Sunspots

By Richard Emery

Nugget is worried, very worried....but he doesn’t know why. He is one of the many millions who has a form of epilepsy, but doesn’t know it yet. When Nugget and best friend Holly encounter the mysterious Harry Grantham, they set out to unravel what is fact and what is fiction. For the misdiagnosed who believe themselves mad.
This is not a ghost story.

A kitchen sink slab of youth culture and dark comedy set against the backdrop of Kingston upon Hull between the years of 2007 and 2017.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Emery
• Release date: Sep 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370736515

Book preview

Chapter 1

Balloonhead

I threaded my way through the kissing gate that led on to the wooded grass path. On a dark winter’s morning like this the dense soupy fog still obscured the light of the early sun. The air felt cold on my exposed chest. Looking down I noticed that I was wearing an unbuttoned pyjama top and a pair of jogging bottoms - they seemed all too small for comfort. I ran ahead and moments later the grass path turned into a dirt track. I became conscious that I was running barefoot, painfully on rocky terrain. This was a place that felt unfamiliar to me so with no particular destination in mind I chose to run due north – I wasn’t sure why but it felt like the right thing to do. As I ran through the fog, a wind turbine appeared into view at the top of a small hill, which I began to ascend. I reached the top of the hill and found myself standing on a river bank, directly in front of derelict industrial buildings.

Michael Couche sat at his school desk. He looked up and smiled, but as usual, he said nothing; I never did find out why they called him ‘Pog’. Standing on tender feet at the top of the hill I felt messianic in the cool air. My feet were blood-stained and my nightclothes muddy. I pondered for some time about my choice of direction. The muddy river bank meandered into the distance to my left and to my right. My body became motionless and I stared blankly into space.

It started to rain and the sun began to pierce the skyline. This briefly dazzled my sensitive eyes. I dashed to my right along the river though I was still not sure why I felt compelled to do so. About fifty metres into my run I felt a presence as I stopped and looked around. Behind me a man had appeared. He was wearing a long black coat, large paramilitary boots, and what appeared to be a balaclava. He was a wielding an ominous-looking yet indistinguishable object. To my horror, he started running towards me. I was momentarily frozen to the spot. Fearing for my life, I bolted down the river bank and my sore bare feet began to sink into the mud. Every few seconds I looked back only to see that the man had gained ground on me. Out of breath and panting heavily I saw a gate appear in the distance. In panic I took a shortcut to it, running straight through some brutal nettles. My pyjamas caught in the foliage and as they did I grabbed the gate handle to pull myself away. In my trapped and spread-eagled state, my faceless assailant stood over me with an axe. I was mute with fear. He raised the axe above his head. I prepared myself for my bloody death. I heard the whoosh of the plunging axe descending upon my skull…

JESUS! FUCK! WHAT THE…? NO FUCKING WAY!

I woke up shouting – sprung bolt upright in my bed, panting like a startled fox that had just been chased across the countryside by a pack of hungry dogs. I leapt off my mattress onto the floor and scrambled to turn on the lights. Crouching under the light switch, I pinched myself to make sure that I was actually awake. I realised it was only a nightmare. My pyjamas were soaked through with sweat. Composing myself, I began to feel stupid and ridiculous for shouting out loud and hoped that no one had heard. As I climbed back into bed, I noticed I had kicked a hole clean through my covers. It was as if I had been having a nocturnal fight with myself. I also felt like I had experienced this exact nightmare before – it was a weird feeling of déjà vu.

***

Let me introduce myself. My name is Daniel Baker and I am nineteen years old. I was born on the 29th of February, 1988 - a Pisces. This was a leap year, which means that technically I am still only four years old. This is a fact I enjoy telling people with monotonous regularity. I was brought up in a medium-sized village called Cottingham, though I currently live in a large shared terraced house in neighbouring Kingston upon Hull in Yorkshire, the largest county in England. My nickname is Nugget which is Hull slang for an idiot. Obviously I have always hated my nickname but have chosen not to complain about it. My friends would only find something even worse to call me if I did – if that’s possible? The extremely vivid nightmare I have just described is by no means the first time I have experienced something similar. In fact, it happens all the time. You could say that my nightmares run parallel with, and typify much of my struggle with daily life. Something isn’t quite right with my mind, but I can’t put my finger on it. My best friend Holly tells me that I’m a hypochondriac.

19th February 2007

It’s heading towards the end of winter in Hull, England. Today the freezing cold temperatures started to eat away at my resolve to be arsed to leave the house. As I left my house at number 62 Lambert Street for work this morning, I plugged in my iPod and pressed play. For the umpteenth day running, I felt alone and scared of the big wide world - like peering into a huge long term void of despair. But why? Well, for the umpteenth day running, I hadn’t the faintest idea. I looked down at my shoes, then looked up again, and sighed deeply before I set out on my journey to the cake factory. Once I had passed the George Lamb Memorial Chapel near the end of the street, I turned left to begin walking past all the quaint shops on Newland Avenue. The road meandered all the way to the left again to a mini roundabout, where I crossed the road and turned right onto Princes Avenue.

As I walked ahead, I noticed my work colleague and friend Holly Carter coming towards me from the opposite direction in her bright red Paddington-style duffle coat. This coat had been a birthday gift from her recently deceased grandma, who she was very close to. She always wears it. Usually Holly has the same penchant for second hand clothes as I do – clothes that reflect our music taste. We both very much live in the past and mostly prefer the music of our parents’ generation and beyond – with a couple of exceptions. At the moment I like the Arctic Monkeys, and Holly likes The Strokes and The Libertines, because she is way cooler than me.

I waited for her on the corner of Park Avenue, the leafy road that led us up to the cake factory where we work. We usually acknowledge each other with neutral expressions, raised eyebrows and no actual conversation. However on this occasion, Holly was sporting a large grin and a new familiar-looking hairstyle. As she approached, she did a little wiggle before shouting.

Now then daft lad. She paused before buffing her hair up. Well? I’ve just had it done. What do you think? she asked.

I said I thought it suited her and asked her where she got the inspiration from for her new look.

Oh, she explained, I was looking through this book about the 60s that my mum had back at the flat, and I found a black and white picture of this lady.

Holly reached into her handbag and produced a perfectly folded, black and white picture of Myra Hindley.

It wasn’t a book about serial killers by any chance was it? I asked, smirking inwardly.

Holly shrugged. At least we don’t live in Manchester, I thought. Despite the inappropriate nature of her request, the girls at her local salon had given her the haircut she wanted, and to be fair, it really did suit her – I wasn’t lying to appease her.

Then in a matter of moments, our mood soured as we realised that we were facing another long shift at the Chamber of Horrors, otherwise known as Keighley Cakes. We began to walk up the road together for quite some time, without a word. The factory was at the other end of the avenue, which I thought was a largely pleasant road to work on. The light that shone through the leafless trees mildly diluted our depression. Predictably it was me who thought to break the silence somehow. I don’t have the patience to entertain silence for very long. As we fumbled along unenthusiastically at snail’s pace past Richmond Avenue on the left, I finally turned to Holly mid-step to begin my usual morning monologue.

Holly, d’ya know that feeling you get when you see someone you recognise walking down the street towards you? It’s someone you don’t like, and you haven’t seen them for a long time?

Holly looked confused and could only manage a grunt of recognition.

The person has clocked you a good way off, I continued, "but there’s that awful, dreaded interim period, as you walk towards each other, where you don’t know what to do."

I was enunciating my words clearly to emphasise my point.

What? she retorted sharply. This isn’t another one of your stupid rants, is it?

You look down at the ground, then up at the windows and trees, don’t you? I continued.

Do you? asked Holly.

Yes, I responded. Then you look all around at nothing in particular, don’t you? Anything to fill that awkward bit of time. Yes?

Holly was getting increasingly baffled, but finally responded with a tentative "R-i-ght? OK, but you do know that you sound like a total bell-end don’t you?"

Shhh, I said as I delved further into my rant: "Then as the person you know gets closer, you know you’re going to struggle to look them in the eye. Not only that but you’ve got to try to think of a relevant quip that might be suitable. You don’t know them well enough to have one ready, but you know them only too well to have no choice but to speak to them about something – anything!"

I began to get overexcited and continued further. Then you’ve got to try to make it look like you haven’t seen them until the very last minute so you can walk past them.

I jabbed Holly in the shoulder and she promptly walked into a lamp post, nearly breaking her nose. Her eyes welled up.

Hey! Calm down odd squad. Don’t be so rough! she barked.

But your plan doesn’t work! I continued unabated. You hear the person cry out your name in a comedic fashion. The game’s up. You have no choice but to engage in the most crushingly tedious small talk ever to avoid offending them: ‘Alright mate!’ ‘How are you doing?’ ‘What you been up to?’ Y’know, that sort of shit – and then there’s a pause that seems to last forever as you both completely run dry of script.

Er, where is this story going, Nugget? demanded Holly impatiently.

It’s not going anywhere. That’s it! I said, stopping momentarily to stamp my feet. I halted Holly by tugging on her coat: But you do know that horrible awkward feeling anyway? I demanded.

Yeah, I suppose so. Why? she replied. I must admit though, I’ve never really thought about it before.

Well – that awkward feeling right there, Holly. That’s what it feels like to be me … ALL THE FUCKING TIME! I bellowed.

My raised tone, which had been snowballing throughout my diatribe, ended on this definitive full stop. I believed all this to be a statement of considerable drama and interest to my friend, but Holly merely pulled a sarcastic unconcerned face and shouted back at me, WELL BOO TO THE FUCKIN’ HOO NUGGET! What are you on about? You’re radged, you are! You need to see a counsellor, mate!

The familiar pungent aroma of warm raisins began to fill the air from the factory, now nearly a hundred metres away. Holly and I pulled mutually disagreeable faces in recognition.

Anyway, who’s feeling sorry for themselves today, then? Holly asked. She smiled before adding dickhead to the end of her sentence. We walked through the factory gates.

***

I continued to philosophise to Holly in the canteen before work. I was pondering why we worked in such a shithole when all we had to do was come up with one brilliant but simple idea that would surely earn us a fortune.

Why are we working here with all these idiots? I would think to myself nearly every hour of every working day. Unfortunately, I clearly projected these attitudes onto others I worked with, which would explain why I was not popular at Keighley Cakes. I looked up from my cold stale vending machine cheese and onion sandwich and started to rant again.

"Doesn’t it bother you that there are people out there who don’t even have to work? I mean, think of the guy who invented Trivial Pursuit, or game shows like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, and even talent shows like X Factor. I bet it took about five minutes for somebody to come up with all those ideas, and look how popular they are!"

Your point being exactly what? groaned Holly.

My point being, why are we packing Christmas puddings in the middle of February when all we have to do is put our heads together and come up with some money-making racket that will suck in the muppets? Christmas puddings have a long shelf life so they make them in bulk at Keighleys all year round - otherwise we wouldn’t be able to cope with demand later in the year.

Money-making racket like what? she asked. Unbeknown to Holly I had several.

How about the automatic ironing board? I suggested. "The world’s first car toilet? Or…we could even be talent scouts like Simon Cowell, but on a local level. We could advertise in the Hull Daily Mail and put together our own Hull covers boy band. – ‘I can’t believe it’s not Busted’? All that teenage pocket money. We’d be loaded."

Nugget, retaliated Holly. You’re really gonna have to stop all this delusional thinking y’know. Ordinary people like you and me aren’t meant to think up amazing ideas that make us loads of money. We just …just exist. Besides, Busted are yesterday’s news, smart arse. Despite our musical snobbery both Holly and I admitted that we had both been keen on Busted when we were about 13. She still had a picture of Charlie Simpson on her bedroom wall, to remind her of a happy, simpler time.

Not me. I refuse to ‘just exist’, I protested. I’m a genius, mate. People just don’t know it yet.

Holly shook her head in disbelief. You’re probably not even joking, are you? A genius? Have you heard yourself?

I am actually, a bit, I said. But I can’t deny that I have a strong sense of destiny. I don’t know why - I just do. This can’t be it, surely? I pleaded. Please no.

Holly Carter, also aged nineteen, is a passionate and typical Sagittarian – a firmly grounded young lady and a far more loveable individual than me. Her family background though, unlike mine, was fairly troubled. Christine Carter, Holly’s mother, had divorced her father in bizarre circumstances. Simon Carter had gone bankrupt after accumulating a lot of secret debts. He was unable to feed the family, as he had to give up all his assets to pay off these debts. He left them in the middle of one night in the summer of 1999. He hitchhiked all the way to Manchester and then up to Northumbria near Hadrian’s Wall, sleeping rough on the way. Eventually, his journey finished near Ben Nevis, where he caught a ferry over to the Isle of Mull. He stayed there from September to May. Christine Carter issued him an ultimatum – come home or face divorce proceedings. He opted for the latter and that was that. Holly never saw her father again. She was brought up on Hawthorne Avenue on Anlaby Road, which she called ‘Dogshit Street’. When her mother divorced her father, Holly ended up moving to the green painted block of flats that lay also on Anlaby Road, but nearer the town centre. She didn’t enjoy tower block life. I always seemed to be considerably better off than she was – even in the post-student pad I share with my mates. Occasionally, I insensitively slip up and say stuff like, Did you see that amazing documentary last night on Sky 1? and she would reply something like, Nugget, the only sky we’ve got is the sky above our block of flats. When she was younger, Holly and her friends would burn their used cheap mattresses to stay true to their community, and to pass the time. When the fire engines would sometimes arrive, the boys in the group would throw bricks at the firemen. She had told me that nothing was safe when you lived in a tower block. They would quite literally steal the steam off your piss if they could. It was here that her mum and her mum’s various boyfriends tried and failed to create a happy family.

I don’t quite understand why Holly puts up with me and my paranoia, as she suffers daily at the hands of it with her mother. Christine works at Primark in town, and she has a longstanding amphetamine problem, which means she is also very paranoid. At present, Holly’s mother is accusing her of sleeping with her current boyfriend, which of course is nonsense. Holly is nineteen years old, and her mum’s boyfriend has just turned forty-eight.

Holly was a victim of her mother’s mid-life crisis. Christine no longer feels attractive and thinks her boyfriends are secretly after shagging her daughter instead. Holly did tell me about this, but she also told me that she generally hates people knowing her business. When she wears short sleeved T-shirts, I notice the marks on her shoulders where she has been cutting herself. It makes me feel sad inside, but I know I mustn’t mention them. Although Holly’s background is very different to mine, she always seems to be fascinated by my stupid world. This is probably because it is so different to hers. Her role in our relationship seems to be very much of the one who tries to keep me from disappearing up my own arse.

Whilst my unlikely friend and I were sparring in the canteen in our usual fashion, we were unaware that we were being discussed by a couple of heavily tattooed cake packer colleagues at the next table. Holly heard the word ‘students’ being thrown about. One of the workers interrupted our conversation rather abruptly. Hey, you two! Are you students or something?

Before we could answer, we were interrupted by the most baffling but intriguing argument ever to be rattled out by two fully grown men.

Hey, have you heard this idiot? said the first guy. He reckons – get this – if Mike Tyson and Bruce Lee had a fight, Mike Tyson would win. Is he right in the fuckin’ head or what?

No I fuckin’ didn’t say that at all, said the second guy. I said Muhammad Ali in the sixties would have beaten anyone in a fight, not Mike Tyson. Get it right, yer daft cunt.

"It doesn’t matter which boxer it is you care to mention, Stan. Have you seen Fist of Fury or what?"

I grinned at Holly and she grinned back at me. The men became distracted by an extremely plump guy in a fluorescent orange boiler suit who had just walked into the canteen past the vending machine. The man squeezed into the gap between the seat and the table, but only just. He did so with a pronounced outtake of breath.

Fuckin’ ’ell, Whistler. Have you just been for a shit? asked one of the tattooed men.

Yeah. Why? replied Whistler, who only raised his head very briefly.

I thought so, said the man visibly cringing.

The two men stood up and signalled to the rest of the people in the canteen to also stand up. They were urged to come and look at Whistler from the rear. Sure enough, there it was. A lone curly turd sat in the hood of his boiler suit. He must have somehow taken off his boiler suit but the hood must have been left over the toilet bowl. As a consequence, Whistler had shat directly into the hood and then pulled his boiler suit back on. He was oblivious, staring straight into space immersed in his sandwich.

Brian Turner AKA Whistler was so-called because of a speech impediment that he had developed after he had suffered a stroke, so now he whistled whenever he spoke. To say Whistler had been having a bad time of it lately was an understatement. The rumours surrounding the circumstances running up to the stroke were said to go thus: Whistler’s wife had been very ill for a couple of years. On the day his wife died after a long-term battle with ovarian cancer, he was involved in a major car crash on his way home. To top it all, once he had resolved the situation with the police, he came home to discover that his house had been turned over by burglars. He had then been reported by a librarian for repeatedly asking for a bag of chips at Hull Central Library reception over the course of several weeks. He was then sent to a short-stay mental institution to rehabilitate. Whilst in the institution he suffered the stroke that led to his speech impediment. Keighley Cakes graciously granted him four months off work to recover, but even after he returned, he was never quite right. On weekends he had been spotted tending the wrong grave many yards from where his wife was actually buried. This had been going on for quite some time. Flowers were regularly strewn over the grave of an 87-year-old ex-sea merchant called Ian Torrance.

The younger, more vicious and insensitive members of the factory began to openly laugh at Brian’s shitty business. Holly was unimpressed. I was just about to resume our conversation when she did something I could never have predicted. As the workers stood around smirking, she ran into the ladies’ toilet and emerged holding an enormous pile of tissue paper. She walked over to Whistler and carefully picked up the foul mess out of his hood and scooped it into the paper. He barely flinched. She held it at arm’s length and ran back into the toilet. She emerged once more looking red faced and unimpressed.

OK, show’s over! Holly sat down opposite me looking irate. For fuck’s sake, Brian needs a carer, not a load of morons laughing at him. The poor bastard.

I told her that she shouldn’t feel too sorry for him, as I didn’t think