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Driving Lessons
Chapter 5 - Is this the way to Hell?
It was not a usual Tuesday evening for Arthur Kirkland. There was no football on the television or cricket (although he'd had enough of that for a while) but wandering around a cemetery in the fast approaching twilight with the creepiest girl Nation, Belarus, was not something that would be high on his list of enjoyable things to do.
"What are we doing here?" England asked her again.
He wondered again why she had agreed to go on a date with him and the conversation they'd had upon meeting had not reassured him.
"Oh my God… Miss er Belarus…" England had stuttered. All the male Nations were both in love with and terrified of Belarus. She was the most unstable and therefore the most terrifying of the Nations, even including Russia.
"Privet!" she'd said quite cheerily, belying her appearance. She was wearing a long black cloak - the hood obscuring her platinum hair and was wearing what England presumed was 'Gothic' make-up. (He meant Goth but he was, of course, way behind the times.)
"Erm I didn't really expect it to be you…"
"Who did you expect?" she growled.
"Erm… Did you send that text?"
"Of course!"
"France gave you my number?" England cursed under his breath.
Belarus didn't answer this, "We are going to have the most wonderful time," she said instead, quite forcefully and then added, making it sound like a threat, "And you will enjoy it."
England felt a shiver down his back, "Did it suddenly get cold around here?" he asked. "Perhaps we should just go to the pub?"
"Yes, but first I must have a look around this beautiful graveyard," Belarus told him and stepped past him regally, expecting him to follow. Which he did.
"If you're interested in cemeteries, I suggest we go to Highgate where Karl Marx is buried," England said, following her.
She cut a sinister figure as she stole through the graveyard. Moss-covered gravestones, some chipped and broken, loomed out of the mist. Crosses, angels and even a Victorian crypt greeted them. England sighed. He was really going to kill France for this. He could have been at home with a cup of tea, watching Coronation Street. He thought about ditching her but two things stopped him. One, he was a gentleman and gentlemen did not ditch ladies in the middle of cemeteries no matter how creepy. Two, he was afraid of her.
She finally stopped and beckoned to him to approach.
"I know of a really nice pub not far from here. They serve nice pie and mash and I believe they serve vodka so…" England began.
Belarus put a finger to his lips so he wisely shut up.
"Hush. You wake the undead," she said and nodded to the six foot stone angel stood guard over the grave in front of them.
"Baloney!" England said before he'd had time to filter what came out of his mouth.
"What?" Belarus hissed and a knife appeared in her hand.
"Bolognese," England said quickly, "That pub. They do a good Spaghetti Bolognese!" he broke out in a cold sweat.
Belarus shrugged. She rummaged in her rather large bag, tipping out various articles - a black velvet cloth which England thought was a fancy if dull tablecloth, a small saucepan (she said to England as if in explanation, "I forgot the cauldron"), a vial of some bubbling liquid, a silver knife, a stake ("For the undead sleep uneasy") and a pair of binoculars.
She was about to put this latter item back when England picked them up, "Well if you're interested in birds then I'm sure we can spot some in here. I'm really keen myself!" he told her.
Belarus raised an eyebrow. She set the black velvet cloth on the grave in front of the angel, and lifted up the vial, thought about something and then said, "Oh England, look over there!" and pointed.
Arthur turned around, putting the binoculars to his eyes, "Is it a nightjar? An owl? I have seen a barn owl around here…" he said excitedly. He felt a tug on his hair and spun round.
Belarus was holding a pair of scissors and a hank of England's hair.
"Why did you…?" he began.
"I need hair from the head of a powerful wizard for my cleansing ritual. Also, you needed a haircut." She almost added that she couldn't find a powerful wizard but didn't.
England hadn't really heard this, he just heard the bit about the haircut, and, as he had the quite sensible outlook that one should never argue with a lady, particularly an unstable lady carrying sharp scissors, he decided to ignore it. Particularly when she began chanting in Russian.
"I'm sure I hear a nightingale. And there's definitely a barn owl," England told her.
Belarus wasn't listening, she was drawing some strange swirly symbols on the ground with chalk.
"Yes well, Miss Belarus, I really don't think writing graffiti on the ground is going to attract any wildlife," England said, thinking he sounded quite witty.
Belarus ignored him and continued to chant, eyes closed, swaying slightly.
"Turdus merula!" he exclaimed.
Belarus' eyes snapped open, "What?" she glared at him, reaching for the knife.
"Blackbird!"
"Are you being funny?"
"It's Latin for blackbird." He saw that she looked annoyed. "Pub?" he asked again.
Belarus nodded, realising that her ritual wasn't going to work if he kept yakking next to her.
"But first I need to run some errands," she replied.
"Fair do's."
Belarus glared at him. The English-Belorussian interpretation was not going well.
"Why are we in this telephone box? Isn't that the Russian Embassy across the road?"
Belarus muttered something in Belorussian to the gist of: 'By the Golden Horde, he never shuts up moaning or going on about the pub.'
"Shush!"
"This is most irregular, Miss Belarus."
"Shush!"
"You know I'm sure that stone angel moved as we left the cemetery."
Belarus turned round from watching the Russian Embassy entrance and said, "Me too!"
"I knew it!"
A tall figure came out of the Embassy and hurried down the road, as if hunted.
Belarus crept out of the telephone box and cautiously followed the figure, dragging England with her.
"You know, I'm rather glad we're out of that box. I once had a rather unfortunate incident where I was stuck in one with…" England began to tell her, oblivious to the fact Belarus was not listening.
She had stopped following the figure and suddenly began to take an interest in something directly behind England whilst trying to look nonchalant. "Wut?" she asked suddenly, hoping the figure they were following had not seen her.
"Yes, the phone box incident. Honestly, it was horrendous. Being stuck in a confined space with France and America is not my idea of fun."
But Belarus had already loped off. She turned and beckoned to him to follow.
"Damned peculiar," England said to himself. And he was used to peculiar. But at least she hadn't threatened him for a while nor was she drunk nor was she about to divest herself of items of clothing. In all, as dates go, it was going okay.
He followed her, sauntering down the road. She was peering around the corner and dragged him next to her, stopping him from walking on.
"He's coming back!" she suddenly said.
"Who is?" England asked but Belarus dragged him with her into a shop doorway where they stood looking in the window.
"Oh! Cushion covers! I could do with some of those!" he said, peering through the window, "Pity some of the colours don't match my decor."
Belarus nodded absent-mindedly, "Blood red…" she said wistfully.
"Red? Are you mad, woman? With my chintz armchairs?" England shook his head.
"There!" Belarus saw something and hurried off again, and then stopped when she realised she'd forgotten something, dashed back, grabbed England and dragged him with her.
"I say! This is awfully exciting and a bit strange!" England gasped and then halted. "Hang on! I know what you're up to!"
Belarus stopped in her tracks. "You do?" she looked over her shoulder as the tall figure turned a corner and disappeared from sight. England was her cover story, if the KGB or her brother realised what she was doing, she'd be back in that padded cell scrawling 'BECOME ONE' all over the walls in crayon, with only visits from 'Dr Knockemoff' to break the boredom.
"But you'll never see it from here!" England told her.
"It?" Belarus was about to punch him for calling her darling big brother an 'it'.
"No! That barn owl will be hunting in the cemetery now."
Belarus looked at him incredulously.
England nodded, looking a little smug. "I'm actually a bit of an amateur twitcher, Miss Belarus."
Belarus had no idea what he was talking about. She'd heard England was mad as a March hare but it was only now that she believed it.
She dug into her pocket and handed England a card - "Dr. Knockemoff" England read. "I see. I'll ring him. Does he see a lot of rarities?"
Belarus considered this, as herself and her siblings were Dr Knockemoff's patients to lesser or greater degrees and all Nations were 'rarities', then yes. She nodded.
"He can really help you," she said, patting his arm.
England smiled, "Pub?" he asked again.
"And you can get treatment for your afflictions," she added. She meant to say 'addictions' - referring to his rumoured alcoholism - but again, Anglo-Belorussian translation wasn't going well.
"Ha! You mean bloody France! He's a bloody affliction!"
Belarus surmised that England was unhealthily obsessed with France. But she didn't have time to deal with other people's obsessions at the moment. She sprinted down the road and peered around the corner. Where on earth had her bloody quarry/brother gone?
"Wait for me! Oh, you've gone past it! My word you're in a hurry!" England puffed as he caught up with her. "I must say this really isn't much of a date, Miss Belarus, I mean I'm sorry I didn't book a table anywhere but you didn't give me a lot of notice but there is a nice fish and chip restaurant just down that street and…" he was jerked off his feet once more and they ran down the said street.
"Oh, bad luck!" England said as they stopped, panting. A black cab drove off, a familiar figure sat in the back emitting a strong aura of both fear and dread.
"Wut?" Belarus turned and glared at him. All her plans ruined. Her prey/quarry had escaped.
"Bad luck for missing that cab. Taxi!" he stood in the middle of the road. Normally this was not his usual strategy for hailing a cab but needs must when Belarus was obviously in such a hurry.
They were in luck. Or not, as it turned out, as a cab pulled up.
"Yo! Losers!" the cab driver yelled at them.
This was surely not the usual greeting by an Uber driver, but as England very rarely took taxis, he wasn't to know that.
He and Belarus got in the back and England attempted to give directions to the two drivers in front. That fact alone should have warned him that all was not well.
"Aw man! Not old man England about to ruin our street cred!" It was Denmark. His voice like a foghorn. He was driving, or something like that.
"When did we ever have street cred, Den?" the other was Prussia, sat in the front passenger seat, his bare feet on the dashboard.
England winced at this. There was no excuse for showing off bare feet in public unless one was at the swimming baths or the beach. Otherwise, socks should be worn at all times. Barbarians.
"Since when have you two been taxi drivers?" England asked. Beside him, Belarus seemed to emit some kind of dark aura that filled the cab. This did not seem to affect Prussia and Denmark.
"Norge said I needed to earn my own money," Denmark yelled above the sound of the radio.
"Dear God…"
"Ja! Bruder told me to get out of the house before he killed me, so I came with Denmark because he's not allowed out on his own!" Prussia added and the two high-fived each other.
On England's top ten list of most annoying Nations, Prussia and Denmark were way up there with France, probably at numbers 2 and 3 respectively.
"So you got yourself a date, old man?" Prussia yelled at England, his red eyes winking at him in the mirror.
England winced. "Old man? Denmark's older than me!" England nodded at Denmark.
"I am! God, I remember Jorvik," Denmark said wistfully, weaving in and out of the traffic - sometimes even on the correct side of the road.
England's right eyebrow twitched at the word 'Jorvik' and he resisted the urge to yell at the Dane. He counted to ten. After all, one should not lose their temper and scream obscenities in front of a lady.
Belarus was muttering dark oaths and curses under her breath in Belorussian.
Prussia and Denmark were moronically oblivious and England was tempted to tell them just who they had in the back of their car.
"Do you know who's here with me?" he began.
"Jeez it's not Francis is it? I mean bloody hell, you two should just get married!" Prussia snorted.
England did explode then, "You just shut up! I would prefer to nail my testicles to a bloody roundabout than spend any time with France!"
"I like roundabouts," Denmark said wistfully and they went around one - the wrong way round, causing mayhem in what was one of the Capital's busiest roundabouts. There was soon at least a dozen cars all using their horns.
"Time for some music!" Prussia yelled, shoving in a CD, and, this is where the evening got even worse for England...
"When the day is dawning,
On a Texas Sunday morning,
How I long to be there
With Marie who's waiting for me there
Every lonely city…" Denmark and Prussia both 'sang'. (Sang was just an operative term in this case.)
"Oh dear God…" England wound down his window in the middle of the stuck traffic, "Help us please, anyone!"
Belarus screamed and then fell silent.
"Woah! A real chick!" Denmark interrupted.
"Every lonely city... Come on, join in!" Prussia yelled.
"Where I hang my hat!" Denmark continued 'singing' as he slammed the car into reverse and did a very wide U-turn.
"Ain't half as pretty as where my baby's at!" Prussia 'sang' back at him.
England put his head in his hands and hoped that this was just some drink-fueled nightmare and he would wake any minute.
Denmark crunched down a gear and slammed the car down the road without even asking his customers where they wanted to go.
And then both Prussia and Denmark joined together in the rousing chorus:
"Is this the way to Amarillo?"
"No! It's not. And for the love of all that's holy let us out!" England yelled.
"Every night I've been hugging my pillow," (both Nations hugged an imaginary pillow to their chest - Denmark taking both hands off the steering wheel)
"Dreaming dreams of Amarillo…
And sweet Marie who waits for me"
England covered his ears and directed Belarus to do the same (she would thank him later he thought).
"Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la
Sha la la la la la la"
After each line, each idiot swatted each other around the head twice and grinned moronically in the mirror at England.
"Let us out here!" England cried.
They weren't listening. This was obviously their favourite song.
England tried to reach forward to switch off the CD player but Belarus muttered something under her breath, some strange incantation perhaps and the song was reduced to a crackle.
But the singing didn't stop...
England realised that perhaps he'd died and this was hell. He was consigned to be driven around the North Circular Ring Road for all eternity by the two most IQ deficient Nations he'd ever met and no doubt as part of the eternal torment metered out to him, they would be singing this infernal song.
Prussia and Denmark were about to start their sixth rendition when Belarus had obviously decided it was time to end the torture. "Hello boys!" she said, throwing back her hood and shoving her head in the gap between them.
Denmark slammed on the brakes so hard that the car nearly stood on its nose.
"Gott im Himmel!" Prussia yelled - not screamed. A German, Gilbert thought, would never ever scream.
"Go go go!" Belarus shouted at England.
He didn't need telling twice and he leapt out of the car.
He didn't look round but ran, Belarus running after him.
The Uber cab drove past them, Prussia's thin white face leering at them out of the window.
England could still hear "Sha la la la la" even after his second pint of beer and it was a good hour or two before his hands had stopped shaking.
"I thought we would never get out of there, Miss Belarus," he said for the tenth time.
He remembered no more of that evening, only ordering a packet of pork scratchings and finding them out of date, Belarus beating some men at darts and his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. He didn't answer it.
Much later, someone very strong put him to bed, fully clothed, his arms across his chest as if he were dead, a single white rose on his body.
Author's Note:
Apologies for the inclusion of the song 'Is this the way to Amarillo' - and if it's now stuck in your head as it is in mine...