Paranopoly

Chapter 4 : Hat

Gentle snoring sounds drifted about the darkened bedroom, radiating from the duvet-covered lump that was Councillor Gavin 'Podge' Jones. The snores sounded less like an asphyxiated Tyrannosaurus than usual but the grunts and wheezes he emitted were still infused with a horrible guttural phlegm-filled resonance that was part of the reason Gavin slept alone; that and the fact he'd never had a girlfriend. Gavin reasoned that running a successful property business and carrying out his duties as one of the councillors for the electoral ward of St. Mary's (a coastal section of North Tyneside inside which stood the Silver Sands Caravan Park) left little time for romance. Although, being a morbidly obese, balding forty-year-old man with a longer bitter streak than a yard of Grapefruit juice may have been the biggest reason his life lacked any tangible romantic activity.

The snores turned to strained high pitched wheezing until they were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell playing a tune that reminded Gavin of a time in his childhood when he liked his life; possibly unlocking a door to a memory of listening to the bleepy-bloopy chart music of the early Nineteen-Eighties or perhaps the tinkling of the Glockenspiel he once played in a School Christmas Concert. Snorting gruffly, prising his sticky eyelids open and coughing with all the grace of a truffle-snuffling porcine animal, he climbed from his clammy mattress and wrapped a thin towelling dressing-gown around him, tying the belt around his portly midriff. Gavin stumbled sleepily down the stairs towards the grand front porch which put most of the conservatories in his private estate to shame. As he reached out a hand to open the front door, he caught a glimpse of his watch which confirmed his suspicions that it was indeed very early in the morning.

The opening of the front door was accompanied by two high pitched beeps. Beyond the large wooden door which was inset with thick bevelled-glass squares was a fur-coat-clad Hilda Fortesque, her face twisted with resentment.

'Councillor Jones!', she shrieked, causing Gavin to step back with fright.

'Yes?', he replied, rubbing a piece of crusty green sleep from the corner of his right eye.

'Why aren't you dressed man?'

Hilda clutched a small black handbag close to her chest with both hands, a stance wholly inconsistent with her aggressive tone. Gavin scratched at his stubbly chin for a moment, attempting to process Hilda's face.

'Sorry – you are?'

'Hilda Fortesque!', she shrieked once more, barely able to believe Gavin's ignorance.

'Mayoress?', he spluttered eventually, bowing slightly and patting at his wild hair, attempting to tame it. He pulled his dressing gown tight, fastening the belt again to keep the gown closed before jutting a sweaty hand in Hilda's direction.

'I should like to talk with you urgently.'

'Yes, of course', Gavin stuttered, standing to the side and encouraging Hilda through the door into his hallway.

'Kettle broken is it?'

Hilda entered the grand five-bedroom cottage and made her way into the large living room. Her eyes filled with the large open fire in the back wall, various mahogany bookshelves and coffee tables placed strategically about the place and a fifty inch flat-screen television hanging on the wall to her left. Gavin followed, jabbing his feet anxiously into a pair of slippers then tottering past his guest and into the kitchen. Hilda followed haughtily, noticing the expensive Corian worktops, huge Aga stove and polished brass cupboard trims. She raised her nose slightly in appreciation before speaking.

'I want you to stop that nonsense in the woods.'

'Forgive me Mrs Forstesk – nonsense?', Gavin replied, flicking a switch on the kettle after filling it with cold water.