by Paul Magrs
There is someone else in here with me.
Does that sound crazy?
But they are in here with me. Peering through a hole in my head. Into my very self.
I shout into the cold wind blustering off the North Sea:
‘Come on out and show yourself! Who the devil are you? What do you want with me?’
The mocking laughter of gulls is my only reply, as they battle against the wind. The dark elements roar all about me. They soak me and push me down, stuffing up my ears with white, foaming noise.
My feet slip, taking me closer to the stony edge. Still that ghastly sensation of someone peeking into my skull. ‘How can you do this? What makes you think you can do this to me?’ After a few moments more of tottering about in the black air, at last a voice comes to me. It hammers into my head and its force pushes me to my knees.
‘You’ve met me once already. Don’t you know the sound of my voice?’
It’s like the worst migraine I ever had. All at once I know who this is.
Barry Lurcher! It’s you! Where are you? I thought you liked me!
There’s an oily chuckle. I twist round as if I could find him. But I am pinioned at the very edge of the pier. There’s no barrier between me and the tossing sea.
‘I am inside you, Brenda. The sheer force of my will has penetrated every fibre of your shambolic mortal remains.’
‘Shambolic? Who are you to talk to me like this?’
‘I am the Puppet Master and you are my plaything. You find yourself in thrall to my ineffable will!’
So there you have it, I think. Just another silly man with a need to dominate women in order to satisfy his dodgy ego. He’s playing mind games with me – literally, since I can feel his presence inside my mind and his physical self is nowhere to be seen.
‘I could make you dance and pirouette your nasty old cadaver into the freezing briny and who would know? They’d think you’d topped yourself.’
I am horrified by his cruelty. I struggle to remain in command of myself.
‘Mine isn’t a miserable existence! I have a very nice life, as it happens! It might not look like much to the likes of you, with your showbiz lifestyle – and being some kind of wicked sorcerer to boot – but I’m actually quite content these days, thank you very much!’
He laughs and the pressure of his will relents enough to allow me to step back from the edge.
‘I don’t intend to kill you. Not yet. Not quite yet. Good night, Brenda. Good night, you horrible old monster.’
Then he was gone. He was out of my mind. And I was alone on the pier in a rising storm, but in full command of my faculties once more.
I knew that the so-called Puppet Master would strike again.
I wake up thinking: I can’t let Barry win. He has proved he can blot out my thoughts and rule over me. I get up and do my exercises very quickly and I’m glad there are no guests to see to today. I need to concentrate on how to defeat my foe.
Effie is dozy in the morning and doesn’t quite grasp the point when I tell her about the terrible events of last night. ‘Are you saying you had a secret assignation with Barry Lurcher on the pier?’
I’m vexed by her leaping to conclusions. ‘Do you think I go running about meeting funny men?’
She shrugs, cradling her coffee cup in her skinny fingers. ‘I hardly know you at all, do I, ducky? You might be hiding all kinds of secrets. How do I know what you are capable of?’
Staring back at her, I realise Effie has been wondering about me. I try to give as little as possible away. I’ve grown good at it. Now she’s squinching up her face into wrinkles and looks like nothing but a cross old coconut. If we want to be friends, she’s saying, then she needs to know more about me.
‘Effie, what I’m saying is that he did something supernatural to me, down on the front last night.’
She looks frankly sceptical. ‘Maybe you’re being swept off your feet by him. Maybe that’s what it feels like when it happens.’
‘There was nothing romantic about this,’ I burst out. ‘He seized control of me. He said I was an empty vessel and he could make me dance…’
‘But why, ducky?’ she asks. ‘What would he gain from mixing his metaphors like that?’
All I know is I went to the very edge last night and was almost never seen again.
The two of us are jolted out of our conversation by a whole lot of banging at the door. We’re both astonished when Abigail Lurcher comes stumbling in, more animated than we’ve ever seen her. ‘Shut the door! He doesn’t know I’m here!’
We both see at once how scared she is. ‘What the devil’s the matter?’ says Effie, turning the shop sign to Closed and trotting off to brew more coffee.
‘Only you two can help me,’ says Abigail. ‘I’ve snuck out of the hotel to bring you this.’ She thrusts her shopping bag at us and we can see at once that it still contains the lumpen form of Tolstoy the bat. ‘It’s lethally dangerous. Mr Grenoble stuffed extra evil magic into the wicked thing. You two have to hide it and keep it away from Barry.’
‘Hold it,’ says Effie, trying to open the bourbons. ‘What are you talking about?’
The distraught young woman points at the shopping bag, now resting on the breakfast bar. One wing has slid out. ‘That monster needs to be kept away from my husband. Only then can Barry be free!’
Effie and I exchange a glance. Why should we trust her?
‘It isn’t just a harmless puppet,’ says Abigail.
‘I could have told you that,’ I snap. Unconsciously I touch my hair, as if my wig is in danger again.
Effie says, ‘What we want to know is how Barry makes it do such horrible things?’
‘You’ve got it the wrong way about,’ says Abigail. ‘It’s Tolstoy who controls Barry. He makes him comply with his will, drawing all his magic power from Grenoble’s magic toyshop. It was there that Tolstoy came from, some forty years ago, you see. When Barry was just a teenager, on holiday with his mum. Tolstoy was a present, but poor Barry succumbed to a life of servitude to a dark, furry master.’
Effie and I stare at the single, gnarled claw hanging out of the bag. Could it be true? And yet it was Barry’s voice I heard inside my head last night, not Tolstoy’s. Right now I’m not sure who’s possessing who.
‘You’re a witch,’ Abigail says to Effie. ‘You know what to do.’
‘How do you know that I’m a witch?’ snaps Effie, rather shrill.
‘Mrs Claus told me,’ says Abigail. ‘She says you’ll find a spell, somewhere in your old books of magic, to put this malignant beast out of action.’
Is it my imagination? Or does the claw that hangs half out of that bag start to tremble and flex? The sides of the shopping bag are swelling and rising and falling with the long-eared bat’s sulphurous breath…
Effie grumbles. ‘I suppose I might rustle something up. We’ll need some black candles. And industrial quantities of salt to make a protective pentagram… And maybe there’s something belonging to my old Aunt Maud which might be of some use…’
‘How did you get the puppet away from Barry?’ I ask.
‘My husband was out for the count this morning,’ Abigail says. ‘Last night’s performance wore him out. He had horrible nightmares and was shouting in his sleep…’
Around about midnight, I ruefully suppose. Right when he was shouting at me.
Abigail and Effie set about finding just the right protection spell to put Tolstoy out of action.
‘The real source of this evil is in Robin Hood’s Bay,’ says Abigail worriedly. ‘Mr Grenoble and his unholy Toyshop. That’s where all the trouble began for my poor Barry.’
As she says this I am starting to feel most peculiar. Effie is fussing around with magical ingredients and getting Abigail to tie the bat puppet to a chair. But my thoughts are elsewhere. I am echoing inside. Chiming like a great hollow bell.
My feet start walking. I am heading to the door. I move without my own volition. I am responding t
o a summons I have felt, more than heard.
The other two don’t even notice me leaving. They think I’m making a fresh brew.
But I’m not. I’m leaving the building. I’m sallying forth into the evening.
Utterly possessed.
It’s a very brave man who tries to possess me, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Over the years I’ve had svengalis and other brutes having a go at subsuming my consciousness and I’ve had to beat them all off.
Now I’m sitting on the bus and bridling. Underneath the worry I’m furious. How dare these men – this Barry Lurcher, Mr Grenoble and Tolstoy the Bat – how dare they assume they can meddle with my mind?
But I’m feeling peculiar. Like a thunder storm is raging inside my head. Many different voices are calling out to each other, overlapping and indistinct, each of them trying to be heard.
‘This is the last stop, love,’ says the bus driver. I’m the last aboard. My reflection in the dark window is horrible. I’m all pale and drawn.
We’re at the very top of the sloping town. As I clamber off the driver looks concerned. He even asks if I’m all right. Why do I look strange to him? My feet are moving at a leaden pace. I’m walking like a robot. Maybe I look like a drunk old woman. That’s what I feel like as I begin the steep descent into Robin Hood’s Bay.
I don’t have to consciously find my way back to the Toyshop. I know exactly which alleyway it’s hiding in. My feet lead me there unbidden.
Soon I’m standing outside the illuminated windows and garish displays and the truth hits me. I am possessed by their wills at this very moment. I have been in their grip ever since I left my home.
My eyes well up with futile tears. I have been my own woman for so long now. It is many years since I escaped from the control of men. And yet here I am. Subjugated to a psyche not my own.
I kick open the door to the Toyshop.
Tinkle goes the bell.
Inside tea lights cast eerie shadows on the toys, making clowns and cats and china dolls seem infinitely sinister. By the counter sits Mr Grenoble, pixie-like in the shadow of Barry Lurcher and his gargantuan beard.
‘How gratifying. You came here because I commanded it!’
Mr Grenoble chuckles at Barry’s booming welcome. He’s still whittling away at a piece of wood. I tell them both:
‘I came here of my own volition, I’ll have you know. I came here to get a few answers.’
‘You shall have them, my dear. You shall know it all. Now that you have sacrificed your autonomy to my sublime potency…!’
‘You’re crackers! I’ve never heard such suggestive nonsense!’
‘You know it’s serious and real, Brenda. Last night you felt my voice inside your head, didn’t you? You know that I can do what I will with you.’
I cast a glance at the still-whittling Mr Grenoble and see him sniggering there. I bark at him:
‘What do you have to say about all of this?’
‘I’ve known Barry since he was a little boy. He has grown into a great and powerful magician. He is the proud possessor of amazing powers.’
‘Huh, you men always stick together.’
‘I was only a child when I first came here. My mother dropped me at the door, thinking it was just an ordinary toyshop. She thought I’d waste my holiday pocket money on some trifling thing to keep me occupied. She never dreamed, I don’t suppose, that she was sending me to face my ultimate destiny.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘For here, in the gaudy recesses of Aladdin’s cave I met this miraculous Toyman. When he looked at me he recognised my potential greatness at once.’
‘Is this true?’
‘True as true can be. I can see these things, you see. I can see into people. I can see into those who have larger, more powerful souls than anyone else. Like Barry here.’
‘Well, bully for him.’
‘Plus, I can see into the hollow interior of those unfortunates who have – for one reason or another – no soul at all. Such as you, Brenda.’
‘W-what? I’ve got no soul?’
‘Surely you know that already, my dear? After all the life you’ve experienced? You must know, deep down, in your heart of hearts, that there is no immortal soul in there. You’re as hollow as an Easter egg. As hollow as a puppet.’
‘No. Shut up!’
Suddenly I have to be out of that place. It’s like dark tendrils are clawing at me. The tenebrous fingers of a heinous mind come writhing towards me and I whirl about, but I can’t escape. This awful old man is saying nasty things but the nastiest thing of all is that, somehow, I know that he is speaking the truth.
You see, I’ve always been different to everyone else.
‘You mustn’t panic,’ said Barry. ‘Having no soul to speak of doesn’t diminish you in any way. It makes you more special to me, in fact.’
‘Let me out of this Toyshop, you maniacs!’
‘How else do you think I can control you? How else can I slip so easily inside you, my dear? Why, because there is nothing else in there. It’s only too easy for a Puppet Master like me.’
‘No… I won’t believe it! I can’t! I’m a person! A real person!’
‘But only just. And only because you really want to be. Barry, it’s almost midnight already. We need to be prepared.’
‘You’re right. I think we’ve explained enough.’
‘But you haven’t explained anything! What are you up to? What are you going to do to me?’
‘My stupid bint of a wife went to see you this evening, didn’t she? She stole away with dear old Tolstoy. She thinks she can hide him away from me. Foolish woman.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was looking out from behind your eyes…’
‘Oh, come along, both of you. We have to go down to the shore. Down through the town and right to the very edge of the sea. And I must leave the door of my shop open to the night breezes, so that all of my puppets and toys can jump up and slip out and join in with the parade…’
‘You two are bananas. What are you saying? That your toys come to life at Beltane..?’
‘Not all of them, no. Just the most special ones. Just a certain type.’
‘Ah – listen! Can’t you hear it? That clattering… it sounds like bones and creaking old joints. That howling hullaballoo… Can’t you hear them coming..?’
Mr Grenoble leads us out of the shop and into the alley and then into a steep street that curves about the outskirts of the narrow town and leads sharply down to the beach. And yes, all of a sudden, I can hear it. All the rattling and clacking of wooden limbs and metal joints, and the clacking of hinged jaws and glass eyes flicking in sockets. There comes the baying of wooden hounds and the roaring of monsters covered in dead fur.
Mr Grenoble laughs and claps with awful merriment and Barry becomes very solemn. I couldn’t turn back if I tried as we step off the cobbles and onto damp sand. The moon is bright silver on the sea and the flat of the beaches looks endless. There is deep violet shadow beneath the savage crags.
From far over the hills and from goodness knew where comes the jaunty hurdy-gurdy of carnival music. It heralds the arrival of the Great Puppet Hunt.
‘They’re coming for you, Brenda,’ said Barry. ‘The puppets are crawling out of hell and they’re enjoying their single night of freedom upon the face of the earth. Once a year they are allowed to dance through our skies and this year is special because they are coming for you, my dear. You – the most foolish puppet who ever lived. Or rather, who thought she was alive.’
‘No… leave me alone.’
‘You’re a puppet made out of human parts, aren’t you? Sourced from a dozen or more different graves and charnel houses. Stitched together with catgut and twine. That’s all you are, isn’t it, Brenda? A horrible hotch-potch. A female miscellany. A foul, reeking casserole of mortal remains. Oh, don’t look like that. We know your secrets.
‘Mr Grenoble and I know all about everything you have tried to hide
. It’s so pathetically obvious who and what you are. You’re a puppet. A monster. Now. Stand on these sands, and watch them approach. They are coming for you now, dear Brenda.’
I’m standing there helpless. Struck dumb with fear and shock as Barry Lurcher steps away from me. Then I turn to look back down the long expanse of shoreline and I see that he is right.
All the masked goblins and dummies and marionettes, they have emerged from their own special hell. That portion of Hades given over to those who have no souls. Here they come dancing all out of time to discordant music, traipsing out of the churning sky…
At their head rides a man with a terrible bloated head and pointed chin. My captors laugh and tell me he is king of all the puppets in hell. Mr Punch rides upon the back of a glittering crocodile, whose scales are glossy black jet. Those flashing fangs are after me and I’m swept up into the charging crowd of effigies, homunculi and figurines. Princes and shepherdesses, dragons and mice, soldiers, nutcrackers and big bad wolves… In a trice I am a part of the horrible parade; I have ineluctably joined this dance of the dead. Or rather, a dance for those who had never really lived…
We ride along the headland and I resist, I twist and turn and struggle to break free. I see the faces of wildcats, foxes and owls all around me. A snarling menagerie with malevolent glass eyes. We swoop up the rocky crags and across the clifftops and we lift into the air like a dark skein of starlings. From the ground we must look like horrendous storm clouds massing above Whitby Abbey.
Down there in the town of Whitby – for that’s how far we have flown already – the people are celebrating Beltane, all unawares. They have a few garish fireworks and they indulge in some tame dressing up. There are bonfires and silly games and people out in the streets at midnight wearing Gothic finery. Yet here I am, a part of the most macabre show on earth – soaring through the skies with the Wild Puppet Hunt.
They want to take me away forever, I know. I understand that all this exhilarating stuff is just a prelude to what they intend to do. If they get their way they will take me down into hell with them. And there I will be in torment forever.
I can’t have that, can I? I have a life to live on Earth, still. I might be two hundred years old, but I still have a lot to give. And so, as we sweep like a curse across the rooftops of Whitby I am struggling again, desperate to be free.