Mr Jolly's Journey

By Rob Godfrey

In early 1990 the author travelled by train from Paris to Beijing, stopping off along the way and taking three weeks to make the journey. This was during the final days of the break-up of the Soviet Union and just as China was opening up to the rest of the world. It was a fascinating time to travel through these regions. However, having written a number of travel books, and because there's a plethora of non-fiction about the Trans-Siberian Railway, the author decided instead to do Paris to Beijing as a surreal novel.

Some of what's recounted in Mr Jolly's Journey is based on events that did really happen, such as the fight in a Moscow restaurant, or the Red Army soldier pulling a knife on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Likewise, the author was quite seriously ill in Mongolia, but managed to survive and write this book, which runs to approx. 40,000 words and contains adult content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Godfrey
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311279279

Rob Godfrey

Rob Godfrey was born in London on March 21st 1964. After travelling the world and having various adventures he is now pausing in a quiet part of south west France.

Book preview

Mr Jolly's Journey

Rob Godfrey

Mr Jolly's Journey v1.02

Copyright 2015 Rob Godfrey

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

Prologue

Paris

Warsaw

Moscow

The Trans-Siberian Railway

Irkutsk and Beyond

Ulaanbaatar

Beijing Central Railway Station

Prologue

Vomit is the contents of the stomach ejected through the mouth as a result of involuntary muscular spasms of the stomach and oesophagus. The man standing in the middle of the concourse was bringing-up dark red, almost black vomit that had the consistency of coffee granules; and he was bringing-up large amounts of the stuff. It splashed and splattered down on to the concrete floor and over his expensive, but worn, leather shoes.

7am, Victoria Station, London, with the rush hour clicking-up a gear and a constant stream of blue/grey worms sliding in and disgourging large numbers of people. The commuters hurried from the platforms, across the station concourse towards the Underground and buses, towards a ticking clock. Few, if any, of the commuters gave the man, who had now collapsed to the floor, barely a second glance: he looked, acted and smelt like a dosser, albeit a well-dressed one.

Just one person took an interest in the man, and only because he was paid to do so. The policeman sauntered over casually. Victoria Station and its surrounds abounded with down and outs and it was not unusual for one of them to create a scene or pass out through inebriation. However, when the policeman reached the dosser, and saw the bloody, congealing pool of vomit, his actions became brisker. He summoned an ambulance on his radio before bending over to examine the dosser. The policeman's nose twitched from the overpowering smell of vomit, alcohol and urine. He had to swallow several times to prevent himself throwing-up.

It was the last day of April and not far away from the scene a group of Morris men were preparing to dance: a charity collection from the hurrying commuters. The Morris men's bells tinkled above the general humdrum and tannoy announcements about delays and cancellations. A cheap, portable amplifier crackled into life. It blared out at full volume for a second or two, before settling back to something that was almost audible. The Morris men began their tinkling rhythms. The commuters rushed by and largely ignored them.

Trouble? asked a British Rail man.

The policeman grimaced.

An ambulance is on the way. He shooed away a pigeon that had landed on the prostrate body. Just at that moment the unconscious man stirred, turned his head to one side and brought-up a small quantity of dark red death.

The two helpers looked on in horror. They knew they were watching someone die, but there was little or nothing they could do to help. The policeman used his radio again, this time his voice more urgent, almost shouting.

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling-ling

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling-ling

Concentrating on their dance, unaware of the gravity of the situation, the Morris men had left their pitch and were now dancing around the grim tableau.

Eyes think I saw im earlier; offs the boat train. Eyes think he's just nuther drunk, said the British Rail man.

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling-ling

Stay around. Once we've got our friend here off to hospital I'll have to ask you some questions for my report... where's that bloody ambulance!

They did not have to wait much longer. A wailing siren could be heard and soon after two ambulance men came hurrying across the concourse bearing a stretcher. The Morris men scattered from their path.

While the body was being worked on, the policeman and British Rail man stood back.

Hello Sir. We're Sandy and Steve Schroth from Nebraska. Can you tell us which train goes to Windsor?

Youse at the wrong station. Youse go from Paddington.

The American tourists were taken aback by the BR man's abrupt manner and they wandered away muttering to themselves. Soon after, the dosser was taken to the ambulance and the two helpers went to the BR man's office, where the policeman began writing out his report.

What's the time? asked the policeman, glancing at his wristwatch.

Can't be much after seven; Thornton Heath train's only just left.

Your clock's wrong then. The policeman gestured towards a large clock hanging on the wall of the office. It's hands were stuck on nine o'clock.

Outside on the concourse, the Morris men had begun dancing again and another British Rail employee was mopping up blood from the floor.

Paris

Mr Jolly looked around in terror: every tunnel, every passage, every burrow was crammed with writhing, yellow maggots. They were everywhere; sometimes piling-up in heaps at the tunnel entrances, sometimes trapped in the nooks and crannies of the burrows; always wriggling, moving their disgusting forms against each other in wrinkly mounds of stench.

Hunger drove the maggots and every so often they went into a frenzy as a long, brown worm appeared in the burrow. They would rush towards the worm and begin eating their way through its skin, towards the innards. The worm was many times larger than the maggots but sheer weight of numbers made its death a foregone conclusion. When the yellow, writhing frenzy was over there was nothing left, but still other worms kept tunnelling into the burrow, unaware of the mortal danger.

In horror, Mr Jolly watched the repeated carnage, gagging at the stench, which grew worse each time a worm was eaten. He had hidden himself in a small hollow to one side of the burrow, and it was here that he cowered amongst a putrified mess left by the maggots. He shook with fright, afraid that sooner or later the maggots would start to attack him and begin burrowing their way through his skin. This thought produced a shiver of revulsion which ran through his body, right down to his expensive, but worn, leather shoes.

The maggots were aware of him. Already a number of them had approached; probing, touching, rubbing their bodies against his, but so far they had not tried to eat him. There was always another worm entering the burrow, which the maggots would rush over and attack. Mr Jolly knew it was only a matter of time, though, before the maggots would have nothing to distract them and his flesh would feed their hungry mouths.

With this thought in mind, and as yet another worm was being devoured. Mr Jolly took the opportunity to leave his hideaway. Keeping his back pressed against the wall of the burrow, he edged towards one of the small connecting tunnels, hoping that it would provide some way back up to the surface, to daylight and fresh air, to life.

As he stumbled along, petrified, Mr Jolly's foot banged against a bottle on the floor. He paused for a moment and bent down to look at it. The bottle was half full of golden liquid. Mr Jolly's throat felt sore and parched and he did not hesitate to take a long drink from the bottle. He needed a drink more than he had ever needed anything before in his life.

The liquid warmed his stomach and flooded through his veins, giving him strength, giving him courage, and Mr Jolly knew that he had found a life-giving elixir, a gift from God to help him through this great ordeal.

Fuelled by this new-found strength and courage, the terror left him and he began to feel good. He was no longer afraid of the maggots. They could not hurt him. Taking another big swig from the bottle, Mr Jolly started walking into the center of the burrow, into the writhing mass of maggots, who were now changing into something else, something less terrifying, something more familiar...

Chercher! called out a passing gendarme.

Mr Jolly was leaning over the edge of the platform, gazing down at the tracks below. Now, no longer afraid, he was about to climb down on to the tracks to warn the next worm that came along about the danger.

Chercher!

In a crouched position, Mr Jolly turned round to face the gendarme. At that moment an empty train came hurtling by, its fast moving sides brushing against his jacket tails. Totally unaware of the train, Mr Jolly stood upright to face the approaching gendarme. The effort tired him and he gasped for breath.

Monsieur! Monsieur!

Mr Jolly followed the gesticulating arms and turned, but by this time the train had gone. He looked back round again with surprise, his befuddled brain now beginning to grasp reality.

Whas the matter constable? he wheezed.

The gendarme pulled his head back from the alcohol fumes.

You are English?

Enlands finest sir. Mr Jolly tipped his brown bowler hat. Can I help you cunstable? He drew himself up and pulled together the sides of his green jacket. A rotund figure would not allow the sides to meet.

For a moment the gendarme studied the veins on Mr Jolly's nose with fascination, then he got back to business.

You are crazy; you could have been killed! What are you doing in Paris? The gendarme got out his notebook in preparation for an arrest.

I've been to the horses.

Horses?

Gee-gees. The gendarme's face remained blank so Mr Jolly went through the motion of riding a horse.

Ah, Longchamp?

Lonchomp, thas right dear boy.

And now you are very drunk, eh?

Jus one or two; hada yittle win. He pulled out a wad of 500 franc notes and waved them in front of the gendarme's face. The gendarme hurriedly pushed the banknotes back into Mr Jolly's pocket, worried by the glances they were receiving from some of the people who were hanging around the Metro station.

Please Monsieur! you should have put them in the bank yesterday. It is not safe to carry around such large amounts of money.

Yezderday..? Mr Jolly looked puzzled.

There has been no racing today; it's Monday; only yesterday.

But, but, I came here straight from the gee-gees?

The Gare du Nord?

Yuz, gar-der-ner.

After pondering for a moment, the gendarme came to the conclusion that the drunken Englishman had been wandering around the vast complex of the RER and Metro station all night. It had happened before at the Gare du Nord.

You are getting the train to London? he asked, hopefully.

Mr Jolly slowly nodded his head and then began to search through his pockets.

It had already been a very trying day for the gendarme and his shift was about to end. He put away his notebook.

Come. I'll take you up to the railway station. He gripped Mr Jolly firmly by the arm, but just at that moment the drunken Englishman pulled the bottle from one of his pockets. Non! no more drink. They wrestled with the bottle for a moment until it slipped out of Mr Jolly's hand and went sailing over the edge of the platform, to smash onto the tracks below. Deflated and in deep shock, Mr Jolly was led quietly away by the gendarme.

********************

The two ambulance men carried the dosser on a stretcher. They walked at a brisk pace out to the station forecourt and stared at the empty space where their ambulance had been parked. For a moment they were stunned, then the older ambulance man spoke to his companion.

Did you leave the keys in!?

Er, yeah, I didn't think.

Bloody idiot! Someone's made off with our ambulance!

As the two men began to argue a nearby policeman came over to investigate.

What's going on ear then?

"Someone's stolen our ambulance... look, we've