The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  In spite of the initial shock that had reduced him to immobility so successfully he found it easy to laugh for the noise was indeed amusing but no sooner had he begun to chuckle, the odd utterance plummeted another octave to become a guttural and emotionless growl. The sudden transformation in the quality of the sound extinguished his derision. He was greedy for air and gulped spasmodically.

  Alastair had become quickly frightened and walked with swift steps, all the while suspiciously glancing about. When it seemed that the originator of the sound was following he whimpered and broke into a trot. Then, as quickly as it had started, the noise ceased. Now it was the absence of sound that shivered his spine; he was ignorant of the whereabouts of the strange being. His thoughts spiralled and entwined into strange images as he wondered what the creature might be.

  Pieces of a strange puzzle began to slot together in his imaginative head: the resulting mythical creature filled his thoughts and so, with his sight turned inward, he didn’t see the hole in the compacted earth and rubble which served as a road for the lane. He would normally have skirted around it; he tripped and toppled to the ground. He lay sprawled and he resigned himself to his fate from the fantastical carnivorous beast which he was convinced was stalking him. In response to the tingling from his grazed elbow and knees he gave a cry. He wondered what it felt like to be savaged; maybe his body would be found that evening. Mrs. Battlespoke might discover him while out for a slow stroll. He gave another shout as his limbs began to sting. In reply, a horse whinnied, a sheep bleated mournfully in the mist and someone giggled close by. Alastair clenched his fists and flinched.

  All hope of saving his own life had fled and he calculated that nothing more could be lost by catching sight of his attacker before the inevitable mutilation. There would surely be bloodshot eyes staring, the creature hungrily licking its jowls with its tongue dripping with saliva, flicking across a dark brown mouth.

  CHAPTER 28

  Queenie

  HE ROSE SLOWLY TO crouch on his haunches then turned to take a glimpse of the beast. But, upon catching sight of the origin of his alarm, was so surprised that he fell to the stony ground again. The intensity of relief that surged through him left him undecided whether the stupidity of the occasion warranted blushes or laughter. He chose the former and muttered in embarrassment, ‘I’m so silly.’ Miss Crouch had told him often that he possessed an over-active imagination.

  ‘Sorry if I worried you but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and well I…’ Alastair tried to explain. The woman giggled again. ‘Yes, I suppose it is funny,’ he said. She grinned and he found himself smiling in return. ‘Did you hear that strange noise not long ago?’ He waited for a response but the woman remained silent. Alastair wondered if she was a gypsy; she had swarthy skin, rough and dry, and her large unblinking eyes were set deeply into her face making them the more penetrating. Wisps of hair had escaped from their confines of a headscarf which looked to have been tied hurriedly around her neck. There was a pungent, earthy odour about her. She wore a long pink dress and thick knee-high socks and a cardigan, all matted with mud and darkly stained, and torn in several places. Was the dress a nightgown? Alastair could not suppress a titter of amusement at this thought and even more so; he looked to her feet and saw that she wore green carpet slippers, the soles lined with leather.

  The woman seemed surprised all at once and she acquired a quizzical expression, though this was broken by a strange laugh; then the jocularity shown upon her wind-swept features was replaced with a scowl. It was such a contrast that it caused Alastair to take a pace away.

  ‘Anything the matter?’ he enquired.

  With this she raised both arms in the chill and fogged air and upon tilting her scarved head back, her arms returned to her sides, only to start flapping furiously as if attempting to fly. She began to croon like some demented bird and Alastair recognized the sound as the one he had heard which had caused his fright. He watched in amusement when her hands began to slap her thighs with each downward stroke of her arms.

  Is she an actress? he wondered. She began to bounce up and down, crooning with each jump, with her arms flaying and whipping her legs. Alastair was happy and enjoying himself; all thoughts of ferocious animals and school had left him. He was having fun playing games with a funny actress.

  Was there no end to the woman’s stamina? Her flights upwards, her crowing and thigh-slapping and landing firmly onto the ground in her green slippers was repeated again and again. He held a growing admiration for her as he watched in fascination and he realized that the woman’s strenuous activity had begun to have a ritualistic quality about it. Before he could think he found himself bouncing and crowing with all his might and slapping the sides of his thin legs. ‘Hooray!’ he shouted alternately with his chicken impersonations.

  There was the clomping of his boots and the flapping of her slippers on the flat stones; the crooning woman bouncing with determination and Alastair trying his best to copy her antics, laughing when not crowing or shouting; both of them slap, slapping their thighs.

  His legs wobbled from the fatiguing exercise. His knees gave way and he collapsed to the ground, panting and coughing. Waiting to recover, he sat watching the woman, then thought that it was right to introduce himself. He looked doe-eyed up to her and said, ‘Hallo, my name is Alastair. This is a tiring game, isn’t it?’

  The reaction to his remark was sudden. She landed onto her feet and ceased the ludicrous noise and crossed her beautiful but haunted hazel eyes. Alastair giggled.

  ‘I’m the queen,’ she announced haughtily and she stuck her nose higher.

  Alastair had been taught by Miss Crouch not to carry a game too far and yet the lady was still playing. She was indeed the strangest adult he had ever met. ‘Don’t be silly, you can’t be the queen; the king isn’t married anymore,’ he remarked with suspicion, considering this must be a particularly artful adult game. She bowed her head slightly but then returned her precise nose to its oblique position. ‘If you are the queen, then where is your crown?’ In spite of the appeal that pretence held for him, he was becoming impatient. The woman stroked her dirty headscarf. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked, becoming worried. She tilted her head back as far as it would go and her tongue protruded from between her greying teeth.

  Alastair twisted a finger into his ear. He wanted to shock her, to break her silence. He was also enjoying the feeling that nestled within him; it was not often he had the opportunity to be rude to his elders without the fear of a reprimand. ‘You must be crackers. Totally round the bend,’ he added with increased confidence. He stood and pressed the palms of his hands to his sides.

  ‘Crackers round the bend,’ was the certain reply and the woman leant forward in mime to Alastair’s bold posture, placing her hands upon her hips.

  A familiar sensation tingled the back of his neck and burned his cheeks. With his head held low, he muttered under his breath, ‘Perhaps I’m the one going round the bend, jumping up and down like I’ve lost my marbles.’ He looked up to the woman and was annoyed to see her standing with her head lowered as she also mumbled to herself. ‘Are you copying me?’ he shouted angrily, the words catching in his throat.

  ‘Copying me?’ replied the woman.

  ‘Go away. Leave me alone. I think there is something wrong with you.’

  ‘Leave me alone, leave my baby, leave my baby!’ shrieked the woman as she clutched the hem of her muddy nightdress, her mouth twisted into a snarl. Alastair shuddered while the woman gabbled insanely then gave a pitiful cry that transformed itself into a scream with her whole body trembling. Still holding the hem of her dress she turned to run along Stutter Lane and her eyes met Alastair’s for the last time. For a moment only he caught a spark of sanity, then it was gone, and so was she as she hopped and jumped and ran, yelping and crooning and wailing. Alastair stood motionless. ‘My baby,’ she cried out pitifully as she disappeared into a gap in the hedge which stood at the perimeter of one of the ploughed fields, h
azy in the muted pastel of the fog.

  There was a soft glint as something which had fallen from her caught the light. It lay on pebbles in the rough road. Alastair ran over to the item and picked it up. It was a pocket watch, caked with dried mud. He opened the cover to reveal the watch glass smeared with dirt so he wiped it clean with his sleeve. Ants were trapped between the glass and the cogs and gears, and they scuttled clockwise about their prison, as if racing the second hand. What an unusual possession, he thought. But it was not his; he should return it to its peculiar owner. But she was gone for good; only the fog and sad trees were there about him.

  He retrieved a piece of string from a pocket and tied one end onto the ring, for the watch had no fob chain. Once he had placed the find into his jacket pocket he watched the silence of the lane and though he smiled, he felt an immense sadness inside. In a strange way he wished that the odd lady hadn’t gone.

  The last of the fog clung for existence as it thinned the more to mist. A crow cawed and flew lazily overhead to its nest.

  ‘School,’ Alastair gasped. He spun on his heels and ran as fast as he was able, past the dry stone wall that guarded the poplars and into School Lane. There would be trouble in store from Miss Crouch for being late, he knew.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Breakdown

  FOR ALASTAIR, THE day at school seemed to drag. Several times he had closed his eyes and nearly fallen into sleep. As the confident voice of his schoolmistress broke the silence in the classroom, he stifled a yawn. Finally, he heard the words: ‘Time to go, children.’

  He stood as though to attention and looked behind him to Pump and then over to Gristle. They both returned malevolent stares. Alastair broke into a trot, heading for the classroom door.

  ‘Come back, young man. You must put your history book away,’ Miss Crouch called after him.

  Alastair froze with fright at the thought of returning anywhere near Sydney Pump. He nervously sucked his cheek. He would have to be quick. Turning then, he hurried back to his desk but collided with Rose Gupper. She was sent spinning along the classroom between the rows of desks and her head struck the back wall with a sickening thud, and she flopped to the floor. A drawing pin fell, followed by a child’s painting fluttering down from the wall. The children stood open-mouthed but none moved. Miss Crouch’s voice had left her and her legs had taken root. She looked at Rose who lay motionless on the floorboards and after to Alastair who had also been knocked to the ground by the collision.

  The spell was broken; the young girl groaned and rubbed her head and appeared confused and frightened while the children congregated around her, some offering to lift her to her feet, others speaking words of sympathy. She was helped up and she swayed gently, her eyes brimming with tears. Pump and Gristle smirked and Alastair rose to his feet and his lip twitched. Miss Crouch found that the roots of her feet had retracted and her voice had taken residence again. ‘It could have been serious,’ she shouted. ‘She could have been badly hurt.’

  Alastair put his hands behind his back and hung his head low. It was then he heard a voice in his ear, quite distinctly. It was tutting.

  Rose had finished her fitful crying and was shaking her little head in a daze.

  ‘Thank you everyone but you can all go home now. I will look after Rose,’ announced Miss Crouch. The children filed out through the doorway into the school corridor, sending sympathetic glances over their shoulder or glaring and shaking their heads at Alastair. The teacher accompanied the sniffing girl to the door with an arm around her shoulders. ‘You are a brave girl now, aren’t you?’ she cooed and she squeezed Rose firmly to her side.

  The teacher whipped her tall body about so quickly that Alastair jumped back in surprise. He heard chuckling inside his head. He was dumbfounded: there was the school mistress with fiery eyes, her mouth twisted into a cruel surliness. The demon spoke, flame spurting from its mouth and nostrils. ‘You had better pull yourself together. And I think you must apologize.’

  Alastair felt his throat tightening and he stared at the vision before him, stricken with an acute horror: the strange woman he had met that morning stood framed within the doorway by the blackboard with her hands slapping her thighs and screaming, ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘No!’ Alastair bellowed, desperation taking his voice to the heights of a shriek. He beat his hands on the nearest desk and ran towards Miss Crouch who stepped nimbly out of the way as though parrying a bull.

  Once out of the school he fled to the corner of School Lane and staggered past the poplars into Stutter Lane and ran its full length. He was wrought with anger and fatigue, his mind a jangling, shouting disorder, the events of the past week chattering through his brain. Why did words glue themselves to his mouth so that he was incapable of answering the simplest of questions asked of him? What barrier walled him away? Why did he hear voices in his head and see things that were not really there? The words of Miss Crouch echoed through his mind. ‘Am I stupid?’ he moaned. He was irritated by his own whining voice, a familiar sense of unreality beginning to overtake. He eyed the ground and the toes of his boots scuffed the pavement as he dawdled along.

  So engrossed was he in his morbidity, he had not realized that his legs had turned him into Thrush Avenue and from there, between two stout houses.

  He was awakened from his reverie of self-examination, so suddenly was he plunged into the corridor of stone which was shunned by the neutral afternoon light. Baffled, he pressed his hands to the walls of the alley which were declaring their intention to crush him. But slowly, as his arms quivered from exertion, his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows. And upon realizing his whereabouts, he felt a sticky foolishness clump in his throat. His body shuddered with hysterical laughter and he beat himself with his fists, his sight distorted by tears. Then, staggering with his arms swinging apishly about him, he sobbed and laughed until his midriff ached, moving in an ungainly fashion to the entrance of the alley.

  The street gas lamps were already lit and the moon was becoming more distinct with every heartbeat as he ran along Pepper Lane towards home.

  He stopped abruptly. There were two figures. They seemed oblivious to his presence even though he had crossed the road and was walking towards them. Alastair sent a stone clattering along the pavement and two heads, previously bowed in consultation, turned to his direction. They acknowledged him with snorts of mirth. The sneer which spread across Pump’s face was contagious for Gristle caught it a second later.

  Peculiar thoughts ran through Alastair’s brain. This was surely one of his dreams.

  ‘If it isn’t Stubb,’ said Pump contemptuously. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Stubb the mug, Stubb the worm. His royal highness slimy worm.’ Pleased with his tauntings he broke into laughter, his skinny body agitated into motion.

  Gristle caught the cue and began to giggle, and squeak like a piglet. ‘Belt little girls would you?’ he cried out.

  ‘Shut up a minute, Alf,’ complained Pump. ‘Hit girls, would you?’ he echoed. ‘Can’t hit back, that’s why, can they, you big baby. And look what you bloody well did to me.’ He tipped his head to show Alastair a small patch there, the pink of his scalp showing through. ‘You are gonna pay for that.’ He took two steps towards Alastair who stood looking with interest at Pump’s skull. ‘I’m going to smash your head in and it’s going to take a lot to put it together again,’ the ex-butler’s son threatened. He leered and waved a fist; Alastair stood unconcerned, he knew he dreamt. Sidney Pump heaved a sigh of impatience. His threats were not creating the desired effect.

  Gristle screwed up his nose and belatedly repeated, ‘Yeah, we’re gonna smash your head in.’

  Smiling benignly, Alastair took a pace towards Pump, who recoiled in surprise at the unexpected reaction.

  Thinking he was about to be attacked, Pump lowered his head in defence and charged at Alastair like a maddened cow, slamming into his stomach. Alastair doubled over from the blow and was pushed to the ground. ‘Take that, worm,’ ca
lled Pump and he glared at the writhing figure on the pavement, Alastair floundering on the same spot like a goldfish twitching out of its water.

  He was not so much concerned with his shortened breath and bruised stomach muscles as the accumulation of his strained emotions and an alien voice laughing within him. Like a careless alchemist who adds this liquid to that chemical, who pours this preparation to that solution, so he had opened gates to his young mind, creating an abnormal concoction of memories, thoughts and emotions. Ringing in his ears changed in quality to become a saw-edged noise buzzing loudly like a trapped bluebottle.

  Alastair cried out inanities and, amidst those unintelligible noises, shrieked, ‘Let go – poison me, would you – all will pay – leave…’

  ‘He’s gone potty,’ Pump said, ‘he’s lost his brains.’ Both he and Gristle ran up the road without looking behind them.

  Lights appeared. Mrs. Battlespoke opened her front door. Her blind eye revolved in its socket as she fiddled with the monocle to the other. Still only vague shapes swam before her. ‘Who’s there?’ she cried out in a cracked voice. ‘Alright dears, don’t be frightened,’ she said, directing her words through the terraced house to her backyard. Her chickens were too busy warming their eggs or asleep to take note of her comforting assurance. She slipped back inside and closed the door.

  William Stubb opened the front sash window of his house and thrust his head out. He stared in disbelief at the tormented form of Alastair, flopping and shouting on the pavement outside.

  CHAPTER 30

  A Dream

  HE SCREAMED, ‘YOU’RE MAD!’ and he jumped up and down and bellowed obscenities that were transformed into a vile crooning which came from a woman wearing green carpet slippers. Holding her head tightly, he began to pull out strands of hair as though plucking a chicken. The hairless pate belonged to William Stubb but Miss Crouch appeared and announced, ‘Time to go, children,’ and then he was on Grinding station platform.