ISOF

by Pete Townsend

  ‘Gotcha,’ thundered a voice.

  The walls of the corridor shimmered with an intense light. Ben tried desperately to focus on the figure whose hand gripped his shoulder so firmly but it was impossible. Colours swirled, shapes twisted and squirmed and all he could hear was the thundering echoes of the voice and a vague ‘tick, tock’ in the background.

  ‘It’s time,’ said the voice.

  Ben turned in the direction of the voice and squinted at the halo of light surrounding the figure.

  ‘Time for what?’ asked Ben querulously.

  ‘To be useful,’ replied the voice.

  Instantly the corridor dissolved into a riot of colours. Familiar shapes now filled his vision as the hallway to his bedroom emerged in a blur of hazy lines. Ben’s gaze searched the length of the arm whose hand still lay upon his shoulder.

  ‘Dad?’ he asked, his voice sounding hollow. He shook his head slightly, hoping that the movement might counter the fluctuating hallway. Ben blinked and looked at the figure once more. ‘Dad!’ he affirmed to himself.

  ‘Correct both times,’ replied Ben’s father. ‘I thought you might appreciate a little parental interruption into your imaginative ramblings.’

  ‘Help, yes,’ sighed Ben. ‘But interruption, no!’

  ‘You spend far too much time in your room,’ laughed Ben’s father. ‘It’s high time you experienced a bit of reality and helped out in the shop.’

  Ben shrugged his shoulders as he carefully scanned the hallway for any suspicious objects or dubious shapes. Tentatively he touched the wall with the tip of his finger. He looked quizzically at his father.

  ‘Is this really our hallway?’ he asked. ‘And is that my bedroom door?’ indicated Ben with a slight nod of his head.

  His father placed a finger on Ben’s forehead and quickly withdrew it with a theatrical gesture.

  ‘Wow!’ he laughed. ‘Roasting!’

  Ben allowed his eyes to roll towards the ceiling. ‘Droll,’ he sighed, ‘very droll.’ He rubbed his eyes as if the remnants of sleep still remained.

  ‘Come on,’ said his father. ‘No matter how rough you feel, times marches on.’

  Ben stared at his father.

  ‘Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day,’ he muttered, remembering the words spoken so recently.

  ‘Macbeth!’ grinned his father. ‘I didn’t know you cared for such stuff.’

  ‘I don’t normally,’ replied Ben. ‘It’s just something somebody said recently.’

  ‘Too much time on your hands, that’s what it is.’ His father indicated the stairs.

  ‘Downstairs,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I’ve got a few things for you that will help pass the time of day!’ Pausing halfway down the stairs, Ben’s father turned and frowned. “You haven’t seen my watch by any chance have you?’ he asked. ‘Could have sworn I left it on the kitchen table.’

  Ben shook his head and began to follow his father down the stairs, wondering just what kind of chores his father had in mind apart from taking part in a watch hunt.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Hey,’ whispered a voice. ‘Come on now. It’s time to wake up.’

  The figure tried desperately to focus on the source of the voice. It seemed so far away, high above the clouds that shimmered in the haze of consciousness. ‘What?’ the figure managed to croak.

  ‘Sssh, now,’ soothed the voice. ‘You’re safe. Just relax a while.’

  The figure needed no further encouragement to relax and allowed its whole body to sag into the straw bedding. Various sounds and smells drifted around that seemed to resonate with a likeness that the figure felt comforting. Slowly sensing a feeling of familiarity about the voice and its owner, the figure, with an effort that seemed to demand all of the strength that remained in its body, managed to raise itself on one arm.

  ‘Hey, now,’ whispered the voice again. ‘Take it easy.’

  The owner of the voice gently eased the figure back onto the straw and with a deftness of touch, quickly checked the bandage on the figure’s arm.

  ‘There now,’ said the voice. ‘You’ve gone and opened your wound again, just when it seemed to be doing so well.’

  Without further comment the owner of the voice bathed the wound, applied a salve and wrapped a clean bandage around the arm. The figure watched patiently as its arm was tended with gentleness.

  ‘There,’ said the owner of the voice. ‘That should hold it for now.’

  The figure gingerly touched the clean bandage and then looked towards the voice.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  The owner of the voice said nothing but simply lit a candle and lifted the light towards her face.

  ‘Pinchkin,’ exclaimed the figure, throwing her undamaged arm around her friend. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘Steady, now,’ chuckled, Pinchkin. ‘Don’t go undoing all of my good work again.’ She carefully prised the figure’s arm from around her shoulders. ‘Well, Telu,’ she said. ‘What have you been up to?’ She grinned broadly. ‘As if I didn’t know!’ Telu grinned in the half-light.

  ‘Made a real nuisance of myself I hope,’ she replied with a smile.

  Pinchkin tried to swallow her chuckle.

  ‘Nothing new there then,’ she coughed. She tried to look sternly at Telu. ‘Good thing for you that Smegglebert was there to keep you safe.’

  Telu frowned.

  ‘You mean to say…’

  ‘Yes, I do mean to say,’ sighed Pinchkin. ‘If it hadn’t been for that husband of mine, you’d be shut up in some dank cell and quite possibly forgotten about for several seasons.’

  Telu propped herself up on her good arm, her face coloured with anger.

  ‘I don’t need a babysitter,’ she snapped.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Pinchkin replied. ‘But you didn’t think we’d let a young girl prowl about at night all on her own did you?’

  Telu lowered herself onto the straw, her lips trembling, wishing she had the strength to get up and stamp her feet. She saw that Pinchkin was watching her reactions.

  ‘You need to be more careful, my girl,’ said Pinchkin.

  ‘I am,’ growled Telu.

  Placing a hand on Telu’s shoulder, Pinchkin knelt down. ‘I suggest you need to think about the consequences of your actions. There are more important things than simply annoying the Jaresh and making yourself into some sort of folk hero.’

  Before Telu could respond, Pinchkin placed a finger on Telu’s lips. She stroked Telu’s hair gently.

  ‘I’ve told everyone that you were only trying to cause a distraction, you know, divert attention away from here and fool the Jaresh into thinking that there was nothing more going on than a touch of vandalism.’

  ‘But…’ spluttered Telu.

  ‘No buts,’ hushed Pinchkin. She busied herself with clearing away the ointments and cloths. ‘I sometimes wonder whether you listen to anything that’s said,’ she grumbled. ‘A mind of your own and no mistaking.’

  Telu snorted with annoyance.

  ‘At least someone around here thinks for themselves,’ she snapped with more energy than she thought possible. ‘Unlike some I could mention.’

  Pinchkin shrugged and let out a little sigh.

  ‘And mention them you shouldn’t,’ she warned. With a smile, Pinchkin rearranged Telu’s damaged arm and patted her pillow. ‘Things are changing,’ she said, looking directly into Telu’s eyes. ‘There’s too much to lose. If we get it wrong now it could be years, generations even that will pass by before we have a chance to put right what was made wrong.’

  Telu allowed her eyes to close. She wanted desperately to prove to everyone that she could make a difference, that she could play her part no matter how small. A tear escaped and caressed her cheek. Pinchkin gently dabbed at Telu’s eyes.

  ‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘You’re so eager to be involved that caution becomes a word for old folk like me.’

  Telu smiled and took hold of Pi
nchkin’s hand.

  ‘You’re not old,’ she grinned. ‘Just a bit time worn, that’s all.’

  Pinchkin laughed easily. She walked over to the door, paused briefly and smiled at Telu.

  ‘And you’re not young enough to be idling time away in bed,’ she said. ‘Try and sleep a little more and then come on through for something to eat.’ Pinchkin bustled through the doorway. ‘Must dash,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘We’re expecting a visitor.’

  Chapter 7

  At number 47 Grace Street, stood ‘The Fish Shop’. Its garish, multi-coloured paintwork made it stand out from the drab, green newsagent on one side and the purple-tinted hairdressers on the other. Although Ben’s parents had owned the shop since he was a baby, he had never quite gotten used to telling his friends, or anyone else for that matter, that his family owned a business called ‘The Fish Shop’.

  Whenever he had the opportunity, Ben would hide himself away upstairs at the shop and play on his computer. Sometimes it worked, particularly when the shop was so busy his parents hadn’t the time to come upstairs and prise him away from his games.

  Unfortunately, today was one of those less busy times and Ben knew he’d have to occupy himself with some grotty job that his dad didn’t fancy doing. Usually, his dad wanted him to clean out one of the fish tanks, which he didn’t mind really. It was only when Ben was told to clean out one of the large tanks in the middle of the shop that he complained. These tanks were huge and filled with all sorts of fish, plants and various rocks. The problem was that anyone who came into the shop could see what you were doing and couldn’t resist pointing at an imaginary speck on the tank glass and saying “you’ve missed a bit!”

  Ben trudged down the stairs and in to the shop. With a huge grin, his dad gave him a bucket, a range of small brushes and a long-handled net. Ben’s shoulders sank.

  ‘It’s your lucky day,’ beamed his dad. He handed Ben the net. ‘See if you can get all of those stray bits of plant out of the water this time. And don’t fall in,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘How long have I got?’ asked Ben moodily.

  ‘As long as it takes to do the job properly,’ replied his dad with a shrug. He nodded at Ben’s wrist. ‘We’ll have a snack in about an hour, keep a check on the time.’

  Ben glanced at the watch on his wrist and thought how an hour seemed an awful long time. Yawning, he shuffled over to the large tank in the middle of the shop, nudging the bucket and cleaning equipment along with his feet.

  The tank stood on a raised platform so that he had to stand on a stool to reach the top edge of the glass. Rolling his sleeves up, Ben dipped the long-handled net into the tank and began sifting the bits of plant debris out of the water.

  Ben’s arms ached as he slowly moved the net through the water. The job was never-ending. No matter how much plant debris he collected more seemed to appear. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead and thrust the net into the water angrily. As the net hit the gravel bottom of the tank, it continued to going down until Ben’s rolled-up sleeve touched the surface of the water.

  ‘Crikey!’ exclaimed Ben, quickly pulling his sleeve out of the water. Looking into the tank, he realised that in his haste to get his arm out of the water, he’d left the net stuck in the gravel. Ben hitched his sleeve as high as it would go and plunged his arm back into the water. His fingers could just grip the looped handle of the net. Once he thought he had a firm hold, Ben tried to wrench the net out of the gravel. The net wouldn’t budge. With his shoulder touching the surface of the water, Ben tried again, but still the net wouldn’t move. Wrapping his fingers even tighter around the handle Ben pulled as hard as he could. To his surprise, the handle appeared to pull back! Thinking that his mind was playing tricks on him, Ben pulled the net once more. Again the handle seemed to return his efforts by attempting to pull against him. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, his feet barely touching the stool and with all of his weight balancing on the edge of the tank. For a moment he thought the net moved towards him a little. With a smile, Ben prepared himself for one last pull when, all of a sudden, his arm felt as if it was being wrenched from his shoulder. For a brief moment his body rocked gently on the edge of the tank and then, unable to stop himself, Ben yelped and promptly toppled head first into the water. He felt himself sinking, tumbling over and over as the light on the surface of the water grew dimmer. His lungs felt as if they were going to burst, the pressure in his ears was so painful. Ben thought what his father would say about the mess and then everything went black.

  Chapter 8

  Ben thought he was awake, although he wasn’t too sure as the light seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Carefully he stretched out his hands; his fingers trying to describe what his eyes couldn’t see.

  ‘Ugh, yuck!’

  The exclamation echoed around Ben’s ears as his hands catapulted back towards his body, his nose automatically sniffing the substance that made moving his fingers extremely difficult.

  ‘Aaargh!’ he gagged, recoiling from the stench stuck to his fingers. Suddenly the air was filled with a wooden, booming sound followed by a metallic thud. A halo of gloom outlined a dark shape as a rasping noise sawed through the air.

  ‘Be quiet in there or I’ll give you what for,’ grated a voice.

  ‘Excuse me. What am I...’

  Ben was interrupted by another dull metallic thud as the gloom disappeared to be replaced by darkness.

  ‘Hello?’ he called in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. The echo mocked him as it lurched from one invisible surface to another. There was no reply to his shout. Ben tried waving his hands in front of his face. There was nothing to see, just a total blackness that clung to everything. Avoiding any movement of his feet, he gradually pushed his body upwards, allowing his head to explore the space above him a fraction at a time. His whole body was tense as he expected to feel the limits of his confinement make sudden contact with his head. He shivered as his damp clothes clung to him, allowing the raw chill of his surroundings to claw at his body.

  In the stillness he could hear the monotonous ‘drip, drip, squelch’ as some unidentifiable, glutinous substance obeyed the laws of gravity and dropped to the floor, forming small pools of pong. The smell crept over Ben in waves. He could feel his stomach turning over as a tide of nausea swept over him. It was that smell, the claustrophobic stench that suddenly made Ben stop worrying about where he was but, more importantly, ‘How had he got there?

  Frantically, he rummaged through his pockets, desperately trying to find something that would give him a clue. There was nothing in his pockets other than the already familiar dampness and a useless soggy tissue. He closed his eyes on the surrounding blackness, sifting through a dreamscape of images that flickered briefly and then disappearing to make room for the next vague memory. Occasionally, the same image reappeared, gradually allowing Ben to assemble a sort of mental jigsaw.

  It was an odd picture that began to form in Ben’s mind. There was something to do with water, and as he thought about that part of the image his arms responded with a dull ache. There was also something about feathers, a dark figure looming over him and noise, the sound of an angry voice and what could have been screeches in the background. He was puzzled about the feathers, as some of the hazy images had looked like fish.

  As Ben tried to make some sense of his blurred memory, his body seemed to respond with echoing aches. It wasn’t only his arms that ached but his legs felt as if they’d been dragged over a rough surface and each time he moved his shoulders a searing pain shot across his back. Ben’s head fell towards his hands. He felt so lonely, lost in the darkness that encased him.

  A faint scuffling noise distracted him from his momentary despair. Somewhere, close by, something was shuffling about in the impenetrable darkness. Ben shuddered. The noise was soon joined by a faint chattering sound as the coldness and fear caused his teeth to rattle involuntary. Ben wanted to move away from the noise, which seemed to be edging nearer, but his feet
wouldn’t move from where they’d attached themselves to the floor. With a loud grunt, he urged one foot to tear itself free from the glue-like substance that gripped his feet. With his arms stretched out either side of him, he slowly probed the darkness in front of him with his free foot. Images of all his nightmares replayed through his mind. Creatures with hideous features, skin hanging in folds like some oversize coat, long, talon-like hands pawing the air as three protruding, bulbous eyes silently watched, waiting for him to come within grasp. Frosty breath whispered on his neck. Ben shook his head. No! This was just his imagination producing a collage of images gleaned from his memory of comic horror stories. At least he hoped it was.

  ‘Boom, boom, boom.’

  Ben wobbled, and began waving his arms frantically in an effort to keep upright. Unable to keep his balance, his arms and leg gave one last wave as he fell with a sickening squelch onto the floor.

  The door to the prison cell opened with the grating of hinges reluctant to change position. A pool of grey mist crept into the cell causing the shadows to drape the walls and hang there with a threatening silence. Ben lifted his head. The emerging greyness was worse than total darkness. Although his mind played tricks and his imagination ran riot, everything was unknown, a remote possibility that had no hold on reality. The revealing greyness forced the imagination to take a back seat as Ben’s surroundings became all too real.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he could just about make out little piles of small bones which may have belonged to some long dead creatures, whose only reminder of their existence was an awful stench that lingered long after the breath of the creatures had departed. Ben looked at his hands and feet, which now seemed to be totally covered in a darkish, sticky substance, that he hoped was not the remains of the creature’s flesh. A smooth, rounded voice floated around the cell.