By AMP Mills
Have yourself an Avon Halloween
London sucks! Though I don't mean in the way you might think, though at times living in London is akin to living through the Bubonic plague.
My explanation begins at midnight on Halloween. I was watching a documentary on the sudden appearance of black rats and the likelihood of another plague. Generally speaking, I'm not the type to watch documentaries – I'm more of a Schwarzenegger or Van Damme fan. Now that I have had time to reflect, I realise my story should actually begin a couple of hours before midnight when I was rounding the final corner before home and was confronted by a frenzied horde of these aforementioned black rats. It was as if they were having their own rave party on the footpath and subsequently blocking my way.
It was a peculiar, for lack of a better word, a sight to behold. Hundreds if not thousands of these rats crawling, scampering and dancing hypnotically in front of me with a rather beguiling, almost crazed look on their pointy little faces.
As I stood there mesmerised, I felt this cold breeze slap me across the back of my neck. My back straightened and the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. A scratching, like nails along a chalkboard, was approaching rapidly. I spun round but the street was empty. In the distance I could hear the sounds of drunken merriment from the Halloween party at the pub next to the tube station
My nostrils flared. There was the distinct smell of… sandalwood.
A few years ago, when I was still at university, the girl I was dating at the time was a self-described hippy. She used to insist on burning sandalwood incense whenever we had sex. It was a sensation on the nostrils that I wouldn't describe as pleasant – if you can imagine the aroma of sweaty body odour blended with marijuana smoke, mouldy cheese and wood then you are familiar with sandalwood.
The strange scratching noise was now coming from behind me. I slowly turned back, wary but ready to face the drug tripping rodents.
My jaw flapped open and I flung myself backwards. The rodents, every last one of them, were dead – savaged by an unknown beast. Paws, tails, furry carcasses and various internal organs were scattered across the path. Surprisingly, considering the extent of the massacre, there was very little blood. Through the gloom of the streetlights I could see there were only a few drops of blood here and there.
I caught the pungent whiff of sandalwood again and scampered to my feet.
My head swivelled left to right as I darted across the road and scampered along the footpath. Once opposite my house, I glanced back towards the rodent carnage and then sprinted over the road to my front door. I fumbled my way inside and once my nerves had settled sufficiently, I made myself a cup of tea and nestled into my sofa to watch television. Coincidentally the black rat documentary happened to be on and my morbid fascination took over. I found myself engrossed in its vile contents for the next two hours.
Ding-dong.
The limp and flaccid toots of my doorbell, something akin to a dysfunctional funeral march, startled me. I glanced down at the time on my phone, it was midnight, and loudly cursed whoever was at the door. No point being polite at this hour of the night , I thought.
Ding-dong.
I lifted myself from the sofa and stumbled to the front door. Placed my foot about two inches behind it, in case whoever was on the other side tried to push their way in, and with a great deal of reluctance opened it. The light from inside my house escaped through the small gap in the doorway and cast a slither of light across the doorstep and over an elderly woman; a smiling elderly woman.
I say she was elderly, but the truth is everybody over the age of fifty qualifies as elderly in my books. I guess she would have been marginally in her fifties, either that or time hadn't been kind to her.
Perhaps I was hasty in my decision-making, but in an instant I decided this was a nice elderly lady and opened the door wide illuminating the woman in her neat, pink ensemble.
Immediately, my nose was assaulted by the distinct odour of sandalwood.
‘Good evening.' The woman smiled wider. ‘My apologies for the lateness of my call, it has been a rather hectic day but I do find the night air compliments these wonderful perfumes I have on offer this evening.'
‘Perfumes?' I shrugged my shoulders. ‘What are you talking about? Who are you?'
The woman flicked open the white shiny handbag draped over her shoulder. Her hand delved inside and removed a plastic identification badge, which she held aloft beside her head. If it was possible for her to smile wider she did. The badge contained a picture of the smiling woman (of course she was smiling) and read, in large bold letters, “Avon Lady”.
‘Sorry, I'm not interested.' I moved to shut the door.
‘How can you say that?' asked the woman in a mock hurt tone. ‘You haven't even experienced our latest fragrance, Night Walker'.
‘Look, I'm really sorry but it's late and I'm not interested.'
I don't think my parents ever took the time to explain to me how I should deal with elderly Avon saleswomen who come calling at midnight. They explained to me how to handle people pushing religion, insurance salespeople, electricity and gas salespeople and many others, but for some reason they didn't cover situations like this. What was I meant to do? Slam the door? I guess I could have done that but I didn't want to appear rude. I dwelled on that thought for a moment longer. Why didn't I want to appear rude? Yes, she's an old lady but she is on my doorstep at midnight like some sort of drug dealer trying to push her perfume.
‘Good –' Before I could finish my sentence she had fished an odd shaped bottle from her handbag, uncapped it and was waving it under my nose.
‘What do you think?' she asked.
There was some sort of floral notes. Oh my God. What is happening to me? Floral notes? It stinks that's what I think.
‘Can you smell the pomegranate, lotus blossom, black orchard and mahogany wood?'
‘No,' I said firmly.
The woman frowned for the briefest of moments, then thrust it closer towards my nostrils. ‘Try again.' Her tone was stern and I did as I was instructed.
There was a waft of something. I couldn't quite place it, but mingling amongst those fruity and flowery aromas was an undertone of… of… rotting corpses. I stepped backwards and stared horrified at the woman.
‘Ah. You can smell it. It's an intensely provocative scent that acts as a counterpoint to the usual muskiness of death.'
Did she just say death ? I questioned myself.
My arms fell limp by my side and I stood silent, as if frozen.
The woman's smile was gone. My heart leapt up into my throat and my eyeballs strained against their sockets. She was growing in stature and the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, something I find common in most elderly people, was now one of pure evil. Her jaw shook violently, jutting left and right before slowly prising apart. The fluorescent light from the hallway glinted from her teeth, or should I say fangs. And that was when it hit me – this nice old lady wasn't so nice.
I slammed the door shut and fell backwards. Scrambled to my feet and stumbled at the bottom of the stairs.
There was a loud scream, not of the ear-splitting type but more like a starved lion demanding its food (not that I have ever heard a lion demand food before, but it is how I imagine a starved lion would sound if demanding food). The door shook before splintering. Dust swarmed around my head, filled my nostrils and permeated all of my orifices (either that or I would need to change my underwear).
The dust settled. Standing in the doorway was one angry, old lady.
She was at least two feet taller than when I had greeted her and the fangs appeared to be bottles of perfume that resembled incisors. By her feet was the discarded handbag and in her hand held the remains of one of the dark rodents with a bite mark where its stomach used to be. She stepped forward.
‘Take one more step and I'm calling the police,' I stammered.
‘Avon calling.' She smiled a wicked smile. Her back arched and she released a maniacal laugh that chilled me to the bone.
I have no idea what I was thinking at that particular juncture (though one thing was for sure, I was going to lodge a complaint about this salesperson). My arms were flailing for a grip and my mind started to scream “RUN”, over and over. And run I did, straight up the stairs in search of safety.
From behind I could hear a loud scratching noise, gaining on me. As I neared the top of the stairs, what felt like hot irons tore through my shirt and ripped into my flesh. The pain was intense and agonising.
Pieces of balustrade flew past me. I stumbled, my body crashed onto the landing at the top of the stairs. From the corner of my eye, I could see the flash of glass lunging towards me. I rolled and instinctively reached out for the remains of the railing. I grabbed it, closed my eyes and swung it blindly behind me. I heard the shatter of glass, smelt the overpowering spicy fragrance of aromatic herbs and grasses. The old woman screeched.
I opened my eyes in time to see the woman cradling her mouth. Only one fang protruded from her clamped hands.
She lowered her hands and my gaze was met with a withering stare.
I turned and ran. I bounced off the hallway walls before darting into my bedroom, flinging the door closed behind me and wedging a chair against the doorknob. I walked backwards gingerly, until I could go no further. Behind me was my chest of drawers. It was silent. I took a large gulp of air, filled my lungs and slowly released it.
Shards of door flew past me accompanied by a loud cracking noise. I bent over, desperately trying to bury my head into the top of the drawers. Splinters of wood impaled my back.
Great. There goes another door .
I could hear that now familiar scratching noise from behind. I stood up violently and turned. Behind my back my hands fumbled across the surface of the drawers, desperately searching for something, anything.
The woman stood there glaring. All that remained of one of her fangs was a few shards of glass. A clear, sticky substance dripped from the corner of her mouth. Suffice to say the elderly woman was far from happy. I used to think nobody could be angry like mum could be, but my mum has nothing on a spurned Avon saleswoman. This woman was seriously miffed.
‘Perhaps you didn't hear me,' she said loudly and firmly. ‘ I said Avon calling.'
She stepped towards me. The urgency of my searching picked up apace.
I raised my left hand aloft gesturing, pleading for her to stop. I cradled my head into my arm on top of the chest of drawers, panting as I tried to catch my breath. She sniggered her apparent contempt. My search complete, I stood erect and turned to face her.
‘I'm only going to say this once. I don't wear perfume. I wear cologne!'
My right arm sprung out in front of me. I grinned. For the briefest of moments she appeared confused. A plume of spray leapt out from the can contained in my closed fist. It quickly enveloped her head.
Her arms flailed. She fell backwards, screamed an ear-splitting scream, and then she began to rise up into the air. She was tumbling and spinning as she ascended towards the ceiling of my bedroom. Paused mid-air, growled almost limply in my direction, and then flew through the roof. Tiles fell and shattered as they hit the bedroom floor.
My hand opened, the can of Old Spice fell to the ground.
She was gone.
Silence, as it should be on All Hallows' eve. In the distance the revelries from the pub continued unabated.
I slumped to the floor and considered the destruction around me. My nostrils flared and I frowned. My room stinks and like the smell of urine in a subway: it's there, and there's nothing I can do about it.
As I said, London sucks!