The Essence (Part three of three)

In the morning I awoke to find someone had switched off the light and taken the bottle I’d been drinking from. There was a bowl of muesli and a jug of milk on the bedside cabinet. I felt a little hungry so I ate it readily, and to my surprise the dizziness had gone. I didn’t feel ill but it seemed as though the rooms in my head were all empty, that somebody had been in and cleaned everything out. My brain was tired, I knew where I was – in this strange village with strange people and a strange liquid, but there was no real will to be free of it, almost as if matters outside had lost their significance. Even the shabby little room seemed acceptable enough.

After I’d finished the muesli I made for the door, to my surprise it was unlocked. Walking into the main house I saw the parson standing in the hall with three others. He stretched out a hand, a finger pointing upstairs, ‘Use the bathroom man, and when you are clean you may join us, in the sermon of the converted.

I felt robotic, at any rate my actions felt mechanical as without question I did as instructed, before returning downstairs, taking my coat from the rack and joining them. The parson opened the door onto a cold, white landscape, the snow must have been a couple of feet deep but it didn’t seem to bother him as he led us past the green to the high street. I couldn’t help glancing at my fellow converts to be, I supposed that was what they were, they each had the same vacant expression as the pub regulars and despite my own trance like state I retained just enough awareness to realise such.

The parson led us across the street, in the direction of the pub; I thought surely not, because the parson least of all looked like a person who fancied a tipple. In fact, neither did any of my strange lifeless companions.

But that was where he was headed – with his little flock, through into the bar area where a gathering awaited, jugs of cloudy green liquid at the ready.

I noticed that four other jugs awaited on the bar, full to the brim – the parson looked grimly at me and my three companions, ‘Gather a drink,’ he motioned to us.

As I went to take mine his sprawled hand touched my arm, ‘Not you, not yet.’ I hadn’t noticed at first but the landlord, his back towards me, was pouring what looked suspiciously like dark ale into a glass.

Turning to face me, eyes screwed and unblinking he said, ‘I managed to find some ale for you after all.’

I didn’t have to look at the parson as I took the glass, I could feel his bird-like gaze upon me. As I raised it to my lips the familiar nutty brew which had been my favourite seemed to clog my throat before I’d even managed a sip, and after a few wavering seconds when I finally did manage to do so I promptly vomited it out, along with the muesli I’d eaten for breakfast.

Unbelievable, I’d never wasted beer in my life and certainly not in that fashion. ‘Don’t worry about the mess,’ the landlord seemed unconcerned, ‘we’ll clean it up – I take it you won’t be needing this…’

I placed the drink in his hand automatically, the first time I’d ever given up on a beer – and yet I didn’t feel ill, that was the odd part.

For the first time the parson’s face split open with a satisfied smile. He lifted the remaining jug from the bar, ‘Drink – drink to the converted.’

I felt an overwhelming desire to do just that – this strangely welcoming substance was all consuming – engulfing my system, dividing my mind into many parts, and yet stripping it bare as it did so.

Stripping it bare –

‘Drink and be fully converted, the congregation awaits your conversion,’ the parson’s voice, deep yet raised drifted through the empty cavities of my mind and I shuddered, running my eyes over the unseeing members of his congregation, circling me, their latest convert.

But somewhere inside, in a tiny hollow the intruder hadn’t reached something stirred. I saw a face; I’d been going somewhere, seeing someone – only –

The green liquid they called the essence had been on my lips, enticing me in its irresistible way – but not any more.

Something ignited within, provided by the spark from the hollow. I hurled the jug against the bar, dived out the door just as the two thugs from the smallholding came through carrying further supplies of the essence.

At this stage I should point out that I am a driver, just not a very good one, especially in the snowy conditions that now prevailed.

However the sight of the keys in the Jeep’s transmission was nectar to my eyes – my escape route, as slithering and sliding down a deserted main street I made good my escape in the only vehicle in the area capable of negotiating the conditions.

As I drove out of the village that one segment of my mind still operating seemed to be stretching out, guiding me through a route becoming increasingly familiar.

Donna’s place was little more than a mile away now. I knew I was late, just how late I wasn’t sure, but soon to find out.

I’d parked the Jeep at the far end of her village, in a recess by the fish pond, mindful that the vehicle wasn’t mine and that despite the thugs’ dubious nature in effect I’d still stolen it. Not wanting any retribution lying at Donna’s door I trudged through the snow, the half mile or so to her cottage.

Even as I opened the gate she’d opened her door, arms outstretched, ‘Nick what’s happened, where’ve you been. Get yourself in for goodness sake.’ She practically lugged me inside, ‘I’ve been that worried I called the police…’
I must have looked unkempt, and something worse, because Donna’s pretty eyes seemed to fill her sockets, ‘You look awful, have you been in an accident – what time do you –‘

I shook my head, slumping into an easy chair in her lounge, ‘I’ll tell you about it, whether you believe me or not is another matter.’

So I told Donna sketchy details in a still-fuzzy head while she merely listened with raised eyebrows, ‘I’d better let the police know you’re safe,’ she said at the finish, ‘teach you to lay off the booze eh?’

I swallowed hard then, feeling the green stuff had done the job permanently. And later when I opened the fridge, spotting the bottles of ale Donna had bought for me I almost vomited at the sight of them. It was then that I heard the evening news report on her radio –

“Local police have made several arrests in an East Anglia village following a bizarre incident. Called over concerns for the safety of a cyclist caught in the largest snowstorm for thirty years, they discovered a large proportion of the village community in what is described as a brainwashed state.

A link has apparently been established between events in the village and robberies that have been instigated against a remote East Anglia monastic order, in which several hundred boxes of what has become known as “The Essence,” were stolen.

Although not as yet deemed illegal, authorities in Norfolk have known of “The Essence” for some time. It is believed to be a non-alcoholic substance which interacts with brain fluids including serotonin to produce a chronic reaction to alcohol. The Order is currently under investigation concerning its production of “The Essence,” a liquid its elders vehemently contest is legal.

“However a local clergyman, Parson Peters, is believed to have masterminded the robbery; a well known campaigner against the vices of alcohol he is said to border on the fanatical. Parson Peters has been detained by police for questioning.”

Later that evening two police officers arrived to take a statement, after which I lay on the sofa with Donna and watched a video she bought. I say “watched” but in truth my mind wasn’t with it, and even now, two years down the line and following inconclusive medical tests, my brain seems to empty its memory at random intervals.

And I still can’t face the sight of ale.