On seeing her husband, Mrs Gann implored, ‘What the hell are you doing, Charles? The vicar’s wife might see you!’

  ‘Sorry, darling, but I heard the commotion and had to break protocol.’

  ‘This revolting man has been making sexual advances towards me.’ Mrs Gann pointed at Barry.

  ‘Oh really, is that the case? I suppose you will do the same with me too, will you?’

  ‘I’d prefer you to your wife if I was forced to make a choice.’

  ‘How dare you!’ snapped Mrs Gann.

  Amongst the chaos, Miss Miggles appeared from her morning nap and decided to scramble up the ivy and balance precariously on top of the wonky fence.

  ‘You know what your problem is, don’t you?’ said Timmy addressing Barry. ‘You’re anally retentive. I know all about it from a book my mum has. Every time you have a poo you probably cry and touch your willy. If you have one.

  ‘That’s it!’ Barry detonated with a primal fury even the Hulk couldn’t have mustered. He sprang to his feet and lurched towards his little tormentor. Timmy turned to run but tripped on Barry’s tool bag and landed face-first into Miss Miggles’ shit pit.

  ‘Keep your hands off my son!’ howled Mrs Gann.

  Clambering back to his feet, his face smothered in cat excrement, Timmy looked over at Miss Miggles as she issued a cry for help. She had slipped from the top of the fence and was hanging by a solitary paw. Timmy ran blind in the direction of the distress call.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming to rescue you.’ Timmy ran face-first into the fence, sending it crashing down with a momentous thud into the vicar’s garden. Spending one of her nine lives, Miss Miggles landed safely on the beanpoles as the vicar and his wife were revealed sitting in the garden drinking tea from their finest china. A photographer from the Hove Parish Newsletter was with them for an article on the recent plague of rose thrip tearing its way through the parish gardens. The startled vicar turned round just at the moment Barry decided it was prudent to rugby tackle Melanie, dragging her mini skirt down to her ankles to reveal a rather becoming set of red lacy knickers and suspenders.

  The vicar supped on his tea and blithely called over, ‘Afternoon, everyone! Long time no see, Charlie.’

  ‘My name is Melanie now, vicar,’ replied Melanie, trying to keep her balance.

  ‘Shut up, Charles,’ hissed Mrs Gann through gritted teeth.

  The vicar turned to the reporter. ‘Old Charlie over there used to be one of my finest choirboys. Funny how times change, isn’t it? Why don’t you get a photo for the alumni section of the newsletter?’

  The photographer snapped away enthusiastically as Mrs Gann was busy trying to pull her husband’s mini skirt up at the same time as prying Barry’s iron grip from around his legs.

  ‘For God’s sake, can you both just please stop! This is going to ruin me!’ pleaded Mrs Gann.

  Little Timmy, the gift of sight restored, ran up behind Barry and kicked him hard in the anus before running off into the house.

  Incensed, Barry let go of Melanie and took off after Timmy.

  Barry ran into the kitchen and found himself staring at Little Timmy, who was levitating two metres off the floor in front of him. His eyes were darker than coffin trenches, his body the colour of death. One arm pointed at Barry and the other held Miss Miggles.

  A shiver like cold mercury swept along Barry’s spine. ‘What the–’

  ‘Eigo no hito ni shi, Eigo no hito ni shi! ‘Timmy chanted Japanese in a coarse, sinister monotone, over and over like an automaton gone wrong. Barry lurched backwards in shock. He wasn’t great at Japanese but he knew what it meant: ‘Death to the English man’. Miss Miggles had grown ten-inch claws and steel vampire fangs. Timmy held her as high as he could, then threw her screeching at Barry. The demonic cat hurtled towards him; with only a second to act, he caught her around the neck and used a ninja head flip technique to throw her back across the kitchen. Miss Miggles let out a guttural growl, flailing through the air and landing neatly in Mrs Gann’s blender. Without thinking, Barry ran over and flicked the ‘on’ switch. Miss Miggles would not be getting her butt stung by a nettle ever again. Barry turned as Little Timmy faded away in front of him, his chant still echoing from the bleak marble tiled walls.

  As Barry made a swift exit through the rear garden gate, he remembered the day his father taught him that move, a perfectly still autumn day in Portslade park. He was fairly sure it wasn’t intended for fiendish felines. It did occur to him, however, that a Miss Miggles smoothie might be just the tonic to finally sort out Mrs Gann’s unfortunate anal problem.

  * * *

  4

  THE TORTURE GARDEN

  ‘Beauty is the mistress, the gardener her slave.’

  (Michael P. Garofalo)

  Barry was ripped violently from sleep again by his night terrors. Stumbling into the bathroom, he turned on the tap and drenched his face, to wash away the haunting. With his father’s voice still ringing in his ears, his thoughts turned to the events of the day before. What the hell had happened to Timmy? I’m bound to get the blame. How long before the police find me?

  He looked up at a painting on the wall his father had given him the day before he had disappeared. A beautiful Japanese temple perched on a hillside in an ancient pine forest. It had three floors, each with its own balcony possessing intricately carved railings. On the roof was a metal spire that rose high above the tree line, glistening in the afternoon sun.

  At the bottom of the picture was an inscription:

  を見つけて

  Countless hours had been spent trying to decipher what it meant but there seemed to be a gap where the first character should be, making it awkward to translate. The best Barry had arrived at so far was ‘Can’t find me.’

  Barry came into the kitchen for breakfast and found Molly staring out of the window again. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Did you know that no birds fly over Auschwitz?’ Molly replied. ‘They must sense the inexplicable void of horror that exists there.’

  Barry was really not in the mood.

  ‘It’s a lovely morning though, Mum. What are you up to today?’

  ‘Merrill’s coming over. I’m going to play her Cattle Decapitation’s new album.’

  ‘She’s in for a treat.’ Barry winked.

  ‘I’m sick of being the only OAP metal head in Portslade. I want someone to go to gigs with. You never want to come!’

  Barry sat down next to his mum and tried to produce his sweetest smile albeit through the medium of a gappy grin.

  ‘Here we go! What do you want?’ said Molly.

  ‘The doctor has prescribed me some supportive underwear and I’m a bit embarrassed about going in to collect them as that girl I dated, Joanna Tarry, works there. It would be really weird, I haven’t spoken to her in years.’

  ‘No way mate! They’ll think they’re for me! If they get wind of that in the hairdressers the whole town will know!’

  Barry knew he had to up his game for this to pan out in his favour; no amount of humbugs would swing this deal.

  ‘How about I buy us tickets to go and see Sepultura in London next week and I’ll come with you?’

  ‘Really? Really really?!’ shrieked Molly, skipping around the kitchen sounding like a parrot that had just won the lottery.

  ‘Just make sure you get the lycra ones with the velcro side-fasteners, just in case I need to get them off quickly. I don’t think I’ve got time for breakfast now, I’m late for work.’

  ‘Okay, dear, but before you go, do you know what a GILF is? Robbie called me it in the hairdressers the other day and everyone laughed.’

  Barry turned and shook his head as he opened the front door. ‘It’s a grandma I’d like to… oh I really must get off now, Mum. I’ll see you later.’

  Saturday. Typically, Barry only worked half a day and then went up to his allotment. He was not supposed to but he often stayed the night in his shed to give himself a weekend of undisturbed peace. I say ‘undi
sturbed’ but the exception to that rule was Brian. Brian owned the plot adjacent to Barry and was a one-man war machine dedicated to ridding humanity of the wicked pestilence known as weeds.

  Some Saturday mornings, Barry would go round to trim Doctor Harper’s hedges, a job Barry had been doing once a month since he began gardening. Mrs Harper loved having Barry over for two reasons. Firstly because she had something of an obsession for keeping her hedges immaculately pruned, taking personal offence when nature intervened and caused her hedges to grow. Secondly because she loved talking – I mean really loved talking. It was as if she had a compulsive fear of gaps in a conversation, leading her to develop a manic rhetorical vocal loop. This was one of the instigating factors that had driven Doctor Harper into the garden many years earlier, where he had an office built to see clients privately at the weekends. Mrs Harper found this particularly frustrating due to her confinement indoors as a result of being electronically tagged by East Sussex police. Having frittered away their savings on television shopping channels in the space of six months, she had been subsequently arrested for stealing a packet of crumpets from the corner shop.

  One Saturday, Mrs Harper was particularly concerned about the wellbeing of both her pond and hedges.

  ‘There are two main jobs to do today, Barry. The first is we have a leaking pond; I’d like you to empty it and put down a new liner. We have left out our old diesel pump by my husband’s cabin which you can use for the draining of the water. Hubby swears it works fine but I’m wary about how safe it is. Please make sure you switch it off as soon as the pond runs dry as it has a tendency to overheat.’

  ‘Okay, Mrs—’

  ‘Now, the hedge, Barry. The left end looks like it’s gone a funny colour and I’ve read that Box blight is sweeping across the south coast. If this is what it is, it would be a disaster. It’s a fungus, you know. It causes all the leaves to fall off and never grow back. My neighbour, Mr Pelling, has a bald hedge! It’s a catastrophe. He’s beside himself.’