He threw a clump of hair onto the track and it landed in a bathtub and arranged itself like a bunch of flowers. An important decision: should he have a bath or not? He pondered and wondered, all the while observing the tub from obscure angles, until he was high and hovering above it. His stomach heaved and he was sick with fright.
He was on the station platform again. In front of him stood a porter, smiling and leaning on a broom. He felt afraid. The porter persisted with a steady gaze and from this he felt naked at being watched: not an absence of clothing but an absence of his physical self. It was as though the man was seeing his essence. ‘I need to borrow your spirit, my boy,’ the porter whispered but then he was gone.
Alastair looked to the bath and laughed at a bald Sidney Pump who lay contentedly within it, water slopping onto the track as he sang, ‘Stubb the scum, Stubb the germ, Stubb the mug, Stubb the worm.’ There was a whistling in the distance. It increased in volume until a steam train thundered through the station, a clamorous noise rising high above the screams of Pump.
He started to run. The bathtub had been knocked into a deranged sky and it was falling rapidly until it landed on top of him and showered him with soapy water. Engulfed in blackness, save for a conglomerate mass which rushed towards him, spinning and whirling and becoming larger, driving the blackness away and swamping him with a myriad of colours. Colours which flumed and swirled and convulsed until finally congealing into reality as Alastair awoke from his dream, clammy from a fever which had soaked his body with sweat during sleep.
His eyes flickered open and focused, dispersing the imagery that clung obstinately to his vision. It was half a minute more before he realized that he was not soaking from any dirty water from the sky, but from perspiration. A pain seared across his brow which corrugated in response; his puffed eyelids covered his sight. Isolated thoughts wriggled into mind only to be stifled by a pressure above his eyebrows.
He ignored his thumping head, blinking sleep from his eyes, and fixed his attention above him onto a lightbulb dressed in a frilly shade. The army of events of days before clattered into mind, though before he could think any further, his headache reminded him of its continuing existence. The ceiling was blemished as shadows flicked over it with diluted red.
Alastair had the distinct impression there was someone else in the room. He could feel their presence; could feel he was being watched.
A weariness had secreted itself into his torso so successfully that he hardly possessed the strength to lift his head. He managed to see in front of himself with a measure of success however. He saw a mauve counterpane covering him. Then, looking beyond, he saw the flames of a dying fire licking the embers of wood surrounded by ash and smouldering remains, blinking in the grate.
He was in no rush to determine the identity of the person who cast a wavering shadow across the fireplace. He rested for a time until his headache subsided. Then he turned to the right, taking in the rose-patterned wallpaper, a crouching chair that seemed ready to pounce and a grandmother clock which stood anonymously in the corner, acting as sentry to the door that stood ajar beside it.
In the corridor that lay beyond was a table. An oil lamp was upon it, emitting a dull light enough to cast the shadow from the silhouetted figure who stood framed by the doorway.
‘Leave me alone,’ Alastair wanted to say but silly trivialities ran circles in his brain. A composite smell of disinfectant and coffee, ammonia and leather reached his nose.
He attempted to speak and the words became a croaking whisper: ‘Who is it there?’ He licked his dried lips and tasted salt from his sweat.
Dr. Snippet walked into the room and closed the door behind him, shutting out the light from the lamp. He stepped lightly over to the bedside with a stethoscope twitching in his shaking hand. Alastair could see his horse-like face from dying embers of the fire. The glow cast strange colours under the doctor’s eyes and nose; it accentuated his grinning mouth into a grotesque expression. The boy gasped in terror. The poor light was playing tricks: standing before him was Sidney Pump holding a knife. ‘No, please don’t. Leave me, don’t touch me,’ Alastair raved, finding an inner strength to toss and turn.
‘It’s alright young man, I am here. Snippet is the name. You know me,’ said the doctor soothingly. He saw that he was having no effect upon Alastair’s delirium. Under the circumstances he felt the situation warranted the use of the new electrification system recently installed into the manor house, despite the expense of the electricity. He stood and walked over to the switch and upon flicking it, the bulb flashed twice before settling to emit an even yellow light.
Alastair ceased his ravings and flopped back down onto his pillows, recognising the doctor immediately. He felt exhausted. ‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
‘Why, you are in my house Alastair, getting better.’
‘I’m thirsty.’ Dr. Snippet turned to the bedside table and poured a glass of water. The panting Alastair was helped up to a sitting position and with a trembling hand, he took the tumbler and drank greedily, pausing only to gasp for a breath before consuming the next draught. The glass was handed back to the doctor who had been studying him the while. ‘Why am I here?’ Alastair said. ‘I can’t remember.’
Dr. Snippet pushed silver hair behind his ears and replied, ‘I will not beat around the tree. You have been ill and you need a lot of rest. You won’t be dashing around yet awhile because you have had what we call a nervous episode, an unfortunate fugue. I consider also that you have slow blood. Your father tells me of the nightmares and voices and the such. This is all due to strain on your gentle mentality; and with a physical low this was the unfortunate result. Do you understand? Still, with time, patience and medicine, you will be up and about again.’ He smiled. ‘There is nothing to worry about, nothing at all. You are making fine progress.’ His smile widened to a generous grin.
‘When can I leave?’
‘When you are better,’ was the reply, the grin still plastered onto his compassionate face.
‘Oh,’ replied Alastair, sounding disappointed, ‘and when will that be?’
‘As soon as you are better,’ repeated the doctor, not so much as avoiding the question as forgetting his replies the moment he had made them. ‘Well, time is pressing and prodding me to action. I must leave now and you should have more sleep. If you need anything though, ring the bell.’ He walked to the door, opened it with a shaking hand and turned to say, ‘Ah yes, and if you need anything, ring the bell.’ He paused and looked thoughtful. ‘Have I said that? Heavens, I will be forgetting my own name next. Or even worse, forgetting that I am forgetful.’ Acknowledging the grandmother clock with a wave of his hand, he flicked off the light switch and left the room.
Alastair stared with suspicion at the stethoscope curled like a snake on the seat at his bedside then threw his sight about the darkened room for the bell. It was not to be seen. Sighing, he snuggled down into the warm protection of the bed. He did not care to look through the flesh moulded to his aching bones into the harsh world of reality, but into the silence of dreamless sleep. His consciousness evaporated as he slipped into the quietness.
CHAPTER 31
Possession
HE AWOKE WITH A start. His name had been called, softly but distinctly. He wondered what the time was. Early morning, he guessed, for though it was still dark he saw, through a gap between the curtains, the blackness of night had been diluted to warm grey and there was the occasional bird practising for the dawn chorus.
He sat himself up and felt surprisingly refreshed and alert. His name called again. He did not feel alarmed, only curious. The voice became more insistent and he tried to recognize its whereabouts, though as soon as he thought he knew, it would appear to come from another place. It came from downstairs, then from outside of his door, then from above, and then from the middle of his head. The voice changed in quality and he recognized it. He stiffened and paled: the voice was his own; he had been calling his own name. Feeling uneasy and
confused he lay back down but pulled himself up with a start as the repeated word spoken began again. Alastair found that he could still hear it even with a hand clasped over his mouth. He sat and thought and tried to reason. It was useless to concentrate on the sound as it would only change its place of origin.
Who would be calling him in the early hours of the morning? He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood but, no sooner had he done that, he fell back with his head reeling. He felt uncomfortably hot. For several minutes he sat, every now and then experimenting to see if he was stable enough to walk. Eventually he felt strong enough, though the mild headache still pressed upon his forehead. Once he had pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas he stepped over to the door, swaying as he went, and opened it.
He stood and listened intently. The wide corridor was empty and as he walked past the suit of armour, there was a muted snoring from one of the other bedrooms it seemed to be guarding. When by the banister rail at the head of the stairs he peered cautiously down into the hallway. There was no one to be seen.
Without warning, his name was called again, insistent and continuous, and it came from anywhere and everywhere, as if it were the stones and the tiles and timbers of the manor house speaking – ‘Alastair…Alastair…Alastair…’ – from his bedroom at the end of the corridor, from the hallway, from under the house, from between the walls; and his heartbeat galloped faster and his lip twitched involuntarily and he felt cold and frightened. His name echoed and reverberated from one wall to the other, from one room to the next and all the while he possessed an irritating sharp and harsh sonority within his dazed mind.
While he was wondering why the noise had not roused any of the other occupants of the house, it stopped again and the whine in his ears receded to leave his own rasping breath and the dull, blunted ticks of the grandmother clock from his bedroom and those from the clock in the hall.
It was another dream, surely. He felt surprisingly weary for someone so young; he sat upon a small padded chair that was conveniently beside him. He was attentive to the quietness and the dull thump of his heart, and the posed figures in their gilded frames inspecting him; until he drifted into a light sleep. He told himself even then to go back to bed but, with his weariness, could not move.
His name had been whispered into his ear and his head whipped around. Now the murmuring voice came from the end of the corridor and Alastair stood and stretched, yawned and walked slowly towards it. There were no feelings of fright for him now; he knew he was definitely dreaming this time. While walking past a bedroom he heard the muffled snores of its occupant. He told himself he would remember to tell Dr. Snippet that he had featured in his fascinating dream.
Upon reaching the end of the corridor and turning to his left he saw the beginning of a spiral staircase before it corkscrewed out of view. His name was being called from the top. He began to tread up the stairs. After reaching halfway, he stopped to gaze from an oval window which looked out from the side of the house, seeing a small church painted a ghostly white by the moon, but the voice commanded, ‘Hurry, hurry!’
At the top of the staircase he felt tired again and leant against the door to get his breath back. He turned and tried the door. It was locked so he retrieved a cast iron key hanging from a hook on the wall and unlocked it. Pushing the door inward, he entered the attic.
There was the smell of fresh wood and dampness. Alastair walked into the centre of the room and looked about him at the emptiness and stillness. He decided that he would go back and began to walk out but stopped abruptly. He was startled. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded to the form shrouded in darkness. Alastair took a step towards it and wondered why the figure seemed blacker, denser than the poor light in the room. He walked confidently towards the person but then froze in horror. The stout man was covered in soot and dust and his clothes were singed and ripped and he was badly burned on one side of his face. Alastair was startled and cried out.
‘My son,’ the man stated almost casually. Alastair had heard that same voice many times before. He had not heard the man move: he wheeled around and back again but the figure was gone.
Then, to his astonishment, flames appeared around him, tongues of pale yellow spikes, dancing frantically. The burnt figure, there once more, writhing in agony within that phantom fire as it licked and tormented him. Alastair tried to make out the words emanating from the blistering lips. ‘Help me,’ the man appeared to be saying. Alastair instinctively ran forward and found that he could move through the flames without harm and he held out an arm to the convulsing figure, the man grasping Alastair’s hand with both of his. Alastair felt a pulling sensation as though being irresistibly drawn by a magnet.
The manifestation and the flames vanished in an instant. The whining ceased and he heard, spoken softly, ‘You will not remember any of this. I own you now, my son. They will pay.’
Alastair curled up into a ball in the middle of the attic floor and fell into a chasm of sleep.
CHAPTER 32
The Nurse
‘WHAT IS THE day today?’ Alastair asked when the nurse brought him his breakfast.
‘Friday, boy. Now you get on with your food, and less of the idle chat. I don’t want you leaving any either.’ She walked to the end of the bed and proceeded to tuck the sheets further under the feather mattress.
‘That’s too tight,’ he complained when he tried to move his feet.
‘You are always complaining, boy, did you know that? Now you shut up and eat or else.’
Alastair pulled a face at her and began his meal. He was very hungry. It was not every day he ate food that was not prepared by himself nor, indeed, so delicious. Content to eat, he forgot the presence of the nurse until he looked up and saw that she was seated on a chair by the fireplace and was staring blankly at him. Alastair stopped chewing, his cheeks bulging. Tired of returning an expressionless gaze while waiting for her to speak, he concentrated on eating the piece of meat and attempted to ignore her presence as best he could.
‘The doctor wants to tell you off,’ she said quickly. Alastair shrugged. ‘He’s very angry,’ she added as ominously as she could.
‘Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Don’t be cheeky. You know very well what I’m talking about. What was you trying to do, sleeping up in the draughty attic last night? Are you trying to get pneumonic lungs? It was stupid. You must be very stupid, boy.’
‘I am not stupid,’ Alastair shouted in return, flushed with annoyance.
The nurse ignored him and pretended that she found a great deal of interest with a book which stood on the fireplace mantlepiece. She turned quickly and glared through her small, weasel eyes. ‘You said some very strange things in your sleep this morning,’ she whined. Alastair gulped. ‘Rambling you was. Talking about voices and rubbish like that.’ Alastair looked at the nurse, unconcerned. ‘Then you was babbling on about Pumps, or something similar.’ Her eyes glinted. Alastair paled. ‘Then something about a queen.’
Alastair had a coughing fit, choking on the food that was in the back of his mouth.
The nurse seemed pleased by the effect she had produced by her remark. ‘You have heard about her?’ she said. Alastair ignored her, managing to swallow. ‘You have heard about her then?’ repeated the nurse with a note of agitation in her voice. ‘You know who I’m talking about.’
Alastair nodded slowly and replied, ‘I think I know who you are talking about. I have met a lady who thinks she is the queen.’
The nurse smiled. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said with interest.
‘Yes, and I can tell you it was not nice, if you really want to know. I am sure she is mad. A bit funny in the head.’ His voice trembled.
‘Do you know who she is?’
Alastair’s eyes became slits. ‘No,’ he whispered.
The nurse dropped her smile and as though in a trance, she walked over to the bedside with both arms outstretched. ‘Let me tell you,’ she cooed in a sickly sweet tone,
and she took hold of Alastair’s quivering hands in her own.
He pulled them away, with a shudder. He felt miserable. ‘Please, leave me alone. I’m not sure I like you very much. I don’t want to know.’
‘Oh, but you do. You will be most interested to know.’ Alastair gazed at her twisted mouth and she pulled back her top lip from crooked teeth and spat out the words: ‘She’s your mother.’
Alastair gasped and moaned, ‘No, you’re lying, it’s all lies! Go away,’ and he beat his hands on the bed covering and began to weep.
The door opened. ‘Nurse Pump,’ said Dr. Snippet firmly. ‘What in heaven is the matter?’ He looked across to a sobbing Alastair and back to the nurse.
‘Tell her to go away, please Mr. Snippet. She tells lies.’
‘What is this about lies?’ he demanded to know.
‘I am sure I don’t know what the boy is talking about,’ nurse Pump said stiffly. ‘I think he’s been having a delirium again. In fact I was on my way to find you.’
The doctor was perplexed as he walked further into the room. He looked at Alastair for a moment then sat on the side of the bed and held his hand up to the boy’s brow.
‘Mr. Snippet, she tells awful lies,’ said Alastair, sniffing. He looked to the nurse who stared stonily back.
‘What has she been saying, young man?’
‘She said I was sleeping in the attic and then she said my mother is the mad lady.’
The doctor put a finger to his lip and stood. He winked at Alastair and grinned. Alastair did not see this for he felt an irresistible tiredness sweep over him and he heard a voice mumbling incoherently and then he remembered no more.
‘Mrs. Pump is it? So it’s you who has the unfortunate task of scurrying around to the whims of a drunken fool. That idiot should have drowned in drink long ago; still he’s a lucky rat. Remember the time he almost killed himself by pulling one of the wine racks over? The useless cretin laughed at the smashed bottles of one hundred year old port and wine. He will pay though – you will both pay – for letting me burn while he sat in the cellar and drank himself stupid.’
The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb Page 17