Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

By James Steven Clark

Shelly Clover is part of a dysfunctional family (not the way she planned it), and lives on an Island with an incredible past and a dire present.

She has a mysterious, undiagnosed condition that complicates her life. Distinguishing between reality and illusion, isn’t easy for Shelly...

Something bad happened to her when she was three years old - an event so horrific - she suppressed it deep in her unconscious mind. Many years later, and on her birthday, she’s given a mysterious book written and addressed to her. Inside are clues to her past, and clues to the Island’s uncharted fall from grace. As she starts having powerful flashbacks to her traumatic event, she is forced to confront herself, her tormentors, and an unspeakable evil that has returned to haunt the Island once again.

With a fractured mind, and with help from her bizarre book, she must fight to save everybody from the unseen. The very people who have oppressed, tormented, and made her life miserable -are the very people she must save....
Once she's saved herself...

Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover
Build what’s broken, break what binds.
Save yourself, save your enemies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Steven Clark
• Release date: Jul 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310663956

James Steven Clark

James is an author, a proud father, and a big fan of the underdog. He's the author of the Shelly Clover series, The Children at the River's End, and Mr Buechner's Christmas on Shrieker Pass.

Book preview

Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

By James Steven Clark

Copyright © 2023 James Steven Clark

All rights reserved.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

No part of this publication can be duplicated, reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be circulated in any other physical or electronic form (cover, spine, back) without the author’s same written permission. The full images shown on the front cover, spine, and back cover are legally owned by James Steven Clark and cannot be reproduced at any time or any format.

This is a work of fiction. All characters are imagined. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For more info on James’ novels, visit: Jamesstevenclarkauthor.com

This book is dedicated to all you underdogs out there.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents.

are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One - Misfit, Misplaced

Chapter Two - Elvis Has(n’t) Left The Building

Chapter Three - The Box That I Made

Chapter Four - Electus Unus

Chapter Five - Forsan et Haec Olim Meminesse Iuvabit

Chapter Six - Danish Gambit

Chapter Seven - When It All Kicks-Off

Chapter Eight - Grave Concern

Chapter Nine - Heat on the Hill

Chapter Ten - The Whispers

Chapter Eleven - The Hope-Filled Lie

Chapter Twelve - She Can’t Let Go

Chapter Thirteen - Please…Go Away…

Chapter Fourteen - The Sandman

Chapter Fifteen - Darkness

Chapter Sixteen - Hidden Wings

Epilogue

About Shelly Clover

Chapter One

Mis-fit, Misplaced

There’s nothing quite like being permanently excluded from school.

And, this is the second time in a single year.

I suppose when my mother had my brother christened, Elvis; it was because she thought one day, he’d be famous, and restore the family’s fortunes.

Instead, he’s sitting here – infamous – and causing us nothing but misfortune.

My name’s Shelly. The only daughter in a family of six: that’s four brothers and a mother. Mother’s latest partner is here with us, too. I know next to nothing about my real father.

Nor do I really want to.

Five of us, including my youngest brother, Buddy, sit and listen… to "evidence", allegations, charges; whatever you want to call them. The sun is beating down on us all through floor to ceiling windows and the heat is making us feel uncomfortable. It’s not exactly a conducive environment for receiving bad news.

I’ll backtrack.

I’m part of what society calls a dysfunctional family.

And I’d agree if I’m honest.

I don’t believe it was the way my mother planned it, or how any family would wish to turn out, but that’s the way it happened for us, so there you go.

My mother is weeping, and her ‘man’ is shaking his head at my oldest brother, who is snarling and swearing at the three people sitting opposite.

I’m quiet (as always) and Buddy is in the corner of the room, twirling round and round and making a whirring noise.

We look and sound every bit a dysfunctional family.

My youngest brother is called Buddy. He is my entire world. As the French would say: my raison d'être. Love him to pieces, I do.

He’s special needs. Autistic spectrum.

Basically, he struggles at anything that involves moving, and thinking straight (besides riding a bicycle; he does this well). It doesn’t matter though, because he’s my bro, and is the sweetest person I know. I care for him so much – sometimes, so very much - I get strange yearning pains in my chest when I think about his struggles.

This is in stark contrast to my eldest brother, who’s swearing again.

Continuously.

To be fair, he’s being quite resourceful in his choice of expletives; creatively aggressive, in fact.

But it’s making me blush with shame.

And now he’s lurching forward, out of his seat, and mother’s partner is only half-heartedly restraining him because I suspect he too… wants to fight the power. This is a drug-related matter, and it’s been going on for months. Elvis hasn’t even made it to the end-of-year ten here at Harley High.

Buddy is here because my inconsolable mother couldn’t afford a babysitter and I’m a fraction too young to perform the duty. I’m here because the school I attend has an Inset day.

So, I’ll daydream my way out of this horrible situation and tell you stuff:

Being the second youngest in the family. I am, I guess, what you call a no-hoper in the eyes of the world; a tiny, decaying, blackened banana skin, all mushed up inside; causing people to slip.

I have dreams though, lots of them, not just visions for my future - actual dreams; the kind that snap you wide awake in the middle of the night, thinking: has that actually happened?

Looks wise: sandy brown hair, blue eyes. Okay-looking, I guess.

Some have even commented I’m quite pretty, but certainly not the girls at my school, Jacobsfield High.

According to them, I’ll mirror my mother in a few years; fat and bloated. So horrifically unfair… mother may well be a little overweight, but she must be alright-looking because she always getting boyfriends.

Truth is, I’m not good at fitting in, and I don’t help myself.

My hobbies and interests would be described as left-field.

I like chess and simply adore riding my bicycle across the small island where I live. I find solace and calm in cemeteries and my archipelago (good with big words) is a particular stone coffin adorned by an angel statue on the south side of St. Harold’s church, where I ring bells every Wednesday evening.

I’m introverted, but I’m kind and concerned about people; aware of a person’s struggles because I’ve had my share - am having my share. I’m a bit of a do-gooder really, frequently helping out in a charity shop on a weekend.

I get picked on an awful lot for the following reasons: wearing hand-me-downs; owning a yellow racing-bike (and green rucksack); having violent, thick-witted brothers who beat up everybody.

I don’t really know how to stand-up for myself when I’m teased. Consequently, I feel very, very blue sometimes, and life feels pretty hopeless.

There are only three other people (apart from Buddy) who I’d class as friends: my aunty, Mrs Dawson, the old eccentric hippy-goddess; Arthur Kingsley McFadden, the pointy-nosed, white wispy-haired inventor, and Derek or Dezza, as I like to call him. (And sometimes Doo-lally because of his pointy afro hair, making him appear a bit crazy.)

Minutes after birthing me, mother nearly named me Grace-Kelly. The story goes one of her new-ager friends (you know, the kind that talks to angels and stuff) came to visit and gave her a shell which she’d procured from Boule beach. Not being able to think straight (undoubtedly, strung out on Pethidine), she was so taken aback with this gift that she immediately wanted to name me after the shell.

I was going to be called Spirally Shell.

The friend pointed out that Shelly alone sounded softer and more wholesome, and so my name was consummated.

Unfortunately, despite this friend’s efforts, I’m forever tagged with the surname, Clover.

And it’s a name that immediately prints disdain on islander’s faces… as if it’s more of a contemptibly forbidden concept, rather than a title.

Apparently, discovering a five-leaf clover is a very lucky thing, and mother’s convinced that our surname is destiny. One day, our entire family’s luck will change for good, forever.

I’m not holding my breath.

Clover sounds too similar to the words closed and over. The love part doesn’t exist.

Here’s why. My real dad hasn’t been in touch with me. I don’t know who he is and don’t remember him. My mother’s last two boyfriends abused me, not sexually, but emotionally. One wouldn’t acknowledge I even existed, and the other would shout at me until his lips turned blue.

Fear doesn’t come close; I was so very, very scared of him. He’d bruise my skin and soul, and considered drug-taking – along with my brothers – as a form of necessary socialisation.

And as for my brothers? Well, they’re all named after rock’ n roll singers, of course!

Elvis, Chuck, Jerry and Buddy.

With the exception of me and Buddy, we all have different fathers. Jerry is mixed-race. I don’t suppose Buddy has the capacity to miss his dad. I’m not sure I do, and I don’t really know if that’s an emotion I should necessarily be feeling. Maybe I’ll feel differently in the future.

And, speaking of the future, one day I’d like to be in love, but as a result of my experiences, I’m afraid of men. Derek, Buddy and Arthur are the exceptions, although of course, only one of those is a man. I’d quite happily be a lesbian if I felt that way inclined, but most of the girls I know are complete cows, so maybe I’ll just work on being asexual.

And, here’s another thing: what the heck is true love, anyway? For me, that’s like trying to figure what lies beyond the end of the universe…

Finally, there’s mother.

She wants the absolute best for us, I think, but her Achilles heel is men. She likes the rough-looking ones, men with scars. They distract her from focusing on us and then she feels guilty and weeps, constantly thinking she’s let us down. But, there’s always food on the table, a kiss on the cheek, a cuddle from time-to-time and a laugh and a joke. She’s not happy, but she perseveres in making us happy. If men give her fleeting pleasure, then so be it; it’s better than nothing, even though I worry it’s damaging her more and more in the long-run.

Elvis has finally been told he is no longer welcome at Harley High.

It’s quite the ceremony.

I thought when they chucked him out of my school, Jacobsfield High, back in October, the girls in my year would start speaking to me. But his presence actually acted as a buffer, and when he eventually left, I got it bad! Two girls in particular - Evelyn and Camille - were particularly sadistic in their taunts:

Gypo thief and her spacca brother - Duh-Uuumm. Nice clothes, freak! Do you get them free from the charity shop?

Yeah, sometimes.

Sticking their tongues into the side of their cheeks, they’d imitate Buddy, although I have never seen him look like that. His special needs don’t come out like that at all. It’s so unfair and unjust when they do this.

Right from the start of year seven, I was targeted by the pair of them. I don’t know which primary they went to, but thank goodness I didn’t go.

If you find yourself acting in a similar way to these girls, please backtrack, and think about that little pang of guilt you’re trying to ignore.

Think I’m too broken to break much further.

Chances are we’ll all be friends on some social networking site in the future, anyway.

PC Tyler, Harley High School’s part-time police officer, has now stepped into the room because things are getting out of hand. Elvis has thrown a water bottle at the Head of Year, chairing the exclusion meeting; actions that merely add the ice to the icing on an already iced cake.

His expulsion was a done-deal, regardless.

There’s a brief skirmish where tables get forcibly shoved and more water goes flying (no glasses in an exclusion meeting).

It’s like some kind of last stand against our family’s honour.

With the sun being magnified through these enormous windows, the spray actually feels quite pleasant on my face.

And then we all get escorted out of the clean room and head towards the front of school where a taxi is waiting. Elvis kicks over a massive plant near the entrance and receives a stern warning by the policeman. I just want to get out of here, get on my bike, and ride away from this. Buddy is crying.

The sun is hot in the July sky.

I know where it beckons me.

***

That afternoon, under the endless blue with its pockets of tiny silk clouds, I cycle towards Mrs Dawson’s house. I spend a little time thinking about Elvis as I peddle. The Reverend from St. Harold’s tried talking to him at the gates of Harley High, holding the attention of my brother longer than anyone. Doubt it did him any good, though.

Church bells lazily chime in the distance.

I’ve led mother to believe I cycle loads to keep fit, and she’s just greatly pleased that one of her off-spring can extrapolate themselves from the TV.

I’m quite the sight in the oversized, green helmet that Mrs Dawson found me in the charity shop. It barely fits and makes my head look like a giant eco-friendly mushroom but: it’s free; keeps me a law-abiding citizen; and offers my brain some protection should I tumble off.

Yellow racer. Green hat, and rucksack.

I purchased the bike after winning fifty pounds on the Premium Bonds. It was the cheapest, affordable second-hand bike out there (and the only one for consideration) as one of my brothers ‘borrowed’ the remaining thirty pounds from me and hasn’t returned it yet.

On approaching Mrs Dawson’s cottage, I see she’s already out in her garden, face buried in a bed of purple pansies. She lifts her head and smiles warmly at me; it’s such a genuine and welcoming smile.

‘Good afternoon, Shelly.’

Wiping her hands on an old apron, she stands.

Although she’s naturally tall, Mrs Dawson is also very skinny, with a body like a long-distance speed walker. She possesses a weathered beauty and I’ve never seen her wear make-up. Mrs Dawson is a true hippy in my eyes. Today she is wearing a pretty, flowing, sleeveless green dress. In the sunlight, I can see her toned arms and shoulders.

‘Time for tea; you can tell me all about your day.’

Taking off the ragged apron, she stoops and picks up her brown flask.

‘I must have known you’d be coming,’ she says, holding out two plastic mugs and clunking them together.

I set my bike down just inside her front gate and approach through her carefully tended and very pretty flower beds.

‘Thanks, Astra. I’m glad to get away from it all.’

‘I’m sure you are.’

‘Where’s Meteor?’

‘He’ll be gallivanting around somewhere, chasing hedgehogs, no doubt.’

She smiles and pours from the old brown flask.

The tea she hands me is slightly sugared; just the way I like it.

Then I proceed to tell her all about my day and she listens resolutely for several minutes. Astra Dawson is: my friend; my confidant; my aunty; my Godmother and my counsellor. She’s my surrogate mum in so many ways.

‘Ahhh, I’ve just remembered; hang on a tick.’

As elegant as a gazelle, she picks herself from the soft lawn and glides towards the tiny green door at the front of her cottage. Astra likes green.

I take a moment to remain still in the solitude. I think it’s important to sit and be still from time to time; just switch off.

My school counsellor reminds me it’s very important to appreciate the little moments in life, the here and now; not to always strive towards the future. So, I try to on this occasion, and here’s what I can see, feel and hear.

There’s a deliciously gentle summer breeze blowing lightly over my face. Under me, the grass feels soft and well-manicured. I do feel peaceful, but I am aware there’s a dull nagging at the back of my mind; the subconscious anxiety button… that somehow frequently gets pressed on my behalf. No control over it.

I can see and hear the hum of hornets, as they gently hover by a large, lilac coloured bush. There’s an ash tree with low branches that lazily hover in front of Astra’s colourful window boxes. I can hear a few birds twittering in the apple trees behind me, and they sound particularly jovial; how is it that birds always sound jolly? I have never heard a miserable, bloody bird in my life! Oh, to be one.

The whole garden is myriad of inviting and vivid colours, and I become acutely aware of a tiny battle in my mind against default negativity, when I should be relaxing and just enjoying the moment. I like it here. I sit for another couple of minutes, trying to enjoy the solitude before Mrs Dawson reappears.

‘I found the most unusual thing in the charity shop’s store room. It was sitting there on a big pile of books.’

She’s carrying something large and brown and she’s wiping its front with her gardening apron.

‘It looks like a brand new, old-fashioned book,’ she says ‘If you know what I mean? I was considering chucking it - we have so many books in the store room at the back - but then I opened the front cover, and...’

A small plume of dust buffets outwards and shimmers in the sunlight, as Astra opens it on the front page.

‘... viola, my darling.’

There, inside the front cover, on antiquated paper, and in ancient, flowing script, it reads:

‘To Shelly Clover, on your thirteenth birthday.’

Ever had a wow moment?

I’m staggered; this must surely be a joke, right?

I sense my eyes growing larger, and my mouth, well - let’s just say, it’s wide enough to sweep up and swallow some of those hornets next to the lilac bush. Nothing this interesting ever happens to me. What even is this?

Astra chuckles at my look of surprise, before adding, ‘And, you’re thirteen tomorrow.’

She adds this deliberately, and then pauses, pre-empting my suspicious frown and before I can respond,

‘No darling, I have nothing to do with this - nothing at all. I absolutely, one hundred per cent, did not write your name in there. I’ve got you an entirely different present. This isn’t my style. Crazy, isn’t it?’

Astra writes limericks and all sorts of poems for people all over the world. This is her customary style, and she usually writes one for me on my birthday, so I believe she’s telling me the truth. She also has a weekly column in the island’s newspaper; people love her quirky rhymes.

She hands the book over.

It has a solid, thatched front cover, with strange light engravings embroidered into its fabric. There’s a singular, diagonal burn mark; taking nothing away from its majesty.

‘It’s early Nineteenth century,’ Astra adds. ‘Have a flick through, darling; it gets very interesting towards the back. And the smell, ooh, you know how I love the smell of any book and this one’s odour is wonderful. The smell of history, no less!’

I open it and, staring at my name, considering: likelihood; chance; coincidence and fortune.

One of my mother’s ex-boyfriends once took all my comic annuals - with my name scrawled on the inlay - to a car boot sale. He was selling them to pay off his debt, hoping they were classics. Several years later, I was at a completely separate school fete on the opposite side of the island, rummaging around some odd and sods, and came across the very same annuals. They had my name inside and everything.

This, however, is very different.

To Shelly Clover… on your thirteenth birthday.

I flick over to the contents page. It has been handwritten with the most beautiful, flowing, feather pen. The ink has faded to a brownish colour and the pages are creamy. There is no noticeable damage or wear and tear. For a book so old, it smells divine; a rich and healthy, nostalgic scent. There are several chapters about different things. I pick out the one that says Nursery Rhymes and turn there.

Whoever the author was, they have meticulously crafted several that I remember, the classics:

The Bells of St. Clement’s, Ring a’ Ring of Roses, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.

There are others I don’t recognise. Moving to the back of the book; it feels notably heavier.

Astra Dawson watches me eagerly as I turn to the final page, not a page at all… and I nearly drop the entire thing, as a large dome – sharply serrated around its centre - springs out of the page towards me.

At first, it feels like I’ve uncovered a trap and I stare at it anxiously, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happens.

Whatever this is, seems to physically extend outwards, and it has eight sharp, triangular blades, made from iron around the middle. The centre of the object sticks a good seven inches out from the base. It is solid, apart from a small, circular aperture.

‘Now, explain to me how that’s even possible?’ Astra says.

‘How on this earth... does it do that?’

I close the page so that the book is completely flat and then open again.

‘I know! I haven’t got a clue for the life of me, darling. Be careful on those sharp spikes.’

The spikes are, indeed, sharp, but I am more intrigued by the Three-Dimensional pop-up object that defies the laws of physics. I close the book again and turn it on its side. Every page packs comfortably and compactly together. From cover to cover, the whole book is nearly six inches in depth. The last page is pressed tightly against the back cover. I open it again very slowly, millimetre by millimetre, in an attempt to understand the mechanism that holds this object flat and hidden. The dome, or whatever it is, comes into view, jutting out in unison with my fingers as I prise it apart.

I proceed to prise at different speeds, but the same large, solid object appears at exactly the same rate, with no force required whatsoever to shut the book. I then flick to the penultimate page to check for scars left by the large, jagged spikes; so utterly different from any other book I have ever seen. There is not a single mark, bump, or crease here. Instead, in large joined-up handwriting, it reads:

The end of it all...

Mrs Dawson speaks; her clear blue eyes reflecting the sparkle in mine.

‘I saw some things in the seventies that you wouldn’t believe darling, you know,’ she winks, ‘things to do with your mind… but I’ve never ever seen anything like this without substances that alter your perception.’

My Aunty – Astra Dawson – has always been honest about her life.

Astra places her hands on the final page next to mine.

‘Now, I must confess, I was so intrigued that I had a go at pulling these levers. They go up and down, and they must have a purpose, but I’m at a bit of a loss as to what. Be very careful with them.’

I gently push on one. It clicks. I push another one up, another down, and another up. At this point, all the levers click back into their original position with such singular force, a sharp edge slices my finger tip.

‘Owww!’

A tiny bit of blood smears on the centre of the dome as I pull it away, the drop instantly vanishing into the small hole.

‘Are you okay, flower?’

‘Yeah.’ I suck on my throbbing index finger.

‘Now listen, Shelly, I have weird feelings about this book.’

Astra passes her hand over the book as if she is communing with unseen forces. Although I am intrigued by her ‘feelings’, I think I’m more interested in her expression as she describes them.

‘It’s neither malevolent nor benign - most strange though.’

Her countenance doesn’t alter as I close the book and nod, acknowledging her concern.

The rest of the afternoon we sit out there in the sunshine, talking some more about my arduous morning in front of the board of governors, Elvis’ second permanent exclusion, and my birthday tomorrow. I tell her about my appointment with the school counsellor.

Mrs Dawson listens intently, as always. We discuss our rehearsal for the upcoming Quarter peal at St. Harold’s; it’s an important one - a ringing practice - ready to mark two hundred years since this island rose from obscurity to world renown (albeit, only briefly). Towards the end of the afternoon, I pack my book into my bright green rucksack (now exceedingly heavy) and set off riding into the sun. I love the feel of it on my face.

I have other places to visit before heading home.

Within ten minutes, I’m approaching the cemetery at St. Harold’s, just as the bell chimes four o’clock. A solitary automatic bell rings out across the empty churchyard as I cycle up the stony track, past an old tomb, where an ornate statue of the Virgin Mary presides over its silent inhabitants.

Finally, I reach one of my most important places.

I stop and rest for a while, the bag on my back now significantly weighing me down.

My favourite spot is set deep inside, at the back of the church, under a gnarled, rapidly desisting ash tree. Its white trunk and branches bend and contort to form an arch. There’s a sadness in its posture, like a crooked old man stooping to gather his grandchildren in his arms for the final time. I truly believe the ashen tree and mouldy, fading headstones in this quiet place clear my head more than anything. The gentle breeze trivially brushes the leaves above me; glistening and swaying between the sun’s friendly rays. The earth here is harder than Astra Dawson’s front lawn, but it’s not uncomfortable.

St. Harold’s was supposedly built in the Norman period; the darkened grey brick-work not standing nearly as high as some sixteenth century Tudor churches.

And, one of the saddest graves lies opposite me.

It belongs to a girl who died on her thirteenth birthday - one of the newer plots here in the graveyard - confirmed by the glimmering sheen of the marble headstone: something so new, marking something that is no longer; a life taken so early.

There’s a beautiful verse carved at the base, and one line in particular always gets me.

Now she’s telling the Angels her stories.

I think about this line, and the girl constantly because of our similarities – my own thirteenth birthday being only a day away. I’m finding I constantly obsess about her, be it at home, at school, and sometimes as I’m falling asleep. Looking at the more ancient headstones here, her death was far more recent. I don’t want to die on my thirteenth birthday.

She would have awoken that morning in complete joy… but didn’t make it through.

Kelly Mortimor was her name.

She was fostered, and my mother vaguely knows the family. Said they were very loving, but Kelly found it hard to adjust. In truth, it’s hard to imagine: one minute alive; thinking the kind of pre-teen thoughts I have, and in an instant, just gone.

I guess as the stone’s newness ebbs away, so will the memories of the girl, just like everyone else in this place.

I hope I make it past the big day, though.

Even more tragically, I hear it was her own fault.

She’d been showing off, and strolled across a busy road in a nonchalant manner. Apparently, she was attention-seeking; there was a group of boys on the opposite side. She must have assumed the driver of the car that crashed into her… would fully appreciate the road was her catwalk, and should slow to accommodate her.

They didn’t.

The woman behind the wheel was in the middle of a second sneeze when they collided. She was right on the speed limit too – no apportioned blame. As Kelly hit the bonnet, the windshield, and flew over the back of the car, she must have thought she’d be okay.

After all, in the movies, they always get straight back up, right?

She smashed her head on the road several feet behind the car and died of brain damage three days later.

I’ll take special care crossing the road, tomorrow.

As I’m contemplating Kelly’s life, a fragment in my unconscious slowly attunes to something missing in front of me. I squint and look; I know this place so well.

There’s a small stone Angel attached to Kelly’s headstone, and it’s no longer there.

Who on earth would take that?

It’s part of the gravestone itself, for goodness’ sake.

I freeze a little, wondering if the Reverend Llewellyn knows about it. Clambering to my feet, I tread carefully around the mound towards the polished slab. It’s clearly been taken by someone who knows what they are doing; not snapped off by some mindless thug.

So now what?

I’m upset that someone’s taken it, but the selfish part of me is probably more pained because it was a beautifully ornate part of the gravestone. Maybe somebody took it away to get repaired; the most plausible explanation. Maybe the family noticed the damage.

I look around, searching for the Reverend.

He’s a small, Scottish man.

I can’t see him anywhere and consider riding over to the Vicarage to inform him, but it’s a distance and I’ve already taken enough time out here. Truth is; I find him a bit scary.

The last time I was here, I’m sure I saw him staring at me from behind the large corner buttress. In a flash, he was gone. Maybe he was checking I was okay because he knows, I visit often.

He’ll be glad for a keeno like me in his flock, even though I don’t really attend regular services.

I finally decide that it’s simply been taken away to be fixed, but I’ll enquire about it the next time I see the Minister on his bicycle, or at bells later - yes, that will do it.

Not entirely convinced I’ve chosen the best course of action, I leave the church as the automatic bell chimes half-past four. I have a little anxiety-knot building inside my chest, possibly because of poor decision-making, or maybe because I’m running late. There’s someone else I want to visit on my day off.

Less than ten minutes away from here lives one of my only other true friends, AKM, as I abbreviate: Arthur Kingsley McFadden.

Arthur lives in the most bizarre house that he designed and built himself on the outskirts of Harley, one of the three small towns here on the island. He built it with a large amount of money he inherited. It’s an oddity to say the least – an upside-down house; not very attractive, but fitting for an inventor.

It could have been dropped from the sky on its head; and…not quite at a straight angle, either. Half of the roof appears to be under the ground (although, it really isn’t; all just an illusion). With this being the case, window ledges appear at the top of each window frame instead. Flowerpots can be found on these. (I don’t know how he reaches any.) Subsequently, this all means the top is actually flat, although ever-so-slightly slanted. AKM informs me this allows the rain to slide off and down.

The garden is also an enigma, containing the skeletal structures of many mechanical animals. They aren’t, though. In actual fact, they are the eclectic designs of Arthur’s great mind; moving apparatus and contraptions that are really too large for the purpose they were built to achieve. They clutter the garden to the extent that it looks like the whole plot is undergoing permanent renovations.

I was going to call in any way, but now I’m desperate to show Arthur the unusual book that Astra gave me, to get his take on the mystery pop-up page; he’s bound to have a clue what it is.

Having released my burden from my back and fastened up my bike, I approach through the gate.

Arthur has what I call a ‘tricksy’ gate. He thinks that anyone who solves the puzzle of how the gate is opened automatically deserves to visit. I ignore the handle on the black gate that you click up and down until the cows come home, and get nowhere… and place my hands on the gate post itself. By pushing the actual attached post down, the gate is released.

I really like this, part of the privileged few who have decoded an ancient riddle. If there’s anyone in the vicinity, I’m careful they’re not watching me.

I’m barely through it when I recoil in mild horror.

There, lying in front of me, on his lawn, naked apart from purple underpants and some tiny red circular shades (possibly, swimming goggles?), is Arthur. He’s either sun-bathing or he’s dead. Surely an inventor doesn’t sunbathe, so he must be dead.

He’s lying completely still.

I can’t see him breathe and feel myself beginning to freak.

‘Ahhh. The wonderful Shelly Clover.’

Comes the voice from the corpse on the floor.

It’s almost like a greeting from a collapsed, shop window mannequin - and a particularly pale one at that.

‘Are you alright… Mr McFadden?’

The head of the cadaver suddenly resurrects, turning to smile.

‘Yes, I am, as a matter of fact.’

Reassured of his continuing existence, I now experience awkwardness at the skin levels on show.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What I always do. Inventing. Something novel, something new.’

I try hard to suppress a giggle.

‘Surely, not inventing?’

‘Looks – I know in this case – can be very, very deceiving.’

I’ve never been in this situation with Arthur, still embarrassed at seeing his pasty old skin. Only his colourfully mismatched attire – purple swim shorts and red sun glasses – tells me everything’s quite normal here.

‘I’m developing a new line in tan tattoos,’ he announces, peeling something partly transparent from his neck down to his waist.

Although it is difficult to see in the sunlight, it looks like a piece of cling-film with lots of shapes dotted around it.

‘Lots of high-factor sun cream needed, of course; don’t want to be encouraging skin cancer? I’ve been lying out in the sun for the last three days, building the pattern.’

Even though AKM has a naturally white complexion, he’s tanned himself enough to reveal several tribal symbols - and love hearts - over his stomach. He then turns around and peels another tan-tattoo from his back to reveal an outline of mottled snake skin.

I’m speechless.

‘This isn’t… your usual line of inventing.’

‘Ahhh, one has to move with the times: tis’ the mark of a savvy inventor. I have created a chemical in the dressing that turns the skin pattern several colours, although, the indigo isn’t working too well.’

Arthur rises to his feet and removes his goggle-like shades, wrapping a blanket around him – thank goodness.

I need to just point out that even though both Mr McFadden and Mrs Dawson are friends, I still feel a little shy around everyone.

I grew up being around aunty Astra, more or less.

AKM, on the other hand, is someone I’ve only got to know through my old part-time job delivering free newspapers every week. It took me about six weeks to figure out how to use his crazy gate. This was about four years ago. Unbeknown to me, he’d be watching me struggling away from one of his dark topsy-turvy windows. He’d figured that I’d be the same as previous paper-boys who would give up attempting to deliver.

I, however, felt duty-bound to keep trying.

I guess I’m a people-pleaser, not wanting to let anyone down. I feel like I’ve let my family down many times; mother’s boyfriends and my brothers in particular – why else would they be so angry with me?

Anyway, by the sixth week I’d cracked the gate.

At this point, (later confiding in me) the inventor went from thinking, Here’s another imbecile to, Here’s someone tenacious; silently rooting for me from week four onwards. Of course, he’d already collected a different morning paper from a town called Boule before I arrived.

He refused – point blank - to give me any help, but I was so motivated by a desire to investigate his inventions; they looked so interesting from the roadside.

When I finally figured how it worked and marched up his bendy path for the first time to the lavender-coloured front door, I