Chapter Text
Geoff Tipps had never been asked anything from the Tattsyrups before. Actually, he didn't think anyone in Royston Vasey came in contact with them. He didn't see them walk Station Road, swinging TESCO bags in hand as they popped into a chippy, but neither did they step one foot out of the vicinity of the moors surrounding their shop, their home. But the last thing on Geoff’s mind was to complain about this. The Tattsyrups could keep pottering in that dingy two-storied building, candlesticks burning for light and outdated tins gathering dust on the shelves - they seemed happy.
One thing that did annoy Geoff was the rumours of the family thinking they ruled over Vasey. So, when he finally picked up a rectangle of paper that had been continuously stepped on as he paced from the kitchen to his bedroom whilst he chatted with Brian on the phone, Nokia pressed to his ear, he thought: ‘that’s me done for’. The writing was wobbly and looked quill-like, with strange splotches of fluid seeped into the corners like a giant slab of raw meat had been placed next to it on purpose. Geoff hung up his call with Brian mid-banter, slipping the Nokia into his joggers’ pockets. On the card, it said:
‘We need you for shop. Edward is out for two days and two nights. Hee hee hee hee. Tubbs will do counter, Geoff will do David care.’
As he hopped into his red ‘89 Vauxhall Nova, card stuffed into his coat pocket, he thought, no way was Geoff Tipps, former king of TA’s, comedian, and Bluebird drinker, going to be swallowed alive by a giant hairy monster who ate men for breakfast in his attic. There would be too many jokes in that brain of his to go to waste. So, the opportunity became available - the one he’d been waiting for since last year. Seeing those long lines snaked outside gameshops on the small screen, the yellows and reds of banners lettered with Japanese a little too blaring for Geoff’s dusty old telly, and something clicked in his brain.
Geoff wrapped his coat around himself tighter, rubbing his hands together in the cold. In the left seat’s glovebox, when it clicked open, was the thickest ARGOS catalogue his friends had ever seen. Geoff slotted a finger in the middle of the book, opening it on the dog-eared page showcasing recent phones that had come out and old 1984 WalkMans that were somehow still in fashion. He jabbed a fat finger at the grey box of a Playstation, the games console attached to it like an umbilical cord.
Geoff stuck the key into the ignition on the right side, nodding at himself with a slight smirk as it slotted in place on the first go. He reached to the left, fishing blindly at the sea of cassettes on the passenger seat’s floor that had reached a point where one could lay their legs flat on it. He dug one up from the middle of the mound - the yellow paper behind the plastic had faded over time, and it was ballads, mainly, but Geoff vowed to himself that whatever cassette he managed to dig out would be playing on the entirety of his journeys. Even if that meant having it on the lowest volume for the songs he couldn't stand.
The cassette clicked into place, and immediately the hesitant piano notes of ‘A Simple Man’ by Creme Brulee started. Geoff turned the sound dial up, tapping his foot on the accelerator before the car sputtered once, twice, and on the third time, thank God, it powered into life. As he turned out of the carpark, Geoff called rather too loudly out his window to a woman from Royston Vasey Cycling Club who was peddling so viciously her legs were a blur in their black shorts, the yellow, blue and red stripes on her shirt streaming past like a flag.
It wasn't a lengthy drive; and by the time the second song had ended, the car had sighed in relief at its engine turning off, its limp tires resting on the grassy curb of Station Road. A pigeon waddled away as Geoff cupped the glass of the window, nose smushed against the cold glass, in hopes of seeing a glowing grey box sitting on the shelf. Miraculously, it wasn't there, but neither was there anyone in the shop. In that case, he thought, if he tracked the console down somewhere in the shop, he would save a good penny. He swung the rusted door open, sending a bell tinkling throughout the room. It broke up a muffled dispute coming from upstairs, and was followed by slow footsteps. Reenie Calver appeared, slightly panting, from a doorway behind the counter.
“Sorry about that dear,” she gestured vaguely upstairs; a plastic bag crackling in her fist. Geoff tried to smile, though it came out as a grimace - it always did - and he nodded before turning his back, searching the stocked shelves for any sign of the Playstation. Boxes of board games were stacked like old pizza boxes; the withered cardboard with faded colours made the whole room smell of vinegar and old books. Beside those, there were 4 wicker baskets in which lay mismatched cassettes, some new, some from the early Creme Brulee days. Dotted throughout the shelves as a kind of obstacle course were knicknacks: a battered bowling pin, a tea kettle with the handle snapped off, balancing rolls of tape and small wooden figurines depicting winged goddesses; most had had moustaches drawn on by felt tip; the effort of trying to scrub it off visible.
Geoff came to a stop near the last lot of objects, huffing. He peered into the doorway behind the counter as if Reenie had preserved a Playstation just for himself, but an exclamation from her stopped his curiosity.
“Lovely day out there, isn’t it, dear?” She not so much asked but declared to Geoff, and sipped from a flowery mug whilst she scratched notes in the book laid out before her. She pocketed the pencil and seemed to write over the sentence with a pen before she looked up. “Can I help you?”
“No, no, I’m alright.” Geoff replied quickly, then narrowed his eyes. “Actually, you ain’t got any tech ‘ere, ‘ave you?”
Reenie grumbled, and turned her head to call up the stairs. “Vinnie? Vinnie!”
“Just a minute dear, no need to be rude!” Vinnie Wythenshaw called back. A few thumps of boxes being dropped upstairs were followed by footsteps, and the other old woman appeared behind the counter. When they stood side by side, Geoff thought they would make a good sibling duo for a film, and he was sure Henry or Ally would agree, as long as the film had loads of killings.
“I’m not being rude, dear, this gentleman here wants to buy some tech.” Reenie pointed at Geoff, resting a fist on her hip.
“Cheque? No, we don’t do cheques in ‘ere, dear. Cash only.” Vinnie waved her hand and picked up the other woman's mug, taking a great gulp.
“No, dear,” Reenie exclaimed, sounding exasperated already, “he wants to buy some tech. It was tech, wasn't it, dear? Not a deck?”
“Tech, yeah.” Geoff scrunched his nose, shrugging at the ladies’ argument that it felt like he started. “Who’s in ‘ere buyin’ decks anyway? Bloody builders?” He muttered under his breath.
“Well, I can give you 3 cassettes for 6p.” Vinnie said keenly.
“Don’t want cassettes, I want games, y’know. Gamin’ consoles an’ all that. You got owt?” Geoff gestured at the shelves. A second passed, and Reenie’s eyes lit up with joy.
“I know just the thing for you, heehee!” Reenie giggled, and jogged out of the room. Geoff looked over to see Vinnie’s head bent over the book; a pen in her hand which traced meticulously over Reenie’s previous writing. He stood there in an awkward silence, scratching his head and wondering if he would get kicked out if he lit a cigarette.
“Here we are!” Reenie’s voice was sing-song, echoing throughout the room as she reentered, and in two hands she held a grey rectangular console, lined with fan vents, a small control centre and a small gold label reading ‘VIS’. Yes, Geoff was no genius on his game consoles - in his apartment, he only had a small TV which teetered on top of another TV that was large and hefty and apparently too heavy for him to carry, despite him having been in the TAs - but he could tell that what Reenie was about to offer him was a load of old tat.
“Here she is, the…” She trailed off, looking at the front of the console, “the Tandy VIS! Have a look at that Vinnie, dear!” Vinnie squinted at it as Reenie turned, sliding it on the counter. “Bit heavy. Are you thirsty, dear?”
Vinnie shook her head, taking out another cardboard box labelled ‘RULES’. “That Merrill does Thursday’s, remember, dear?”
“Thirsty, dear, not Thursdays. No need to be rude.” Reenie snapped, her back turned to Geoff like she forgot he was standing right there. Vinnie sorted through the box, inspecting small pamphlets riddled with small text. Smart , Geoff thought. Boxing the rules so buyers would have to come back and possibly make more purchases.
“Not being rude,” Vinnie muttered, and she suddenly looked up, her eyes wide and startled at Geoff standing behind the counter, green coat like a sari wrapped around him. “You’re the one who’s being rude, Reenie, look- there’s a gentleman ‘ere waiting all patiently for someone to ‘elp him.”
Reenie turned to Geoff, a hint of amusement on the set of her mouth. “Sorry about that, dear. Haven’t had my cup of tea yet! Two teas, Vinnie, dear.” She rushed behind the counter as Vinnie took one look at the other woman with disdain and disappeared through the doorway.
“You’ve bought us a game console, have you, dear? Can I keep the bag?” She held up the plastic bag she had earlier, straightening it out like a mother would check the size of a t-shirt for her child.
“You just bought that in!” Geoff whined, on the brink of driving up to the Tattsyrups and accepting their offer - well, not so much an offer; Geoff didn't know what they would do if he never showed up at the doorstep of the Local Shop, but he wanted to prove the family wrong. They did not, and would never, rule over his hometown. He shifted his jaw and folded his arms. Geoff must have looked extremely keen to buy the console, as Reenie had picked it up with some difficulty, checking its sides, back and front.
“Got no price on it, I need a price check Vinnie! She won’t be a minute dear.” She reassured him, and held a hand out to clasp her mug’s handle, only to grasp air. She tutted. “Oh, Vinnie, two teas, dear?” Reenie called, head tilted up as if she were talking to a kind of God that controlled the Charity Shop. A corner of Geoff’s mouth turned upwards through his impatience. She’s bloody deaf, her. You know what they say, don’t you. It was funny how Mike and Brian could still make him laugh as Geoff stood in one of Royston Vasey’s hundred run-down shops that were run by people with soup for brains.
“I’m not bothered, now. You did that. Makin’ me unbothered for it.” Geoff pointed at Reenie accusingly. “Only came in for a bloody Playstation, not some manky discontinued box.”
Reenie was baffled - her eyes wide. “Well, there’s no need to be rude, dear. I’ll have you know that this VIS was to go and be sold, all of them, gone! Whoosh!”
“Don’t matter. Do you ‘ave Playstations or what?” Geoff demanded.
“Never heard of them, dear.” Reenie shrugged and sat down on the stool behind the counter, checking her nails with a bored expression. Geoff made for the door, only stopping to stick his tongue out briefly at her.
He hated to admit it, but Reenie was right. It was a lovely day. The sky was a plain of blue, dotted here and there with white cushions of disintegrating clouds. A perfect day for a walk around Vasey, someone had rejoiced out loud as they walked past. He scoffed and strutted to his car, about to grasp the handle when he gave a second look upwards at the sun resting on the terraced flats above shops. Maybe it was, and on any other weekend, Geoff would be down the Mason’s Arms for a quick pint chatting to anyone that walked past him if Mike and Brian were busy (which was often, he thought, and more often than a coincidence). He reached down for the handle, ready to jump in his car and press on the accelerator for home, only to have what felt like a light pat on the shoulder. A seagull circled him overhead, a chip tucked in its beak. He stretched his coat down, to see it more clearly, and yes - there it was. A splatter that had tendrils like a flower now dripped down his best coat.
“OI!” Geoff shouted at the bird above, stretching his coat front like he was showing the seagull what it had made. “Bloody bastard.” He muttered, and a car horn sounded, two quick beeps which echoed in the nearly empty street. A gold car waited in front of him, the front windows dark. He threw his hands up, as if to say it was their fault for driving on this exact road, and definitely not Geoff’s fault for standing in the middle of it. He stomped in front of his own car, and as the other vehicle rolled by him, he scanned the floor, looking for a can, or a take-out box. He picked up a dried leaf and threw it at the car which had vanished up the highstreet. The leaf swayed to the ground gently. Geoff, face scrunched, stamped on it, feeling slightly better at the crunch it made.
As he swerved out of his parking space at Station Road, not even glancing at his cassette pit, he peered at the few people that were walking the highstreet on this random Friday. Some wore smiles with their partner trailing behind, hands jammed in their coat pockets. Some walked alongside their dog like they were on the catwalk. One of them balanced three open kebab boxes in their arms, cradling them like babies and occasionally twisting a fork in one box, twirling a greasy meaty ribbon to their mouth. They all seemed like they had something to do. Even Mike and Brian; when Geoff would be the last out the toilets before they sauntered off to the Mason’s Arms for dinner, despite his friends starting a slow walk but not exactly waiting for him, they seemed confident. As if Geoff could ask what they were doing, Mike and Brian would answer with ease, having every little thing planned out. He liked to think they each had a giant corkboard behind rows of clothes in their wardrobes. Work at 8am. Lunch at 12pm - cucumber and crisp sandwich? Meet mum at 19pm. Meditate to rainforest noises at 22pm. The thought of leading a life like that scared Geoff. It had too much structure. Nonetheless, he couldn't sit on his arse all day when he wasn't working, throwing grenades into the air as he sprawled on his (renowned) stinky camouflage duvet, bottle of Jack Daniels leaking off his bedside table.
“Nowt else to do. I’m gonna do it. Sod it, I’ll do it.” Geoff blurted out in the humming whirr of the car’s engine as he turned onto Dinting Vale, and instead of driving up Glossop Road, he continued straight ahead. He didn’t bother to go back and pack his old map Brian lent him - that was apparently his grandad’s, but he didn’t seem too sure - because as he crossed the border of Vasey and the outside world, it was as if someone had placed a small metal doorstop on his heart. Soppy bastard , Geoff murmured to himself. He knew it was silly. He remembered a night in TAs when Don Lynch had explained to Geoff after a few beers, with a grave face, that you couldn’t be soul connected to a place, only people. Despite Don having buggered off years ago after Geoff’s first ever comedy act, he wanted to prove him wrong - not through a sit-down and frank conversation, but by a knuckle sandwich.
In this part of Derbyshire, the houses faded and were replaced by fields laid out like patchwork quilts. Every so often, Geoff would see a quaint cottage with doorways seemingly for dwarves and windows so small you couldn't even look through into the house. A metallic grinding noise polluted the air, followed by a gradual reduction in speed up the hill. He pulled into the woods, gave the side of his car a kick that left him hopping and clutching his foot, started it up again and regained speed once more. The concerning noise was somewhat quieter but now a sizeable dent near the right tire stuck out like a sore thumb. Geoff grinned, wobbly around the edges - he had come to a conclusion. At least, if he died today - which, he deduced, would be from out of three options: dinner time with David, putting David to sleep or helping him get dressed the next morning - then he should make the last hours he had left into a Geoff day.
Somehow, there was a lone curry house on the way up, built so close to the road he was sure the people living above didn't even need a telly, they could just watch through one of their mouse windows with a cup of tea and overflowing popcorn. Geoff trotted back to his car with a chicken korma slopping around in an opaque take-away box. He slotted in a rainbow cassette with orange fingers, and he knew it was Oasis’ Definitely Maybe even by the half second silence it took for the car’s music system to recognise what was placed inside it.
With the take-away box now licked clean, balancing on his lap and fingers reaching in his coat’s pocket for a cigarette (doing his best to avoid earlier’s accident, but it had not occurred to him in that tiny brain of his that he could simply take the coat off - anyway, it was his second skin), Geoff and his Nova trundled past a large cardboard sign attached to a stone wall. It flapped in the wind limply. He inwardly thanked the lack of people in the countryside for the reverse he was about to attempt. If Edward and Tubbs had decided to set up their little shop in the city centre, people wouldn't even bother coming up through the traffic. On second thought, Geoff was sure the couple/siblings would appreciate it.
The car backed up, and he squinted at the sign. It read: Local Shop ahead… beware! White ghosts with smiley faces were drawn around the letters, with witch hats and cobwebs drawn on with silver pen. He reversed, wired fence scratching his number plate behind, and whizzed - or, tried to - through two stone pillars with blue panels indicating that the thin road ahead was to Mossy Lea Farm. The detour halfway up the lane Geoff took was worn - a dusty makeshift path had formed, and led to the Local Shop, browned and withering grass hung over the sides like a teenage boy’s fringe he refused to have cut despite mother’s nagging.
Geoff reluctantly stopped the cassette halfway through Shakermaker, parking the car alongside the shop. He got out, eyeing up the crates and cages piled up against the wall, grass poking through the wire frames. There was a creak in the near distance, and Geoff, not expecting Tubbs to come out yet - alright, she wasn’t a vampire, he reminded himself - jumped back, and his three centimetre stub of a cigarette flicked in the long grass.
“Shit.” Geoff ran over, toeing the ground with his boot. He was about to get onto his knees when he felt eyes on him. Not the sort of stare from a kid as they walked past the sweet shop while Geoff brandished a lolly inside. It was a stare that he felt would happen every second he was here. He looked up slowly. Someone peeked around the door’s frame at the front of the shop - someone with a snubbed nose, zit-like freckles and colourless hair.
“Alright?” Geoff rejoiced, a timid smile on his face as he strutted up to the door, picking through the grass. “Thanks for the note. What’s me schedule, then? I can’t do tomorrow evenin’, ‘cos Mike said ‘e’d get me a pint on ‘im ‘cos it’s his birthday or summat. Or was it Cheryl’s…”
The sliver of the figure in the doorway became clearer, the person sunlit compared to the darkened room before them. Geoff, who stood in front of the building, could now see the yellow sign of Local Shop branded on the front in large black letters. But who stood in the entryway was not Tubbs at all, but a male counterpart, a brother. One thing for sure was that the same piggish eyes were set deep into folds of pale, scarred skin, and an upward nose lifting their top lip enough for Geoff to glimpse the sharpness of rotten teeth.
“‘Ang on-” Geoff interjected, though the man dug his nails into his shoulder.
“You’re late.” Edward snarled.