Grisly Tales from Tumblewater

by Bruno Vincent

  By tomorrow his appetite might have returned and he could consider lunch at his club, and start to forget about where his reckless and foolhardy hobby had taken him. A sharp breath of frosty air tasted sweet, and Mrs N instinctively gripped his arm as the wagon dived into what looked like an impenetrable bush at the hill’s top. The figures of Truff and Mrs N ducked, there was a tremendous thrashing of leaves like the applause of a huge crowd and they were gone.

  Peace descended at the bottom of the hill around the derelict farm. Every plant grew a fraction of an inch, or inclined towards the last glimmers of the sun, which nestled against the shoulder of the hill. Shadow stole across the valley, until it was evening in the copse of twisted trees.

  As the shadow rose over the roof of the farmhouse, a sound came from within it. It was a kind of grinding, like a heavy chair being scraped back across a stone floor. A few wild animals darted out of the door. A figure appeared, leaning against the doorframe.

  He had a mud-brown complexion, a great bulbous nose and eyes which darted left and right like little creatures that had grown in his skull. He was dressed in clothes so spattered and sprayed with stains that they did not look like clothes at all, but layers of dried earth. He coughed again, a sound like the cracking of a rotted tree trunk before it falls, as he saw the messy spillage that had appeared in the clearing outside his house. He looked at it for a few moments, and noticed the chunks of flesh and bone bobbing at its top. Without moving he let out an animal cry.

  Sounds came from behind one of the uncollapsed sheds. Answering his call, some sickly misshapen creatures lurched forth. They had once been hogs, but were pale and bloated as though fed by some atrocious and unnatural diet. They sniffed over the grey liquid, licked at it and then began to gulp it down.

  From another outhouse, some diseased fowl, which might generations ago have been turkeys, began to emerge hesitantly, squabbling amongst themselves and pecking at the edge of the pool. Other creatures, too, crept out of the shadows: black sheep, blind and milky-eyed; furless hares lapping with nervous licks; even a lumbering bull, which came in from its resting place behind the house and the draping branches of the willow. This last animal drank up the strange-smelling food with its head tilted on to one side by a balloon-sized growth in its neck.

  The farmer sat on a tree stump and watched his creatures feed. He sucked air through a pipe which had no tobacco, and chewed hard on the stem with his remaining teeth.

  His mouth moved with his thoughts until eventually words began to come from it. ‘Ready for market,’ he said, and let out a laugh like the bark of a dog. ‘Aye, ready for market, you are. To morrow morning we’ll leave early, and you’ll fetch a pretty price. Folks always wants good meat.’ The black shapes of bats were beginning to gather on the branches above him now, their wings twitching. ‘And you’re good enough to eat, you are,’ he said.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Jaspers, looking immensely pleased with himself, ‘won’t you agree that’s a rather good one?’

  I agreed without hesitation. In fact, it was so weird and odd and twisted, I thought it might be my favourite so far.

  ‘That’s exactly the sort of story I love,’ I said. ‘It’s even crazier than the others!’

  ‘So – you’d like to publish these as a book?’ His manner had changed from that of an irritated bank manager to an indulgent father.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, although I hadn’t thought about it until that second. ‘Although there’ll be enough stories to fill much more than just one book.’

  ‘We’d have to see if the first was profitable, of course,’ he remarked.

  ‘Of course!’ I agreed. ‘So you think you might be interested in hiring me?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to speak to our sales people,’ he said complacently. ‘But then,’ he added, ‘I don’t really have any, unless you count the simpleton Cravus and the blond boy whose name I can never remember. You’ve met Cravus, and I daresay he likes you, so I suppose we can discuss terms. If this is to be an ongoing series, perhaps you’d better have a desk in the office too. Sir,’ he reached over a hand to me, ‘you tell a good tale. You are employed.’

  I shook it warmly. ‘Thank you!’ I said. ‘I’m honoured! Thank you!’ The three of us who had been waiting for Jaspers’s decision relaxed, and I felt a swell of gratitude to them all. It was a miracle to have found some work so quickly, when a few hours earlier everything had seemed so impossible.

  Uncle chose this moment of good humour to speak up.

  ‘There is the small matter that young Daniel is a . . . well, a fugitive from the law.’

  Mr Jaspers composed himself, looked blandly first at me and then at Uncle and waited for an explanation.

  ‘He is wanted for a burglary he didn’t commit,’ said Uncle. ‘I know that might dampen your spirits somewhat . . .’

  Mr Jaspers laughed loudly. ‘Good lord, no! It’s tremendous publicity! Other publishers would kill for an author who’s on the run,’ and he chuckled again, looking at me admiringly. I felt a rather complicated emotion for a second – proud of myself, but also as though I was being sized up like a prize pig. Then Mr Jaspers regained a serious expression and leaned in towards me. ‘For God’s sake, don’t get caught,’ he said. He thought for a second and added, ‘At least not before you’ve written it all down. Gentlemen!’ he raised his wine glass to Codger and Uncle. ‘This has been a very satisfactory late lunch. Or early supper. I shall be most pleased to pick up the bill to commemorate this meeting!’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Codger, ‘cos we ain’t got a penny.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I mean, I suppose,’ said Jaspers. ‘Although it’s always nice to see you both, of course. Mr Dorey, you must be vigilant from now on to remain out of the public gaze. We will find a disguise for you. Perhaps you should – er . . .’ He faltered and looked at the other two men. ‘Does he know about the . . . ?’ he asked uncertainly.

  ‘Do I know about the what?’

  Codger shook his head. ‘We ain’t told him yet.’

  ‘We’ll do it later,’ said Uncle.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I asked, getting annoyed.

  ‘You’re better off if you don’t know for now,’ said Uncle. ‘What you’ve got to concentrate on is avoiding the law and getting home before dark. Don’t take this lightly, Daniel,’ and he put his hand on mine and gripped it. ‘Every copper’s going to be out tonight looking for a lad about your age. And if they catch you, or any poor boy who looks like you, it isn’t prison you’ll be for.’

  ‘Ditchers Fields,’ said Codger quietly.

  ‘How exciting,’ breathed Mr Jaspers.

  ‘But I haven’t done anything!’ I said, though I didn’t sound convincing to my own ears. No matter how strange and sinister it was that Prye knew about me from his spies almost before I had arrived, I was starting to suspect that he did have a reason for hunting me – could he know about the very secret I had been keeping from Uncle and the others?

  I shuddered as I thought back to what I had heard among the costermongers. That Caspian Prye had been away from other people for so long that he had forgotten what they were like, that his face had grown into something unrecognizable. That he was no longer human.

  With this in mind I stepped back on to the street, turning up the collar of my cloak so that it covered the bottom half of my face. I thanked the men for everything, and decided to return to Turvey House to write up as many of the stories as I could before sleep – I was determined to do a good job so Mr Jaspers wouldn’t regret his decision. The three of them kept trying to say they would accompany me, but I knew they would just slow me down. I wanted to run through the back alleys. I wouldn’t be spotted, and I could be home in five minutes, putting pen to paper.

  As I started to trot along quite speedily, I suddenly remembered what the lamp in Jaspers’s office had reminded me of. How it had come to be there I had no idea, but it was a candlestick-maker’s lamp, exactly like the one that little J
enny spent her life watching out for at the corner of the costermongers’ street. I began to wonder if there was some way I could help her.

  While this went through my mind, I had been darting instinctively down the darkest and most deserted alleys that I saw, avoiding any sign of habitation. But now I found the close streets eerily silent. I had slipped into an area of deserted factories, their tall rusting shapes closing out the light, all of them empty since long ago. In between them a network of slender canals ran crossways through parts of Tumblewater, constructed decades ago to bring materials into the factories and take away finished goods on narrowboats, before this area had become obsolete and forgotten. As I ran along, I heard a noise in the echoing silence – it sounded like someone running in wet, bare feet. It came from nearby, but I couldn’t see anything moving in the shadow. I slowed down, persuading myself it was an echo of my own footsteps, but instead it got faster. It didn’t sound like someone running away from something. It was a stealthy tread, like a creature stealing up on its prey.

  I looked over my shoulder, my fear growing because the noise rebounded through the broken windows and off the high walls on every side so I couldn’t tell whether it was in front of me or behind. I ran across one of the small iron bridges over a little canal to slip between two buildings and shouted in fear as a figure dashed across the entrance at the other end. As it disappeared there was a big splash and I ran forward. When I got to where it had been, there was no one there and I was alone in the silence again, except for the rippling of the water below. What light had filtered down from the sky above reflected in tiny fragments on the disturbed water, but everything else was in darkness. I thought I could hear the swish of something large swimming away, but I didn’t stay for long enough to be sure. In a minute I was sprinting back towards the more populated areas – worth the risk now – and trying not to think of the Slumgullion.

  ‘You’re too old to believe in monsters,’ I muttered to myself.

  When I found myself near the main road again, I ducked into a side street and became a small shadow in the dusky alleyways that were at least lined with people’s houses, trying to keep myself invisible, keeping a compass of my direction in my head.

  I was only two or three streets from my own bed when I heard another strange sound. Still distant, it sounded like a flock of birds taking off, flapping leathery wings. I stopped in a doorway to listen – it grew louder. Tentatively I stepped into the street and looked in the direction of the sound. It grew louder again, and three or four boys about my age came running round the corner towards me. Then behind them appeared twenty or thirty more, sprinting. As they passed me, I saw fear in their eyes.

  ‘Run!’ one of them shouted. An unknown fear gripped me, and my legs wouldn’t move. The group of boys was perhaps fifty strong, all pounding past me. The last one shouted desperately, ‘Run! Are you stupid? Run!’

  Three horses suddenly sprang round the corner, ridden by three policemen, dark silhouettes with tall helmets and truncheons swinging wildly. They shouted at their horses and raced towards me. All the boys had gone, slipping round the corner and vanishing into a dozen different passageways. I sprinted across the street after them, squirmed under a low doorway as the first horse came level with me and ran into the darkness, bashing hard into a door where the lane turned. I spun in the mud, and heard the squeak of a door. In front of me like an apparition a tall, beautiful woman was leaning down and offering her hand. The room behind her was yellow with a fast-burning fire, and in a second I was inside the room, leaning back on the closed door, panting, the icy fear in my veins already starting to be soothed by deep breaths and safety.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, gasping. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ I tried hard to control my breathing so I could listen for hoofs outside.

  ‘Don’t worry, they aren’t near,’ the woman said. My head rested back against the door and I kept breathing deeply in great quenching gulps. She had sat down facing away from me towards the fire, and was sewing a shirt.

  I looked around, still getting my breath back. Much of the room was invisible because blankets and fabrics had been draped from the ceiling like sheets left to dry. I looked at the woman again. Her hair looked darker now against the flickering light, and somehow she didn’t seem as tall as when I’d come in.

  I sat in the chair beside her and a second later felt a blanket being draped round my shoulders. I watched the flames as my breathing returned to normal and after a minute asked, ‘Who are you? Why did you help me?’

  ‘You’ve seen me before,’ she said gently. ‘Many times, although you didn’t know it.’

  I wanted to ask what she meant, but she got up and walked quietly out of the room. Alone in the warmth and quiet I began to feel drowsy, but I resisted my tiredness. This wasn’t the time to fall asleep.

  She came back in stirring something in a wooden cup and handed it to me. It smelt curious and unlike anything I had drunk before, but good, and as I sipped it I started to feel more like myself.

  ‘You look very snug there,’ she said, taking up the shirt again. ‘You’ll feel better in no time.’

  I nodded and took another sip, staring into the flames.

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do while you’re drinking that,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’

  I nodded again, more eagerly.

  ‘What sort of a story would you like?’

  I shrugged. ‘One about magic,’ I said quietly, to see her response.

  ‘Hm,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘All right, then. A magical one it is.’

  And as I sat there, the fire warming me from without and the drink from within, she began in her beguiling voice the tale of . . .

  Penny was a friendly little girl of nine years old who lived with her mother on the top floor of a very narrow, rickety building in the poorest part of town. Her mother worked hard in a factory all day while Penny stayed at home mending clothes for their neighbours, a job which she liked, and which also brought them a few extra pennies a week.

  She was a quiet and obedient child who used her spare moments to clean up around the little apartment, scrub the floors and dust the furniture. This was so that her mother might be pleased with her when she arrived home from the factory, tired and bothered, which she always did at around seven o’clock. Her mother never noticed, however, or if she did she never mentioned it, and would always send Penny to bed after a meagre supper, at seven thirty sharp.

  For the past few days, after she went to bed each night, Penny had been kept awake by a curious tapping on the little window high above her bed. Last night she had gone into the kitchen to tell her mother about it, but her mother’s friend Mrs Grobble was there, who always seemed to love talking about the most awful and terrifying things, and she could not get a word in edgeways.

  ‘Hanged him at last, they have,’ Mrs Grobble was saying. ‘And a good thing too. Leastways we can sleep well again without the worry of him on our streets. You didn’t go to the hanging?’

  Penny’s mother seemed about to speak, but Mrs Grobble answered for her.

  ‘Course you didn’t, busy woman like you, at work no doubt. Anyway, most terrible weird thing. Just as he was hanging there and the crowd was cheering fit to burst themselves, this bird came down – crow maybe, or a rook, it was hard to see – and settled on his head for a second. It seemed to lean right in like it was going to peck out his eye, or was listening to his voice, and the crowd went dead quiet. Then it flew right up, screaming, as though it realized what it had landed on. Quite sent the chills down me, I don’t mind telling you. I haven’t looked at a bird the same way since, these two weeks.’

  She seemed to pause, so Penny tried to speak: ‘Mummy, I—’

  But Mrs Grobble carried on the next second, as unstoppable as a steam train. ‘And you know what they said he done to those poor women? They said as how he would use a carving knife – and then eat their bodies . . .’ Penny found herself feeling sick and faint, and ran back to bed to hide beneat
h the covers.

  That was yesterday. Now it was very late and she lay in bed hearing the tapping on the window once more. Mrs Grobble was in the kitchen as usual, talking nineteen (or more) to the dozen, so Penny, who was not only quiet and obedient but also helplessly curious, decided to climb up and see what the noise was. First she stepped on the bedpost, then on to the handle and the top of the wardrobe, then she climbed over an empty suitcase and a tall chest and finally pulled herself up by a thin nail sticking out of the wall, so she could see out of the window. Through its small circle of glass she saw a black bird, much larger up close than she had ever realized a black bird could be, and which she thought must be a raven. As she looked, it tapped the pane with its beak three times. Penny waved at it and smiled.

  ‘Hello, Mr Raven!’ she said.

  But the bird shook its head, as though it didn’t just want to be waved to. It tapped the window again, three times.

  Maybe he wants to come in, Penny wondered. So she leaned up and twisted the little lock on the side of the window, making it swing outwards.

  The bird put its head in so that it could see all the way round the room before turning its little black eyes to her. Then, to Penny’s astonishment, in quite a courteous voice, it said: ‘Do come out and join me.’

  Penny gasped, her foot slipped from the nail and she fell hard on to the chest (where she banged her bottom), the suitcase (where she bruised her shoulder) and then all the way down on to her bed where she landed with an enormous crash.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ called her mother. The door burst open and Penny’s mother filled the frame, Mrs Grobble’s wart-covered face peering over her shoulder.