The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

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The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb Page 23

by David John Griffin


  ‘There we are, Alastair. There is nothing quite like Mr. Pikesquallor’s unequaled mint and camomile tea to soothe the nerves, I always say,’ said Dr. Snippet kindly. He placed the cup on the table.

  ‘You old crow,’ Alastair growled. He brought his arm down and swept it aside and it smashed onto the floor, the contents leaping from the cup and spilling over the tiles.

  ‘Now what on earth possessed you to do that?’ said the doctor in a hurt voice. He opened a drawer to take out a cloth to clean up the mess.

  ‘Leave it,’ snapped Alastair.

  The doctor looked up enquiringly. ‘But the tea—’

  Alastair spoke through clenched teeth. ‘You heard what I said, you stupid crank.’

  ‘Well really, Alastair. That is not the sort of language I expect to hear. You must behave yourself or I shall be forced to tell your father.’ He wagged his finger in reprimand.

  Alastair’s eyes glinted and, upon seeing the stern face of the doctor, he gave a hearty guffaw. Then as though a tap had been turned, his face lost its mirth and he said, ‘You won’t be talking to William. No one will.’

  ‘What do you mean? My dear boy, I don’t think’ – he stepped lightly over to Alastair and placed a comforting arm around his shoulder – ‘that you have yet fully recovered from your small illness.’

  Theodore as Alastair shrugged the doctor off. He barked, ‘Leave me be. You’re fit for nothing but retirement, something you should have done fifteen years ago.’ With a scowl, he left the kitchen.

  In the hallway, he paused by the cleaver embedded in the banister finial. It was alive with leeches. He stroked the blade and departed.

  Dr. Snippet fell onto a chair, feeling miserable and not quite sure what to do next.

  CHAPTER 43

  The Butcher

  THERE HAD BEEN a time when Florence Dripping had felt an inner peace within or an excitement through some small change for the better in her fortunes. It was occasions like these when she would exude a sense of well-being, giving happiness to her eyes and putting a fresh accent upon her palsied features. Though her mouth would be as ever paralyzed it would project a hint of a smile; her cheeks as taught as ever, the promise of a cheerful expression. But when her life had taken a wrong turning, the distorted visage would be exaggerated the more. A minor upset only was enough to affect her; her face would project a melancholic and forbidding dejection, robbing her of years, forcing the judgement upon others of believing she was much older than she was.

  She thought of her daughter and missed her so. At least the girl was safe, recuperating with her Aunt Beatrice in Grinding. It had taken an hour or more before Abergail had ceased her hysterical shedding of tears to be able to give her lamentations. She had been confused as to the exact whereabouts of the man’s attack though she remembered it was not too far from the village green clock tower; and that he wore round glasses and had white curly hair. The brute! The swine! Much willpower had been required to prevent Florence from attacking Mr. Nuckle. His self-righteous denials did not fool her. She saw his ranting upon the village green in her mind’s eye and then remembered Alastair sitting upon the ice-covered bench smoking a cigar. A nagging feeling was telling her that something was amiss; that he was somehow connected. He had acted in a most peculiar way, quite unlike the actions of a boy. And what could he have spoken about to the butcher which had been so important as to cause Brood Stalk to walk to his shop?

  She put her worries into words. The constable sympathized but could not find any reason to search for Alastair although after some inducement and seeing Florence’s dismal expression he agreed that they should find him. He felt it would lead to nothing but was willing to try if there was a chance it could throw some light on the Nuckle affair.

  Four of the local youths had followed the determined couple from the police station. Although their eagerness to help had satisfied the policeman, Florence was not so convinced. They lagged behind, dressed more for summer than for the biting day and they chatted and laughed as though on a country ramble.

  Alastair was blinkered, his sight constricted, or so he felt; the perception of the snow-smothered green before him hampered as though seen through a tube. The voice within had become more demanding; his lips were numbed and yet he heard himself say words which he had no intention of speaking. Even the control of his own body had been lost: he would go to places where he had not wanted to be. Reality was transforming into a real nightmare. Objects appeared insubstantial, mere abstractions of their original selves. He had difficulty in concentrating to remember the events of the day before or indeed, even the events of that very day. Why he was walking towards the butcher’s shop, he did not know; the knowledge of where he had been, impossible to find. It was as though he had awakened from a long slumber only to find he was more tired that before he had slept. His eyelids felt heavy again; the irresistible tugging of sleep, producing a delicious languor, a drowsy submission. He tried to speak but his tongue had lost all feeling and it flopped about his mouth. Then, with a whispered, smooth tone dispelling any last remnants of consciousness, he knew no more.

  He walked unhurriedly, though now he spoke with an urgency. ‘The fool thinks he has escaped me.’ He paused on the cobblestones outside the butcher’s shop before peering through the window. A few lumps of meat, hacked without consideration, sat quietly rotting upon the marble slab; battered weighing scales stood on the counter and behind that was the tree stump with cuts and slits gathered over an age. The cleaver was not at home. An iron rail ran the length of two sides of the shop with meat hooks hanging from them, all bare save for one which held a shrunken side of pork.

  Receipts, pen tops, bent keys, unpaid bills, chewed pencils, buttons, waste paper and bits of metal and wood lay in a heap on the floor while Stalk scrabbled about in the depths of the drawer of his sideboard. Panic clung to his throat. He could not find a crucifix and he cursed. He told himself to hurry; he imagined that Alastair had murdered Dr. Snippet and was on his way to murder him. A boy all the same, though puffing on a fat cigar and for all the world sounding like Theodore. He shuddered and yawned to stifle his churning stomach; he had seen Stubb in his mind’s eye with the multitude of insects burrowing and squirming into him. The cry still echoed through his head. He was more convinced than ever that it was supernatural. Creatures in their millions do not appear from nowhere and boys do not take on the mannerisms and voice of a long dead man. Where was that crucifix?

  Unable to find it in the drawer he went from his sitting room into the store room of the shop and heard the bell make its sound.

  With the noise of shuffling feet reaching his ears, he flinched and the back of his neck stiffened. Valuable time had been wasted. His hand shook as he clasped it over his mouth. Alastair knew where he was, he was convinced. He would have to hide.

  Florence cried out, ‘Look!’ and with her arm outstretched, she pointed a finger. The policeman and the self-appointed entourage turned their heads. There, between the winter-ravaged branches of the trees along Stutter Lane could be seen the white rooftops of houses and shops on the two sides of the green. Billows of dark smoke rose from them into the wintry air, twisting and turning like kite tails.

  ‘My house; my shop!’ Florence screeched and she broke into a run, her scarf dropping from about her neck, the ends swinging wildly with every step she took. Her five companions followed in chase.

  Once Florence had reached the end of the lane at the perimeter of the green, she stopped running and stood in a stunned amazement. The policeman and the four young men reached her and all fell silent at the bizarre sight which confronted them.

  The snow, previously a stretch of a pure whiteness, blemished only by indentations from boots and shoes, was peppered liberally with flies. They crawled over each other or hovered in puffs over its surface. They flew in grey and black patches and tumbling columns; what Florence had thought to be smoke from the buildings were clouds of houseflies and horseflies. Bluebottles lay their eggs am
ongst pupating larvae, four-winged mayflies mingled with thrips while flat stoneflies vied with alder flies for position on the ground. Snakeflies crawled over the large, membranous wings of lacewing flies and pincered scorpion flies fought and maimed any opponent. With their long, thread-like antennae, caddis flies sought out nesting places, oblivious to the absence of heat. There was a dull, low drone from the abundance of tiny wings. Large areas of snow were being furrowed and sculpted to form holes for egg laying. The cold air was slashed with black lines and it vibrated with their vast number.

  A woman flung open the door of her cottage and marched out onto the cobbles to join other villagers there. She held an old net stocking to her face and wielded a fly swat as though a sword. She bid good day to Mr. Fishcake who, being so engrossed in looking to his feet and stamping the ground in an attempt to crush the invaders, did not reply. Over on the other side, upstairs window shutters of The Bulldog Fish Tavern were opened with a violence and a yelling Chess let out a myriad of mosquitoes from his bedroom. His customers stood about outside on the cobbles, shouting encouragement and advice up to him, waving their hands before their faces as though to cool themselves before a hot sun to distract any flying creature.

  Chess was in a dilemma. His habit of cuddling himself was being severely affected: once he had wrapped his arms about him, midges would become tangled in his hair and crawl into his clothing. He paddled the two limbs and with shudders coursing down his spine, wriggled about and slapped his chest and legs. Any attempt to replace his arms to their usual position resulted in a repeat of the ridiculous performance. His hands and face were spotted with stinging bites. He cried out to the saloon bar for Miss Crouch to help but she ignored his call from upstairs, too busy with sweeping away strings of beetles emerging from the skirting boards.

  The clock tower began to strike the hour of twelve; though the full quota of tolls was not supplied. Upon the fifth peal, the clock glass shattered and the hour hand fell to the stone plinth, followed by the minute hand which impaled the frozen ground. With the weight of numberless insects behind it, the clock face was pushed from its spindle. It fell away and hit the tower base with a clatter. The interior – usually a private and solemn domain – was rudely exposed, and it teemed with spiders of all types, jamming the cogs and blocking the bells.

  Dr. Snippet ran screaming and half-blind, (for he had had no time to put on his spectacles,) pursued along Daisytrail Lane by a squadron of wasps.

  Florence looked disconcertedly at the ruined monument and the invasion. ‘This is impossibly unusual,’ she said. ‘Can we find Mr. Stalk now?’ she asked. ‘I would feel better if he was here.’

  The constable took mild offence and a step back at this remark and replied, ‘I am sure that my special training and expertise in all forms of crime and civil situations would be more than enough for any contingency, Miss Dripping. I really should be alerting the station to this dire insect problem.’

  Florence was insistent. ‘I want to find him. I feel we really must. He went to his butcher shop.’

  ‘I don’t think you know what you want,’ Constable Flute stated. Florence stared back at him and her distorted features hardened. ‘All the same,’ the policeman added with a long sigh. Ignoring the phenomenon taking place on the village green he pointed a finger at random to the youths. ‘Alastair was last seen heading for the doctor’s house,’ he explained. ‘You go. See if he’s there.’ The appointed youth trotted off, glad that he didn’t have to cross the infested green. ‘Let’s see if we can find Stalk then,’ the constable said to Florence. ‘I must admit, something’s not quite right here.’

  The understatement made, Florence and the four men began the trek across to Brood Stalk’s butcher’s shop, angry insects flying in swathes.

  Alastair smiled. Reaching into the top pocket of his jacket he extracted his half-smoked cigar and ran it through his fingers. He was in no rush.

  Stalk was in a hurry. With every muscle taut, he tiptoed back into the modest sitting room and wondered where to hide. He would feel insecure behind the settee and, as if to prove it, he crouched on all fours and immediately stood up again. He looked through the window to the small garden. There was surely no escape. The insects knew where he was. His breathing began to rasp hoarsely as he took in the ravaged evergreens, the light brown brick wall turned to a mass of black, the garden shed quivering with insects as though alive. He looked about him within the grip of a stark terror and ran to the narrow, steep stairs but even as he reached the top of his staircase he knew that there would be nowhere to hide. Even if there were, he could be enclosed and easy prey for the mad boy. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  He was trapped.

  There was a clattering noise from the shop and it fanned the flame of panic. He remembered his cupboard in the store room.

  If he could reach there to hide before Alastair came through from the shop, he might have a chance. He would lock himself in until the crazed boy had gone. Then the butcher flushed with relief as a thought unfolded. It might not be Alastair after all. It could be Mrs. Battlespoke waiting for her quarter of mince.

  He ran back down the stairs to the sitting room and stuck his head around the doorframe which led to the store room. There was the scratchy wheezing of his breath. He rubbed his hands together briskly. He was sure it was getting colder. How he hated the cold. If only he could have found his gloves.

  He stared hard at the closed door which opened onto the shop and wished he could see through it. He had a plan. If he was to attract Alastair’s attention, the boy would enter and Stalk would hit him on the head – not too hard – with a frozen chicken. It would be in self-defence. But what if it was not Alastair but Mrs. Battlespoke or Colonel Midwitty? The idea was not a practical one. He trod lightly over to the store cupboard, his sight never leaving the door to the shop. He could walk through at any moment, a mad boy with a meat cleaver.

  Florence pressed her nose to the butcher’s shop window again.

  ‘No amount of looking will make him be there,’ remarked the policeman with a hint of annoyance. ‘And as I told you, he said he was going to Mr. Stubb’s house. He may have come back here but I’m sure he’s not here now. Anyway, I’m going back to the station. I have other tasks, you know. Paperwork piling up; have a go at that typewriter again; warn the parish council of infestation.’

  ‘I do realize this. But I’ve told you, I feel it in my bones; something is wrong.’

  ‘If there was any trouble, I would handle it, Miss Dripping,’ answered Constable Flute. He puffed out his chest and tugged at the lapels of his uniform.

  ‘Of course you would,’ replied Florence, unsure as to whether she truly believed that. ‘Anyway, I’m going inside.’

  ‘As you wish,’ answered the policeman with a resigned sigh.

  Stalk had been standing in front of the store cupboard still unsure of whether he was making the right decision but, upon hearing footsteps from the shop, he grasped the handle and pulled.

  ‘Strange,’ remarked Florence, ‘perhaps it needed mending.’ The brass doorbell lay on the mat. The still air was broken by a shout that came from the store room.

  Constable Flute did not waste time. ‘Quick,’ he demanded of the villagers, ‘follow me.’ He held the door handle to the store room, twisted and pushed. The door remained firm. ‘It’s locked,’ he muttered, almost indignantly.

  ‘You,’ shouted Stalk in the storeroom, ‘do you know what you’re doing?’ The butcher backed away as Alastair advanced from the store cupboard with a firm grip on the handle of a boning knife. He chuckled and growled alternately, sounding like a dog worrying a beef bone, and with shoulders hunched, his eyes bright and twirling the knife blade in a circle, he quickened his pace towards Stalk.

  They both ignored the raised voices and the sound of a heavy object crashing into the door which led to the shop. It shuddered but did not open.

  Stalk wanted to speak but his words were lost suddenly when Alastai
r leapt at him and grabbed him by the throat. The butcher clutched frantically at the small hands which squeezed in a vice-like grip. His face seemed to swell and it became a repellent shade of red. For fear of toppling over, he staggered backwards as Alastair pushed upon his neck. His reversing was suddenly curtailed when he felt his back against the large walk-in refrigerator.

  ‘Open it up,’ demanded Alastair.

  Stalk could not see the knife but knew it was held to his stomach. He felt it jab his flesh. He put a warted hand behind him and fumbled for the refrigerator handle and then, with some difficulty, pulled the door open. Icy fingers crawled from the interior onto his back.

  ‘Unlock this door,’ shouted Constable Flute from the shop, and another shoulder-ramming from him made the door quiver.

  ‘Rat poison, Brood? Kill me? You should use it on rats you big oaf. Rats!’ sputtered Alastair as flecks of saliva foamed at the corners of his mouth. Brood Stalk cried out as the thin point of the knife entered his stomach. A bright red spot grew in size to join those congealed on his apron. ‘Not only that, but you wanted to lay your dirty paws on Eleanor. She is mine, do you hear?’ His bellowing too deep for a boy, him pushing the whining butcher into the refrigerator. The white ice turned to black as Alastair heaved the door shut.

  ‘No, no no, let me out, you!’ Stalk screamed. He beat on the door with his fists and then thrashed about in blind dread but knocked his head on a large joint of beef which hung down in the darkness. He reeled forward and upon hitting his head again with a thud, slumped to the iced floor, cold and unconscious.

  ‘Open up, I say,’ shouted the constable for a second time. He threw his shoulder to the entrance again.

  Alastair walked over and in a pause when the door was not being struck, he turned the key and held the handle down: thus upon the next strike to the door, it flung open without effort and the policeman was sent sprawling into the store room. He fell and skidded along the sawdusted floor on his front. He was stopped when his head hit the refrigerator. He lay still.

 

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