Jimmy, The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous

by Gerrard Wllson

from the boys, further than either of them had imagined she would do. “She seems to be doing more walking that grazing,” said Eric, wiping his runny nose with a hand.

  “Yes,” Jimmy agreed, his eyes watching her every move, thinking she might never return. “Well, at least she’s free,” he said, “away from that terrible man.”

  “Yes,” Eric concurred. “She’s better off than the others…” The other horses, Eric had gone and said it; he felt so bad. “What are we going to do, to help them?” he asked, his nose running again. “I wish I had remembered to bring my hanky,” he grizzled.

  Without taking his eyes away from the wandering horse, Jimmy said, “I’ve been thinking about that…”

  “My hanky?”

  “No, you twerp – the horses!”

  “And?”

  Instead of telling him, however, Jimmy said, “Look how far she’s gone! Has she no idea how colder it will be out here tonight?”

  “Colder?” Eric replied, all in a shiver. “I don’t believe it could possibly get any colder that it already is!” With that, he pulled the hood of his coat down lower over his head, hoping against hope to gain some extra warmth from doing it.

  For a while, neither of the boys said anything more. Watching Dotty graze happily before them, they were silent, deep in their thoughts.

  Without warning, Eric began speaking again, he said, “Well, are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What you were thinking about, how we might save the horses.”

  “Oh, that,” Jimmy answered, dismissively. “It was nothing, really.”

  Giving Jimmy a distasteful look, Eric awaited a more favourable reply.

  “Okay, okay, I will tell you, for all the good it will do them!” said Jimmy.

  By the time Jimmy had finished explaining, telling him what he had been thinking about, Eric was convinced Jimmy was losing some more marbles. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to go back there, to the factory, and ask to speak with the owner, Mr Viscous?”

  Nodding, Jimmy relied, “Yep, that’s about it.”

  “Have I missed something, here,” Eric continued, “or did we not steal one of his horses, and go galloping away into the sunset?”

  “Now who thinks we are in a cowboy movie?” Jimmy asked, disappointed with Eric’s less than enthusiastic response to his idea.

  “Alright, alright, I know I’m being defeatist,” said Eric, his hands up in mock surrender. “What could possibly go wrong with such a great idea? Sure, there’s no chance of the guards capturing me, Mr Viscous calling the police, or even concocting some dastardly deed to perpetrate upon me.”

  “Overreacting.”

  “What?”

  “I said you’re overreacting.”

  “He boils horses into glue! Am I overreacting when I tell you that?” Eric asked. Without allowing him any time to reply, continuing, he said, “As far as I am concerned, people who can do that sort of thing to defenceless creatures – and with a clear conscience to boot – are capable of doing anything!”

  Jimmy knew he was right; he knew he had overstepped the mark, asking his best friend to return to the factory. However, it was all that he could think of that might actually work. “Okay,” he said, “I’m sorry, I should never have asked you…” his voice trailed off. When next he spoke it was ever so quiet, almost as if he was afraid of what he might hear, he said, “I will go…”

  “What?” Eric riposted, “That’s almost as balmy as me going!”

  Lifting his upturned, open hands, Jimmy said, “Have you any better suggestion?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “But nothing,” Jimmy insisted. “We’re wasting valuable time procrastinating. Mr Viscous might be ordering his workers to stoke up the boilers, as we speak. It’s time for action, Eric, not talking. Come on, let’s get Dot, err Dotty…”

  “But what are you going to do when you get there, what if he calls the police?” Eric asked, as they clip-clopped their way down the cobbled street.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion the police are the last people Mr Viscous will want calling to his factory,” said Jimmy. “No. He won’t call the police – I am sure of it.”

  “What if he locks you away somewhere, and never lets you out? What will I tell your mum?”

  “Relax, will you? I am sure the factory owner, Mr Viscous, will not do that, well, at least I hope not.”

  “I wish I had your confidence,” Eric grumbled. Just then the horse, Dotty, stopped walking. “Why has she stopped?” he asked.

  Jimmy nodded across the street, to Eric’s house.

  “Why have we stopped here?” he asked, in his confusion.

  “You need a memory doctor,” Jimmy chided. “I already told you … to get your spade. Hurry up, I don’t want everyone in the street coming out, seeing me perched high upon this, no insult intended, Dotty, horse.”

  Bursting out from the house, Eric yelled, “I have it, Jim! Pulling the door closed, he hollered, “Bye, mum, I won’t be long.”

  Leaning down, giving him a hand up, Jimmy hissed, “Why don’t you knock on everyone’s door, and tell we are here? And be careful with that spade!”

  Thus chastised, Eric climbed up in silence (though he did stick out his tongue at Jimmy, from behind).

  Clip clop, clip clop, Dotty made her way down the bleak, cobbled street, returning to the factory and an uncertain future.

  I Want to Speak with Mr Viscous

  The closer the boys got to the glue factory, clip-clopping their way relentlessly toward it, with its many tall chimneys spewing acrid grey smoke into the atmosphere, the more their feelings of unease grew. “There should be a law against that,” said Eric, pointing at the toxic smoke rising high into the wintry sky. Gazing east, seeing the dark, heavy clouds of the approaching storm, he said, “I don’t like the look of that…”

  Digging his heels into Dotty’s belly, Jimmy said, “We should get there before it hits.” Snarling and growling, the atypical horse broke into a canter.

  They arrived close by the factory before the storm manifested itself fully – but only just. “What do we do now?” Eric asked above the sound of blustery cold wind. Before Jimmy had a chance to reply, the acrid grey smoke billowing out from the factory chimneys stopped. Then, with a huge, whooshing sound, it began again, but this time it was blood red in colour. “I don’t like the look of that,” Eric grumbled, pointing skyward. As fast as it had turned red in colour, the smoke returned to its original dark hue. “That’s more like it,” he said, relaxing a might.

  “Hmm,” Jimmy pondered, scratching his chin, “I wonder what turned it so red?”

  “A change of fuel, perhaps?” Eric suggested, without realising what he was saying, implying.

  “Blood.”

  “Pardon?”

  Whispering, barely audible, Jimmy replied, “Blood is red.”

  Eric never answered that comment, he made no reply, how could he, how could he ever hope to articulate the revulsion he felt, thinking some of the horses had just met their fate?

  Finally, eventually, dragging their thought together, Jimmy and Eric dismounted. Crossing the street, they led Dotty into the overgrown plot adjacent the factory, where they tethered her to a tree. Without blinking as much as an eyelid, she resumed her grazing. Crawling on their bellies to that part of the fence they had interleafed with, earlier, the boys saw it repaired. “They sure work fast down this neck of the woods,” Eric groused. Angrily shaking the fence, he discovered (to his regret) that it was electrified. “Ow!” he complained. “That hurt!”

  “Will you ever stop messing about,” Jimmy reproached. “That’s why we needed the spade, to dig under it!”

  Licking his fingers, hoping he might never again receive such a shock, Eric mumbled a sorry.

  “Hand me the prismatic viewer, will you?”

  While nursing his shocked fingers, Eric removed the viewer from the duffle bag. Passing it to him,
he said, “Here you are. Thinking some more about his shocked fingers, he asked, “How did you know the fence was electrified?” he asked.

  “A hunch,” Jimmy answered. “It was a hunch; I seem to be getting more and more of them.”

  Just then, the smoke spewing out from the chimneys stopped. Accompanied by an almighty whooshing sound it started again, spewing blood red in colour, reminding the boys just why they were there. “It’s time I was off,” said Jimmy.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Hmm, that’s a question, and if I answered it truthfully I’d probably be telling you a lie,” Jimmy cryptically replied. “You do remember what you have to do?” he asked.

  Nodding, Eric said that he did.

  “Hopefully, I’ll see you later.” With that, Jimmy disappeared into the undergrowth of the garden.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, the cold steel of the factory door amplified Jimmy’s raps upon it a hundredfold. Feet, he heard the sound of feet shuffling somewhere behind it. Bolts, he heard the sound of the fours bolts, one by one, sliding back from their closed positions. Creaking, groaning, grating its disquiet, the huge door opened before him. It opened a deep yawning chasm, leading into the deeply, darkly mysterious – and threatening – factory interior. “Yes, can I help you?” the insipidly toned voice of Mr Gaunt, droned. When he saw who it was, he said, “Oh, it’s you…”

  Is that all you can say?” Jimmy asked, thinking he was surely the most boring individual he had ever met.

  Without answering, Mr Gaunt returned to his usual door-opening repertoire, and he said, “Yes, can I help you?”

  Thinking he was