The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

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The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb Page 15

by David John Griffin


  A scruffy outhouse snuggled up to one of the barns which stood in farmer Solomon’s yard, slouching in the sun’s dying rays. Its rain-battered wooden door had swollen and like a stubborn mule which needed more than gentle persuasion from a brutish type, it received several hefty kicks. It shuddered, loosening more of its paint before casually opening.

  A thin man wearing spectacles and with ringlets of white hair stepped out onto the yard, trailing a broom behind him over the scattered straw stems, horse droppings and clumps of mud. He shuffled over to another outhouse which faced the straw bales stacked to the eaves of an open-sided construction. Beside that stood ploughs and a steam-powered threshing machine.

  A long shadow was cast behind Mr. Badger from the last of the light filtering from the darkening sky. His nose began to run in sympathy with his weak eyes; he drew the grubby cuff of his waistcoated shirt across it. Not content to let his thoughts run silently through his mind, he allowed them to slaver from his tongue; a stream of sibilant muttering, a barrage of curses and blasphemies; idle perverse and obscene statements thrown to the moon which had now taken a sketched residence in the evening sky. By vocalizing such meandering, interspersed with wordless parrot noises, he was able to clear his mind for a while of the queer erotic thoughts that insisted on coming to him at the most unexpected of times. The mumbled monotone was lost to the outhouse as he entered, the broom skipping over the step like a puppy in playful chase of the farm hand.

  Mr. Badger heaved the door shut behind him. The scene was static again save for the mist that was creeping furtively up to the farmyard.

  CHAPTER 26

  Shocking News

  STALK WIPED THE blood from his fingers onto his stained apron and smiled to himself. Pulling the cleaver from the tree stump which lay beside him hatched and cross hatched, he playfully slammed it into the flesh which lay on the counter. He winked slowly as to make it appear he was simply closing an eye then gave a contented sniff as the cleaver struck a rib. He rubbed his bearded chin and then the back of his hand and said, ‘I will cut you up after tea.’ He snorted and made his way to the door, saying as he went, ‘The day’s going too quick for my liking.’ He spoke the words crisply though the only ears for his remarks to reach were his own. After he had turned a sign around on the door of his butcher’s shop from “open” to “closed”, it tired of its grip by the rubber sucker and fell silently to the mat. He tutted and casually bent his back to retrieve it and, as he did so, he looked through the door pane to scan the village green. Small birds pecked frantically at the earth; wooden benches and a horse trough, the village clock there; the oak trees huddled together as if from the wind. The omnibus stop shelter waited patiently for occupation; and, as Stalk swung his head back to the left, he saw William Stubb ambling across the green towards the public house. The Bulldog Fish Tavern, tucked neatly at a corner of the green with its door open, stood beside Martha May’s Wool Store and Miss Dripping’s confectionery shop.

  The public house seemed to glare at Stubb’s approach with shuttered eyes and a gaping, toothless mouth. Stubb was licking his dry lips in anticipation and attempting to lengthen his stride towards his objective. Stalk allowed the half-smile to drop from his face. He mumbled an obscenity under his breath and waited until Stubb was no more than three yards from The Bulldog Fish Tavern whereupon the butcher opened his door. The bell rang nervously above him. He remembered that he had forgotten to put the sign up but waved the thought away with a twirl of his hand whilst the other hand produced a family of keys from his apron. He selected the appropriate one and locked the shop.

  He turned into the next doorway. A gaudy sign spread itself across the small wattle and daub building declaring it to be Nuckle’s Tea House. With stained hands shoved deep into the pockets of his apron, Stalk pushed on the door with his elbow. The door creaked as if with annoyance at being disturbed.

  The tops of the tables were rarely cleaned; the tables stood haphazardly about the room, covered with scraps of mouldering food and dust and distemper from the ceiling. Cigarette ends and scraps of paper littered the floor, as did petals and plant stems. Arrangements of dead and dried flowers stood in containers where space allowed. The wallpaper was dirty blue stripes and streaked with damp.

  Stalk strolled to the counter which lay at the back of the room. A glass cabinet before him contained three bread rolls, green with mould, and an object Stalk guessed might once have been a cake. He coughed twice and placed his elbows on the counter thus spoiling a perfect layer of dust there. A daily ritual had grown over many years and though Stalk was aware that it would not produce Mr. Nuckle, he coughed once more and stood scratching his beard for a full minute.

  He turned away from the counter and stepped lightly over to his chair which sat by the window. The seat was devoid of varnish through his unintentional backside polishing every day.

  As Stubb moved across the sticky and stained carpet in the public bar of The Bulldog Fish Tavern, all heads and eyes turned to him. There was a sudden ceasing of conversation apart from Sammy Solomon who was enthralled with the sound of his own voice. A sharp jab in the ribs curtailed his waffling save for an urgent whisper of ‘What was that for?’

  Stubb rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was perplexed as to why he should have such an attentive audience. They sat with dark beer-filled jugs in their hands about the hefty barrels serving as tables, stony expressions and without movement as though posing for a photograph. Stubb finally rested his sight onto Chess the publican who stood behind the bar with his usual posture of arms folded tightly about him as though embracing himself.

  Miss Crouch, engaged upon her lunch-time duty of washing the glassware, stood pondering the question of the validity of classical authors on modern-day literature and seemingly oblivious to the strange event of silence in the public bar of The Bulldog Fish Tavern.

  As if he could not make a decision as to who needed the sight of his perplexed expression the most, Stubb swung his attention from Chess to the hushed members of the room and back again. Still no one moved. He fumbled in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and cast his perturbed eyes across the beamed bar. Then, like a disappointed child, he stamped his foot on the carpet.

  ‘What’s the matter with you lot?’ he shouted.

  Hearing no answer from the brewery congregation who sat as stiffly as mannequins in a fine clothes shop, he whipped his bulk around, away from their unblinking stares. He flushed with anger when his nose met the yellow face of Chess who still appeared to be cuddling himself.

  ‘What’s wrong? I’ve got it. You’ve run out of beer. That’s it, isn’t it?’ Still no one moved or spoke. ‘I’ve got something, food stuff in my teeth? Or my whiskers?’ Stubb’s balding crown turned lobster pink and a shade of red washed into his cheeks. He threw his head back in a lordly manner, ironing out some of the loose skin about his neck. ‘What is the problem with you bunch?’ he questioned loudly but apparently to Chess.

  The publican behind the mahogany carved bar, a line of pewter and glass tankards at his back, placed his elbows down upon the top with his arms crossed, hands still determined to meet around his back. ‘Queenie’s returned; been seen in Muchmarsh,’ he stated matter-of-factly. Without moving his sallow hands he slowly wiped a scratch from his ear onto his shoulder.

  Stubb’s torso twitched the once and his mouth fell open. He groaned and sighed and gasped and his eyes were rendered dark by his own exclamations. He appeared suddenly exhausted and he seemed to subside when his shoulders fell lower. He stared sightlessly past Chess’s left arm and he mumbled to himself. Chess dropped his head closer to Stubb’s downturned mouth. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, seemingly to the beermat.

  ‘When?’ squeaked Stubb, his voice jumping an octave. He gazed dreamily through a whitewashed wall and then to a ceiling beam covered with dried green hops.

  ‘Can’t rightly say, William. Young Solomon says when he was out herding the cows this morning, he sees her running across Scripping’s
Field as though the Devil himself was after her. Isn’t that so, Sammy? But still, it don’t seem right, does it? I mean, she’s not been seen for two year or more, as well you know. Even the food parcels weren’t collected this last year, were they? Begging in Smudge, we all reckon. But see, two days ago our Isaac swears he’s seen her along Daisytrail Lane, sitting there, crouched on the ground like, laughing to herself. Though you know Isaac, what with his eyesight and all.’

  Chess smiled over to the old man in question who sat in his special chair in the corner of the saloon bar next to the open log fire. The farmer moved his fingers through his grey beard and said, ‘I ain’t lying neither. I did see the woman as I see all you now and by the by, I’ll be having another tankard full, Chess.’ The silent crowd exploded into laughter and they raised their ale to the old farmer, some patting him on the back.

  ‘Don’t you be worrying yourself, my old friend. I’ll be pouring in a minute as soon as our lady is ready,’ Chess replied with a chuckle. Glancing over to Miss Crouch, he raised an eyebrow and winked. The locals laughed heartily again and loud enough to jolt Miss Crouch from her reverie. Chess cuddled himself the more. Stubb twisted his mouth into an obscure expression.

  The school teacher turned away from the soapy water in the stone sink and blinked. She saw a quivering Stubb and reached him with two strides.

  ‘Mr. Stubb, do forgive me please. I didn’t see you standing there. The usual?’ She cocked her head to one side as though listening for a faraway sound and a becoming smile lit her plain face.

  Stubb did not hear. He turned abruptly to the silence behind that had once more descended. As though his turning was a cue, the group of locals began to laugh and chatter in a most unnatural way. He held onto the edge of the bar to steady himself as if he might drop to the floor. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then holding the stiffened tendons in the back of his neck, he strode regimentally to the entrance, swung it open and departed. The door thudded behind him and rattled the latch, and the villagers immediately ceased their affected babble in preference to muted tones.

  Miss Crouch was concerned and she said, ‘What is the matter? Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Stalk to himself when he saw Stubb appear from the doorway of The Bulldog Fish Tavern and hurry across the village green. Through the years that he had spent his lunch hour in Nuckle’s Tea Shop, he had acquired the habit of staring through the smeared window to watch for any signs of life which might occur in the sleepy village so that he would occupy himself until Nuckle appeared. The butcher hissed through his teeth. ‘Very unusual,’ he murmured. Flicking a fly away that had landed confidently on his cheek, he rose to his feet. He wiped invisible blood onto his apron and walked a pace closer to the window to gain a better view of the most uncommon sight of William Stubb leaving The Bulldog Fish Tavern before closing time. ‘Go on then, Stubb. Clear off and get out of it,’ he jeered. ‘Nothing but a lazy fat slob.’

  ‘You are talking to yourself again,’ came a gruff voice. Stalk had not noticed Nuckle behind the counter, the curls of his white hair seeming tighter than usual. ‘Something to no one, as it were. If one was to listen to one’s self, one wouldn’t talk when there is no one there to listen. I distinctly heard you talk to yourself. Muttering your usual rubbish no doubt. That is typical of you, did you know that?’ Nuckle’s eyes never left the magazine spread out in front of him. He peered intently at the matt pages and carefully turned them while stroking hair coils.

  ‘Where is my tea, you?’ demanded Stalk and then, changing his tone of voice, in the same breath stated, ‘I have this minute seen Stubb,’ seemingly proud of the statement.

  Nuckle looked up, as always his large eyes possessing an expression of sadness, as though constantly weary with calamitous thoughts. ‘So what,’ he growled. His grumbling voice was no match for his wide, innocent eyes. He removed his spectacles to wipe the lenses on his filthy apron.

  ‘You’re born and bred and lived in Muchmarsh…’

  ‘I was born in Staffingham.’

  ‘…lived in Muchmarsh for as long as I have and you say so what?’ answered Stalk irritably. ‘It’s very queer, that’s what,’ and he added precisely as an afterthought, ‘most strange.’ Musing on his own remarks he stared to the yellow and brown mottled ceiling while Nuckle continued to peruse his magazine. ‘Still reading them dirty books, you,’ said Stalk quickly. ‘Don’t know what you see in it. A grown man reading that rubbish. It’s smutty.’ He looked down his nose at Nuckle. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Do you want your tea? Perhaps you don’t because it seems your time is taken up with shouting. So do you or don’t you want your blooming tea?’ Nuckle raised his head and stared into Stalk’s eyes, his own brimming with sadness. He replaced his spectacles. ‘And anyway, these aren’t rubbish or smutty. They are nature magazines. It is the anatomical study of the alive and beautiful female form, free from caskets; what’s more it’s for the serious application of science to art.’

  ‘Dirty books.’

  Nuckle sighed. ‘Do you want your tea, I asked you.’

  Stalk marched up to the counter. ‘Where’s my tea then, you?’ he said starchily.

  Nuckle took a step backwards and without averting his glistening eyes from the magazine, put his hand around the doorframe and produced a chipped china cup filled with tea. Through years of habit, he said, ‘The usual price,’ and through years of habit, Stalk replied, ‘Put it on the slate, you,’ and through years of habit, there was not to be another word spoken between them until the next day.

  CHAPTER 27

  Fog

  ‘PLEASE DO SOMETHING,’ Alastair had pleaded to the person he looked to as his father, after awakening from another bad dream, terror-stricken and trembling.

  ‘What can I do about it? Go back to your bed and stop your thinking; that’s half the trouble boy, you think these stupid things then you wonder why you have nightmares. Go on, do as I say,’ demanded Stubb as he turned his back on the young teenage boy. Alastair sobbed and walked slowly from Stubb’s bedroom to his own, shivering with fear and cold. He fetched a woollen blanket and crept downstairs. He would spend another night on the settee.

  Stubb was concerned; Alastair had been saying some strange things. The night before he had been kept from sleep while Alastair had screamed and raved. Upon investigation he was found cowering in a corner. Yet the situation was changing: that very night he had looked white-faced and frightened and told of somebody trying to get into his head until he had slept but only to have had nightmares which seemed – he had insisted – too real. Stubb decided he would take him to see Dr. Snippet before the situation became worse. With that conclusion made, he relaxed, cleared his mind and fell asleep.

  Alastair sat on the settee in the front room with the blanket held up to his neck, not daring to close his eyes. But upon hearing the clopping of a horse’s hooves, chinking bottles and the dry whistle of the milkman, then Mrs. Battlespoke calling to her chickens, he realized he had slept after all. He yawned and scratched himself and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The rattling snores of his father reached his ears. He dressed and slipped out of the house.

  A cold, whispering Wednesday morning. He walked along Stutter Lane deep in his own thoughts. There was not much to see; he could barely make out the grass verge on the other side of the lane for a thick fog impeded his vision to no more than a few feet. The whiteness hung in the air to form a canvas to paint his thoughts onto. After the incident with Sidney three days before he was expecting some form of retaliation soon and he had begun to wonder how and when.

  As insubstantial forms loomed from the fog he would shudder for they would become a vague impression of the head of Sydney Pump, with a mouth curled into a vicious expression. The shapes would turn out to be trees holding their branches in grotesque contortions or bushes, weighed with frost, wild and straggly.

  Delicate cobwebs sprinkled with dew adorned the hedgerows. All w
as a hush save for the muffled sound of his own footsteps and the occasional bleating of a sheep from one of the silvered fields. Alastair opened his mouth wide to feel the refreshing taste as he took in the air, icy and cold, but after a few minutes his teeth began to ache and his tongue was numbed. He was forced to breathe through his nose that was already blocked with rheum from the onset of a cold. His exposed ears, deprived of sensation by the chilliness, had begun to glow red. He was increasingly convinced that his eyelids had been frozen open. The feeling conjured up reminiscences of two summers ago when he had explored the shallow bottom of Laughing Pond, the gentle pressure of water upon his features.

  Quaint houses and cottages loomed out of the whiteness. There was the vague outline of farmer Solomon’s farmhouse to the left of the farm yard. Further on, a thatched cottage hiding in an overgrown small garden, a sign on its gate with the words: “close cup mushrooms for sale” and “best quality horse manure”. A pious hush still pervaded the countryside. Alastair felt that somehow it would have been wrong to make any sound; for worry perhaps of a disturbance to the praying bushes that huddled together along the verge. The moisture and frost had rendered them flexible and drooping and they hung their heads in worship.

  The fog began to thin. He decided to trot the remainder of the way along the lane.

  After taking five steps only, a piercing scream broke the silence. He froze in his tracks; the shriek plunged an octave in a second and there began a trill like some demented bird, quavering with a passionate energy. Alastair was transfixed with fear. The alien tremulation warbled for so long he convinced himself that its source was mechanical. Though the slow-shifting fog was beginning to dilute to a mist it was still difficult to define any object other than in his immediate vicinity. He attempted to thrust his sight through the glowing haze to find the origin of the unusual ululation.

 

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