Kindle Edition
markcsuttonauthor
Category:
Humor
Publisher: Mark Sutton
Pages: 321
Copyright: Jan 23, 2014
Price: $2.56 (eBook)
'Jeremy and the Summer of Stalking' is a strange, humorous tale about Jeremy Felliwell, a sociopath, loner, pervert, stalker and poet. Jeremy's already chaotic existence deteriorates rapidly with the arrival of Lucinda, a brutal half-sister that he never knew existed, and a mysterious stalker known only as 'Sultry Ella'.
My name is Jeremy. I am a liar, a fraud, a parasite. I am without morals. I am a socio-path. I have made people disappear off the face of this earth, and it could happen to you if you get in my way. Most of my family hate me, they know what I am; I disgust them. I am an outcast. It's flipping brilliant, isn't it? I'm having a great old flipping time! I'll speak to you later, I'm off for an egg sandwich now, and then for a spot of spying on the neighbour using my military-strength binoculars (with night vision).
Jeremy Felliwell is a uniquely strange individual; recently released back into society from a mysterious ‘establishment’, and shunned by most of his family because of ‘that thing that happened with great auntie Mavis shortly after Christmas lunch in 2003’, he is forced to live with an elderly relative, who he despises, in her house in the suburbs of middle England, where his only source of pleasure is the fortnightly shopping trip to the supermarket with his Care Worker, whom he endeavours to upset and embarrass with his increasingly outlandish costumes, argumentative and childish nature, and strange (and occasionally magical) contraptions.
When Jeremy is finally relocated to a grim Council flat, he leaves behind him a trail of suspected fraud, disastrous fortnightly shopping trips, and a missing auntie. Two new women enter his life; Lucinda, the seductive and brutal half-sister that he never knew existed, and a mysterious stalker, known only as ‘Sultry Ella’. Locked in battle against both his domineering and psychotic half-sister, and his shadowy stalking antagonist, and armed only with a Magnum and an unreliable magic wand, will Jeremy be able to find the inner-resolve and strength to emerge victorious?
‘Jeremy and the Summer of Stalking’ is a humorous, surreal, and, occasionally, disturbing tale of a hopeless, creepy, inadequate individual who continually finds himself in unusual, challenging and occasionally deadly situations; from an out-of-control gyro-copter forced to make an emergency landing inside the local supermarket, to a prehistoric monster that has manifested itself in his Council-flat kitchen; from a dim-witted sister who causes confusion with every sentence that she utters, to a ‘magic clown act’ that goes horribly wrong.
The tale of Jeremy's summer of stalking is set against a backdrop of mystery and confusion; what is the nature of the 'device' that Jeremy is constructing? Who is the mysterious female celebrity of whom Jeremy is so enamored? What, exactly, happened between Jeremy and great auntie Mavis shortly after Christmas lunch in 2003? What is the fate of auntie Doris? Who is 'The Oracle'? And will we discover Jeremy's astounding secret, a mysterious ability that defies all logical explanation?
'Jeremy and the Summer of Stalking' is Mark Sutton's first novel. The character of Jeremy has co-existed inside Mr Sutton's brain for a somewhat unhealthy duration of time, but now he is free and out there, and he walks amongst you all.
Excerpt
Tuesday 12th June
Talk about a flippin’ interrogation this morning! I felt like I was on trial or something what with all of the questions that Sarah and that fat old slob Pippa bombarded me with:
“Why did your aunt leave so suddenly?”
“Your aunt hated you, why would she leave someone like you in charge of a house that she had always been so proud of?” (Naturally, that one came from Pippa. The fat bitch.) “Why in God’s name has Doris entrusted you with the sale of her property?” (Another classic from Pippa.)
“Are you eating properly?”
“Are you washing regularly?”
“Are you getting any support from your extended family?” (I laughed at that one.)
“Are you still feeling suicidal?”
“You haven’t started drinking again have you?”
“Have you been staying away from the local parks, because we’ve heard that you haven’t?”
“Are you getting any help and support from the day centre?”
“Have you even contacted the day centre?”
“You’re not getting urges again are you?”
“‘It’ hasn’t come back, has it?”
“How are you affording the upkeep of the house?”
“Where have you been getting your shopping from, you know that you’re not supposed to visit the supermarket unattended?”
“You haven’t bought another telescope have you?”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Someone has been around here tidying up the kitchen. You’re never that clean. Who is it?” (Pippa again.)
“You haven’t approached an internet service provider to try and get broadband installed have you? Because that goes against one of the conditions of your release.”
I could go on, but I won’t. I answered the questions as best as I could, very occasionally being honest, occasionally being semi-honest, but most of the time telling outright lies in order to cover my tracks.
How much of my answers were believed is anyone’s guess. However, the outcome of the emergency visit and ‘assessment’ is as follows:
I am to attend the day centre first thing in the morning to see if they’ll let me go back there on a regular basis (I’m currently banned because of that thing that happened in the art room. Pippa and Sarah were both unaware of this, so when I told them, Pippa said that she would have a word with the manager, Trevor - who is a complete idiot - about it later on today to try and smooth things over and of course also warn him of my impending visit).
No more food shopping over the internet (I confessed to doing this, but I lied and said that I had made the online order at the internet cafe in Merivale). Fortnightly shop with Pippa to continue from Tuesday of next week. Me to stop playing up on these shopping trips, because it usually results in no food or other essentials actually being purchased; they usually end up scattered all over the supermarket floor, with Pippa and myself being questioned by security for hours on end afterwards.
Pippa to seek a new Council flat for me in a suitable location as a matter of urgency (about flippin’ time too).
Increased visits from Sarah until both the sale of aunt Doris’s property and my permanent relocation to more suitable accommodation have been completed.
No more visiting the local parks.
No more trips outside of the Brentboro area unless accompanied by either Pippa or, failing that, her assistant Jamie.
There was also a hair-raising moment when Pippa was talking about contacting auntie Doris to see if there was any way that she could come back to the UK until the sale of the house has gone through, but I managed to bluff my way out of that one somehow, telling her that auntie Doris was transient at the moment and wasn’t contactable. I didn’t like the way she raised her eyebrow at that, but there is no flippin’ point in worrying about it right now, or indeed Pippa’s threat to try and contact my auntie; I shall just have to cross that bridge if I ever flippin’ well come to it.
Donna phoned me earlier on this evening to see how I’m coping. I went into ‘fake bereavement mode’ and told her how lonely and totally devastated I felt in the aftermath of the tragic loss of my parents. She fell for my crappy, false sob-story hook, line and sinker, and ended our brief telephone conversation by reaffirming her intention to come and stop with me for the weekend in order to help me get through the aftermath of my mother and father’s funeral (which isn’t actually taking place, because neither of them are really dead). Not much else has happened today really. I’ve spent most of the evening just watching the television, not that there’s been much on it of any interest. Wednesday 13th June
I arrived at the day centre at ten this morning, as instructed by my lardy-arsed care worker during the ‘assessment’ yesterday. I was dressed in the usual inappropriate attire that I always choose to wear when I have to go there; today it was my large floppy brown hat that I stole from a charity shop in Oakwood, a full-length ‘goth’ style black trench-coat that my evil cousin Sebastian had given to me a few years back in exchange for the decapitated pig that I had supplied for him, ‘drainpipe’ style yellow jeans that I have had since 1981, and my favourite purple flip-flops that I purchased from a shop on a caravan site in Barmouth when I last went there in 1985. That idiot Trevor was waiting for me at the front doors, clearly forewarned of my arrival by Pippa, and not looking best pleased about it either. I didn’t even receive the courtesy of a greeting.
“I’m not happy about you coming here, but Pippa has explained your current situation to me, so I’m going to let you stay, as long as you behave yourself.” He said.
“I don’t particularly want to be here, to be perfectly honest.” I replied. “Unfortunately, your fat friend Pippa is blackmailing me into attending.” I added.
“You should learn some manners.” said Trevor. “Pippa’s done a lot for you over the years.”
“Like what?” I asked, sneering. Trevor sighed.
“I’m not going to get involved in one of your childish debates, Jeremy.” He said, opening the front door of the Day Centre for me. “Now, do you want to go in, or don’t you?”
“I don’t, but I will.” I replied. I flounced past Trevor.
“And remember, stay out of trouble. Oh, and don’t you get any ideas about going into the art room either, you’re not allowed in there, not after the last time.” He commented. I didn’t respond. I walked past the reception area and down the corridor towards the art room. I was about to enter it when Trevor came running up from behind me and grabbed me by my shoulder.
“Did you listen to a word that I’ve just said?” He asked, looking angry. “You’re banned from going in the art room. You’re not allowed in there. Which part of that don’t you understand?” Again, I didn’t respond, I just stared at him with my dark, dead eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that, or I’ll have you thrown out of here.” He said, looking slightly unnerved. Honouring his request, I pulled my large, floppy brown hat down over my eyes so that he could no longer see them. I went to walk off but walked straight into a wall. Trevor pulled the hat off me and threw it down on the floor. “You just never change, do you?” He said, and guided me firmly by the arm down the corridor towards the music room.
Trevor let me into the music room and then went off to attend to other matters. There was nobody else in there. I walked over to the drum set. I picked up one of the drumsticks that were on the stool and hit one of the cymbals. It made a crashing sound, which I liked. I took one of my flip-flops off and hit the cymbal with it, and I was interested in the difference of the sound when comparing it to what it had been like when using the drumstick. For further experimentation, I used my head to hit the cymbal, but I used too much force and fell forward, landing in a heap next to the bass drum. I got up and sat on the stool, and hit myself over the head with the drumstick. It didn’t really make a noise, it just hurt. I threw the drumstick at the window and then got up and made my way over to one of the guitars. I picked up an acoustic guitar and strummed a ‘C’ chord on it. I then took my flip-flop and shoved it in the round hole in the middle of the guitar to see if it would have a ‘dampening’ effect when playing the C chord again. It didn’t really sound any different so I took my other flip-flop off, shoved that in the hole as well, and strummed the chord once more; it sounded slightly muffled, but there still wasn’t much difference. Bored, I pulled my flip-flops from the hole in the guitar. I threw the guitar at the drum symbol, except it completely missed and went straight through one of the windows. I put my flip-flops back on hurriedly and quickly left the music room.
I was surprised to see my dim-witted sister, Anne, when I walked into the IT room. I forget sometimes that she occasionally visits the Day Centre herself, due to certain ‘needs’. She was sat at one of the computer terminals, and appeared to be losing her temper about something; she was repeatedly slamming the mouse onto the desk. I went over to her.
“Hello Anne.” I said. She looked up, a little surprised.
“Oh, hello Jeremy. I thought you was banned from here?” She enquired.
“Trevor’s given me another chance.” I informed her. “I don’t really want to be here, it’s only because I’m being blackmailed into attending that I’ve bothered to come.”
“Who’s blackmailing you?” She asked.
“It doesn’t matter.” I replied. I looked at the computer monitor; for some reason, everything on the screen was upside-down. “It looks like you’re having problems,” I understated, “how the flip have you managed to do that to the monitor?” I asked. Anne continued to slam the mouse on the desk in frustration.
“I don’t know. I pressed a button and everything just turned upside down on the screen. Do you think it’d help if I turned the mouse upside down?” She asked. I didn’t respond to this stupid and ill-conceived suggestion.
“I’m not quite sure what you’ve done to the flippin’ thing.” I said. I leaned over my sister’s shoulder and started tapping the buttons on the keyboard, but the picture on the monitor remained upside down. I clicked on the left and right buttons of the mouse, but this had no effect either. I reached over to the ‘off’ button on the PC and pressed it. The computer switched off. “I think it’s best to re-boot.” I added.
Anne started talking her usual gibberish as she waited for the computer to reload.
“I’ve been looking for a holiday to the moon.” She stated, very matter-of-fact.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, mystified.
“They’re doing holidays to the moon. They were going on about it on the television. I mentioned it to Archie and he said he wouldn’t mind going, so I’m going to try and book one.” She clarified, without actually clarifying anything.
“Who’s doing holidays to the moon?” I queried.
“That man, Richard Branston. You know, he’s got the trains with the virgins on them and his factory makes the pickle.” Answered Anne.
“Anne, do you mean Richard Branson?” I asked.
“That’s the one.” She confirmed. “I saw him on the television the other day and he was saying how his planes would be doing holidays to the moon. They reckon that that Science bloke in the pushchair is going to have a holiday up there too.”
“What ‘Science bloke in the pushchair’?” I asked, even though I already knew who she was referring to; I just wanted to see how she would answer my question, for entertainment purposes.
“Oh, you know who I mean. He had that disease, terrible palsy, and he ended up in the pushchair. He’s got a funny voice and he’s a ventriloquist, because he doesn’t move his lips when he speaks. He used to have a bear called Nookie... and Archie reckons he did the voice for Zippy off Rainbow.” Replied Anne. “And the daleks.” She added, informatively.
“Do you mean Stephen Hawking?” I asked.
“That’s the one.” Said Anne. “It said on the television that he’d be going on a moon holiday too, up in one of Richard Branston’s airplanes. He’s already booked his holiday, and when I told Archie about it he said that I should hurry and book a couple of places too, otherwise there won’t be any left.” The computer had now logged back on to the internet, so I wandered off, leaving Anne to try and find her holiday to the moon courtesy of Richard Branson and his company, Virgin.
I was expecting the television room to be quite full because it usually is, but today there was only one person in there, a woman who I would guess as being around forty years of age. She was at the back of the room and she was asleep, her head lolling on her right shoulder with her mouth slightly agape. I noticed that the first two buttons of her blouse were undone, exposing the beginning of what looked like a considerable cleavage. Carefully and quietly, I closed the television room door behind me and crept over to the sleeping lady. She was rather attractive, slightly podgy but then I have always quite liked that sort of thing. Her bosoms looked huge, even the blouse couldn’t hide that fact. Gingerly, I reached over and undid another one of the blouse buttons, edging the material to one side as I did so in order to get a better look. However, whilst more cleavage was indeed revealed, I was disappointed to note that there wasn’t enough of it exposed to make for a decent photograph, so I cautiously undid another one. This resulted in a considerable amount of cleavage and breast being revealed and, satisfied with the results, I took my digital camera from my goth-style trench coat pocket. I took four shots for my ‘collection’, then carefully buttoned back up the ladies blouse, and silently departed the television room.
I spent the next couple of hours in the kitchen. Trevor and several of the visitors to the centre were baking cakes which looked quite fun, so I joined in. Trevor kept eyeing me with suspicion, no doubt wondering why I wasn’t causing trouble; he is too stupid to realise that I am playing the long game at the moment, lulling him into a false sense of security and biding my time. It was Trevor that grassed me up to the coppers about the thing that I did in the art room, and I have neither forgiven or forgotten him over this matter. Even though I ended up getting away with it, that is not the point, I could have ended up in serious trouble, so sooner or later down the line it is going to flippin’ well be payback time. Anyway, at about one o’clock the cakes were all ready and me and the other cooks put them on plates and distributed them to the various visitors, together with cups of tea. Sometimes I like doing stuff like this, as I get a sense of community feeling that is otherwise absent in my life.
Some time ago, I uncharacteristically undertook some voluntary work in a charity shop in Merivale. I was there for about four days before I got thrown out for having my hands in the till. However, during those four days I quite enjoyed mingling with the general community at large, though obviously it is not something that I could tolerate for any extended period of time, because, by and large, I hate other people.
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