Jimmy, The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous

by Gerrard Wllson

it in a more comfortable position, Jimmy said, “Come on; let’s get this delivered.”

  It was a good distance to the address on the note; a part of town that neither Jimmy nor Eric had been to, before. In was an industrial area that at one time had been (by the look of the few remaining houses) a rich and fashionable neighbourhood. Following religiously behind Jimmy, Eric glanced suspiciously at the warehouses, stores and depots straddling the street. They were deserted. There was no one, not anywhere. “It’s awfully quiet,” he whispered. “Methinks, too quiet.”

  Pointing across the street, Jimmy said, “Look, there it is, number twenty-three.” So it was, standing proudly between a vacant plot on one side, and a huge factory spewing acrid grey smoke from its many tall chimneys, on the other, a grand mansion, number twenty-three Spook Street.

  Cawk, cawk.

  “What was that?” Eric asked, his eyes darting left and then right.

  “It’s only an old crow,” said Jimmy. “Look; it’s up there, on the roof.”

  “Phew,” said Eric, relieved that was all that it was.”

  Eric pushed on the gate. It creaked open. A cold wind blew into the boys’ faces. They shuddered. Picking their steps carefully along frost-coated path, Jimmy and Eric made their way along it, to the front door. It was black, and, like the house, huge.

  “This has all the hallmarks of a horror movie,” said Eric. “Where’s the bell?”

  Looking, trying to see where the bell was located, Jimmy was unable to find one. “There isn’t one,” he answered.

  “What, no bell?”

  “No, only a knocker,” he replied, pointing at it. “Go on, give it a knock.”

  Lifting the knocker, a heavy brass ring in a lion’s mouth, Eric knocked the door. It boomed, resonating both inside and outside the house.

  “Why don’t you give it another, louder knock?” Jimmy asked, in angst at his friend’s sudden desire to rouse the entire neighbourhood.

  “I didn’t mean to knock it so hard,” Eric replied. “It just happened.”

  “The weather happens. Doors getting knocked like there’s no tomorrow, don’t happen,” Jimmy snapped.

  “But…” The sound of the door creaking slowly open cut Eric off. The boys staring wide-eyed into the house half expected to see Boris Karloff waiting inside to greet them. Apart from a strangely familiar black cat, however, they saw no one. Seeing them, the cat meowed.

  “Anyone here?” Jimmy asked, calling into the hallway. Meowing a second time, the cat turned its back on them and darted away, along the dimly lit hallway.

  “Come on,” said Jimmy, “follow that cat.” With that, he ran down the hallway, after it. The sack of flour, perched precariously upon his shoulder, shuddered and wobbled, releasing a trail of white powder across the tiled floor.

  “Wait!” Eric cried out, “The sack had sprung a leak!” Jimmy never heard his warning; he had gone, disappeared down the hallway almost as fast as the cat. Running after them, friend and cat, Eric heard the sound of the front door mysteriously banging shut behind him.

  Jimmy finally caught up with the cat, in the kitchen. Turning the light on, to see it more clearly, he realised it was the very same one they had seen at the circus.

  Puffing and panting, Eric ran into the kitchen. Pointing to the sack of flour, he said, “Look, look at it, will you?”

  “What? What are you jabbering on about?” Jimmy asked.

  “The floor, look at the floor!”

  Staring down at his feet, Jimmy was mortified to see the mess he was standing in. Lifting a foot, shaking his shoe, he tried to release the fine powder from it. It clung to it like glue. Lowering the sack, cupping a hand over the hole, trying to stop any more flour from escaping, Jimmy followed the trail to see where it led. Horrified that it led all the way back to the front door, he said, “She’ll kill me, so she will! She will never pay me that penny, and she will want a full bag to boot! Eric, what am I going to do?”

  From behind, a creaky old voice asked, “What is the problem, boys?” Turning round, Jimmy and Eric saw the old woman who had asked them to run the errand.

  “Where did you come from?” Jimmy asked, retreating a few steps.

  “That is not important,” she creakily replied. “Is that my sack of flour?”

  Gulping hard, he said that it was. Biting the bullet he tried to explain what had happened to it, “Unfortunately,” he said, “I had a bit of an acc…”

  “And a nice full one, I see.”

  “What?”

  “I said it’s a nice full sack, the last one had a dreadful hole in it. It was hardly more than half full by the time I got my hands on it,” she told him.

  Inspecting the sack, Jimmy was amazed to see the hole was gone, disappeared. Looking along the hallway, he was puzzled to see it devoid of all traces of flour. “But…” he said, scratching his head, bewildered. “But…”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Here are your wages, a penny for each of you.”

  The front door banged shut behind Jimmy and Eric as they made their way down the steps, along the frost-coated path. “Two pennies, no less,” said a jubilant Eric. “I knew she’s turn up trumps!”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, well sort of…”

  Pulling the gate closed, Eric said, “I still don’t understand why she wanted us to do it, the errand. There must have been loads of people working in the circus who could have done it for her, perhaps with their own transport.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy agreed, “it’s almost as strange as Mr Smith telling me not to fall into disrepair…”

  “Weirdos,” Eric laughed. “Come on, race you to the shop, there are sweets, there, waiting to be purchased.”

  “You’re right,” Jimmy replied. “Hey, wait for me!”

  Running, galloping past the factory next to the old woman’s house, Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Why are you stopping?” Eric asked, running on the spot, trying to urge him on. “I’m dying for some sweets.”

  “Did you hear that?” Jimmy answered.

  “Hear what?”

  “Horses.”

  “Horses?”

  “Yes, listen.”

  Cocking his head over to one side, Eric listened. He also heard horses, whinnying horses, frightened horse, scared horses.”

  The Glue Factory

  “Where are they, the horses?” Eric asked, looking about him.

  Pointing to the huge factory with its many chimneys billowing acrid grey smoke into the atmosphere, Jimmy said, “In there, they are in there.”

  “What are they doing in there?”

  “Dunno,” Jimmy replied. “But I do know they’re not happy, not at all happy.” He said, making his way to the factory, towards its door, a huge shiny steel affair that made the front door of the mansion pale into insignificance.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to find the owner of this establishment,” he explained. “I want ask him what’s wrong with the horses, of course,” Jimmy replied. “Are you with me?” he asked. Put on the spot, so, Eric mumbled a yes. In that case,” Jimmy continued, “let me do the talking, you do the listening.”

  BANG, BANG, the metal door boomed, amplifying Jimmy’s raps upon it a hundredfold. However, nothing happened, no one came anywhere near the door, to see who it was. The boys listened; from deep inside the building, they heard the sound of machinery, machinery that was whirring, buzzing, slashing, chopping – and munching.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Eric whispered. “It’s even spookier than next door.”

  I have already told you that Jimmy was a little battler. Being of that particular disposition, he did not intend to accept defeat so easily. Clenching his fists, he rapped the metal door with all of his might. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The noise was so loud Eric feared everyone working inside the factory would come running, to see who was making the terrible din. However, nobody came to see who it was, not one single solitary soul.
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br />   “This is odd,” Jimmy grumbled, “most odd indeed.”

  “If you ask me,” said Eric, “I think we should forget all about it, and makes tracks, pronto.”

  Jimmy did not answer such a defeatist statement. Raising his clenched fists, ready to bang on the door for a third time, he heard something – or someone – moving about behind the door. “There’s somebody there,” he whispered.

  Standing away from the door, the boys listened as bolt after bolt slid back in their shafts. There were four of them. Jimmy wondered, ‘Why so much security – why, why, why?’

  Creaking, groaning, grating its disquiet the steel door opened before them, “Yes, can I help you?” a man with an insipidly toned voice, enquired. This man, a small, miserable looking individual, with a thin sliver of hair combed across his shiny baldhead, was wearing a grey suit as miserable looking as he. ‘Surely, he’s not the owner of the factory?’ Jimmy thought.

  “Are you the factory owner?” said Eric.

  Coughing his annoyance, Jimmy reminded Eric that he was supposed to be doing the talking.

  “Sorry,” Eric apologised.

  “Are you the factory owner?” Jimmy asked.

  Pointing to his chest, the thin sliver of a man, replied, “Me? No! I am not the factory owner. I am Mr Gaunt. Mr Viscous is the factory owner…do you want to see him?”

  “Yes, yes we do,” Jimmy answered.

  “You do have an appointment?”

  Coughing, clearing his throat, Jimmy told him that did not have an appointment, though he insisted the matter was terribly urgent.

  “Wait here,” he droned insipidly. “I will see if Mr Viscous can see you.” After closing the door, he slid every bolt shut.