Almost Insentient, Almost Divine

by D. P. Watt

  I put all of Fanny’s costume sheets back into the appropriate pages of the booklet and put the booklet back into the slipcase and the whole thing back into the “Bargain Bin”.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  He hadn’t heard me. Then he suddenly filled in some sections of his puzzle and yelled excitedly, “I got it!” He looked over at me, “what?”

  “I said, I don’t get it,” I said. “The History of Little Fanny, I don’t get it. For me, I mean, for the sort of thing I was looking for.”

  “Oh, well, I tell you what,” he said, standing up and coming over to me. “As we’re closing up for a while why don’t you take this as a little keepsake.”

  He took out the last of Little Fanny’s costume sheets and forced it into my hand with a furtive wink, as though he were passing me a wrap of gear in a pub toilet.

  “Maybe someday you’ll get it,” he said, holding the shop door open for me to leave. “And, when you do, you be sure and pop back and tell me—‘cause I’d sure like to know myself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, neither knowing what I was thanking him for, or why.

  The door closed behind me, and instead of the old tinkling bell there sounded twelve chimes of a huge clock, as though I had been transported to the tower of Big Ben. All around me a warm wind blew, it felt like a storm was coming; the strange street seemed darker than ever.

  VI

  In which David is returned to his former station.

  I looked around; grey concrete rubble, dusty bricks, broken lampposts, heaps of soil, smashed breezeblocks and twisted metal frames. I heard the loud chugging of a vehicle behind me and turned to find the yellow bucket of a digger arm rocking to a halt only feet from my head. A tall man with a white safety helmet leapt from the excavator’s cab.

  “Who the bleeding hell are you?” he yelled. “I nearly took your fucking head off.”

  “I’m, I’m… erm… David…” I stuttered, not really knowing who I was at that moment, or how I had got there, or where “there” was.

  “Right, I’m getting the foreman,” he yelled. “Don’t you move a fucking muscle sunshine. I don’t know how you fucking dossers get in here, it’s meant to be a secure site. Well I’m not taking the flack if one of you cops it.”

  “I won’t… I mean, I didn’t…” I said, in little more than a whisper.

  He stormed off towards a blue pre-fab building, behind which a tall advertising board, flanked by posts with fluttering purple flags, announced, “Gildwell Park from Falken Homes. A stunning development of 2, 3 and 4 bedroom houses and flats to suit every lifestyle. Call in at our show home today to see your house of the future.” Beside it an artist’s drawing of a big house amidst tall trees, with a family walking beside a stream further confirmed “the future”.

  I looked down at my left hand, where only moments before I had held the last sheet of Fanny’s transformation. Instead of her, in her pink frock, with her instructive book, I found the desiccated, skeletal frame of a leaf, as brittle as spiders’ legs, as delicate as ashes. A light gust of wind blew it away across the debris of the building site. I can feel it there still, all these years later, a light and ghostly presence on my palm, as though it might, one day, return.

  In Comes I

  Clown: Heigh Ho! What fun to be

  A useless fellow just like me!

  It’s Christmas Eve, 1952. We’re on a country road in Cheshire. Can you see it? It’s one of those charming, narrow roads with high hedges and pretty little gates every few hundred yards. It’s one of those old Christmases too. You know the ones, with the eight foot snow drifts and winds strong enough to strip your face to the bone in minutes. It’s the kind of Christmas your Grampy and Granma used to talk about, like the time they had to dig the sheep out or they’d have frozen to death; like the time they had to burn all the furniture, because the coalman had got lost in the drifts (they found him after the thaw—what a chilly grin upon his face!); like the time they had to eat the dogs or they’d have starved to death. You know the kind of times—hard times—when you really prayed for spring; I mean, really prayed! It’s when Christmas really meant something, a proper celebration amidst the whispers of death and the bone-cracking cold.

  So, it’s on just such a Christmas Eve that Charles Shepherd is making his way to Alderley Park, the Stanley Estate, to play his part in the traditional performance of the Alderley Mummers. He hated Lord and Lady Stanley. They could go to hell for all he cared, and deep within him he felt ashamed to lark and play before them like a performing bear. But something in the savagery of the ancient show called to him; there was a primitive aggression that really got him going—and of course there were always the little encounters with the other village’s Mummers out and about, and he always enjoyed a little “dustup”. He was a lovely man was PC Shepherd—a man of fists and ferocity.

  Oh, sorry, I forgot to say, yes, he’s a policeman. They’re always the worst, don’t you find—cowardice loves some order, doesn’t it? Unsurprisingly he plays Beelzebub. It’s an easy part, and sounds important. He chose it because he gets to bang the tin at the end of each performance and can always pocket a few shillings when nobody’s looking. Shocking behaviour for a copper you might think—and you’d be right! But a little minor theft is not the half of it, not by a long shot. If I were to list all the terrible crimes committed by PC Shepherd I think you’d be quite appalled, and we’d be here all night. So to give you just a flavour, what would you think of a man of the law who blackmailed his landlady when he found out she’d done her husband in for the insurance money; now he pays no rent and has a special “little something” when he fancies. He’s also got a lovely little racket going down at Mrs Rawlings house, where the girls are young and sweet. She gives him “first dibs” and a few quid each month to keep his mouth shut. Local lock-ins get overlooked for free drinks, and his Friday suppers are free from Nick’s Fish Bar “cause he knows he’s cooking the books. If you’re short of a few quid he’ll lend it to you, but watch you pay him back on time, with the interest, or you’ll be for it—like poor old Tommo, who still walks with a cane five years on (that was an expensive Anniversary present for the missus). So, that’s just a little taster for you. We’re not talking just a bit of a take on the side here and there—our Charles is a right bent “un, and that’s for sure. So don’t you go feeling sorry for him in our little morality tale. He gets what’s coming.

  But times are changing and the tide is already turning. Sergeant Billings had retired in August. Not surprising really, he spent most of the afternoon asleep at the station desk. When he was awake it was mostly to brew a little Camp coffee with a generous measure of rum from his hipflask. He’d been in the navy during the war and spent most of his time reminiscing about implausible engagements with enemy ships and U-boats. Billings had always let Shepherd do as he pleased, and most Christmas Eves he’d been able to knock off duty early and spend the afternoon in the pub with the other boys, getting stoked before the show. Not this year. The new boss, Sergeant Henley, liked it by the book. So Shepherd finished his shift at the final strike of seven by the station clock, grimaced at Sergeant Henley and got set to trek to Alderley Park, which was a good three miles away. There was no point in taking a car, or even a motorbike. He’d never get through the snow. No, his sturdy boots and faithful policeman’s cape would have to see him through. Luckily he had little by way of costume for the performance and so tucked his battered bowler hat, complete with horns from a bullock, under the generous cape, stuffed his dripping pan and short club into a satchel, and headed off into the snows.

  Until the outskirts of Chelford things weren’t that bad, but after only about a mile down the country lane the blizzard was becoming blinding and he was beginning to get very concerned. Then he passed the sign for the village of Marlington, and hoped he’d soon be enjoying a restorative pint in The Green Dragon. Perhaps he’d even have to stay there for the evening and let the rest of his troupe do their work without
him this year.

  If he’d have cared to look behind him once he’d passed the sign he’d have seen it rust, crack and disintegrate in the storm, leaving only two rotten posts as evidence that something once stood there to mark a place. And then, further in the distance he might have caught a glimpse of a ragged bunch of folk, making their way along the road. They were not huddled against the elements though, rather they danced and played in the snow as though the cold and wind were nothing to them. But soon enough Charles Shepherd would be hearing the song they sang; an old song, of mysteries and magic.

  He pressed on through the storm, thinking of pints and pies. He thought it strange that he couldn’t make out any lights in the distance. The moon was full and bright and so, even with the snow, he should have seen some houses by now.

  Then suddenly the bridge came into view, and just beyond it some shadowy shapes of buildings. He might even phone through from the pub to see how things were up on the Alderley Park road. He really didn’t like the idea of another couple of miles of this.

  As he headed over the bridge he looked down and saw that the stream had dried up and only heaps of stone lay about, covered with snow. That’s very odd, he thought. He’d come through only a couple of days before and the stream was really raging. Old Bill Gannet, the landlord at The Green Dragon, had been saying they were concerned it might damage the bridge. How on earth could it have dried up in a couple of days?

  He made his way on into the village feeling more uneasy with every step. It looked something like Marlington, the same short high street with the steep road heading off North to George’s Wood and Marlington Mere, on the corner of which stood (or used to stand) The Green Dragon. But, while all the buildings and the streets were in the right place nothing else seemed to be in any form of recognisable order at all. It was probably the weather, Charles Shepherd thought; the cold was numbing his brain and the snow storm playing tricks on his eyes. But how much can one blame distorted senses when reality is changed so dramatically? Not a light shone at any window, most of which were merely apertures in broken brickwork. At a few there hung ruined grey rags of curtains, or shards of glass jutting from ashen coloured frames. All was ruin, as though he walked the street a thousand years after any other human foot had trod there. Tall weeds sprouted through the road and swayed back and forth in the cruel, freezing wind.

  As he surveyed the strange landscape of this other Marlington he heard the voices of our players behind him, singing a raucous song.

  We’ll send him to some hisland that is so far away,

  And ‘ope they’ll keep ‘im there for ever and a day;

  And not let ‘im return again to do as ‘e did before,

  Keep ‘im in a prison strong, ‘is days’ll soon be o’er.

  Oh, I ‘ad a little cow and ‘e ‘ad a little calf,

  I thought I ‘ad a bargain but I lost one half.

  So I sold my little cow and bought a little dog,

  A nasty little growler, to keep off all the mob.

  So I sold my little dog, and bought a little goose,

  ‘e walked so many miles that ‘is legs got loose.

  So I sold my little goose and bought a little cat,

  A wicked little creature to keep of all the rats.

  So I sold my little cat and bought a little mouse,

  And ‘is tail set light to the whole damned ‘ouse.

  The winter is a comin’ in, dark, dirty, wet and cold.

  To try your cruel nature this night we do make bold,

  To test your aching bones and brain with pain and fear,

  Then we’ll come no more a’acting ‘til another year.

  It must be the Monks’ Heath boys, Charles thought. Last year they’d ambushed the Alderley Mummers on their way back from the Park. They had stolen the hobby horse and sent the skull back in splintered pieces over the following months to Chelford Police Station.

  He turned and caught sight of figures approaching him through the storm. One was very tall, perhaps even walking on stilts, and had an oddly hunched back and tall pointed hat. Another was stocky, with the snow it was difficult to make out but he seemed to be wearing amour. What was certain was that he was carrying a long sword across his shoulders. To Charles’ right he caught a glimpse of a smaller, wizened figure tapping her way cautiously through the snow with a long staff. Her head was covered in a long black shawl that hung down to her knees. Finally there was a hobby horse, but it seemed as though there were at least three men beneath it. He couldn’t make out all the legs, but a great thick pole stuck out from its front, on which was mounted a skull. Again, it must have been the howling wind, but he was sure he heard it whinny. Aside from the old woman the other figures seemed unhindered by the deep snow and they made their way towards him, as the tune of the song he had just heard seemed to echo around him from all directions. Perhaps they had more of their troupe creeping up on him. He’d better get to the pub immediately.

  As he turned to run another figure appeared beside him, seemingly from nowhere. He was about seven feet tall and had a stiff black hat with a wide brim. Most startling was the long ivory mask he wore that looked like a stretched bird’s beak. The air seemed suddenly clouded with unusual scents; lavender, cinnamon, mint and rose mixed with camphor, vinegar and mould—it was a heady, herbal rottenness. The figure pointed at Charles Shepherd with a short black cane that had a sharp silver pointed end. In a booming melodic voice he intoned,

  Ipsy-pipsy, palsy and the gout,

  The plague within and the plague without.

  If there’s nineteen devils in that man.

  I’m sure to drive one-and-twenty out.

  Charles Shepherd let out a pathetic shriek and ran.

  He fell into the building that should have been The Green Dragon. Its perished wooden door swung open easily and he threw himself against it to bar the freakish Mummers entry. He had expected it to be dark inside but the bright moon shone into the building from above. The roof, and the first floor, must have collapsed years before and now formed a heap of rubble in the middle of the room, upon which a light dusting of snow had settled. It had definitely been a pub once, its bar now partially obscured by the collapse. What remained was rotten and ruined. It must have been decades since anyone had even been in the place, let alone have a drink here. Perhaps the whole peculiar village was deserted, and if so, where, or even when, was he.

  However there were more pressing matters. He heard a gaggle of excited voices beyond the door.

  A distorted, shrill voice called out, “Open the Door and let us in, / We’re set, at last, to begin. / We’ll do our best to entertain, / Friends, or enemies, we must detain, / On this foul evening our song shall stir / the heart and hand of every cur. / So give us leave, and open up, / or from your skull I’ll drink a cup.” There was a chorus of strange laughter, more like a pack of odd animals than people, followed by three slow, but forceful raps upon the door.

  Charles Shepherd scrambled up the heap of rubble and attempted, with violently shaking hands, to get the club and dripping pan out of his satchel to defend himself with.

  In they came, one by one. First was the hunched figure, also strangely tall. His spindly legs seemed incapable of supporting his great belly and curving hunchback, and his monstrous head lolled and rocked upon his neck as though on a spring. The head resembled Mr Punch, with his great hooked nose and protruding chin. The skin had a bubbling surface, as though boils and pustules suppurated beneath it. Surely the thing must be constructed from papier-mâché, Charles thought. But how real it looked—how frightfully real! The cheeks had a rosy glow to them, not from a great daub of paint, but from a series of spidery, broken blood vessels that reminded him of Sergeant Billings’ ruined, alcoholic face. The overall effect was horrific, but more from a childish, clown-like quality than anything tangibly malevolent. He wore a great yellow and red striped tunic made of some thick hide. A row of large silver buttons held the thing together across his bulbous belly, heaving a
gainst the constricting material. Tufts of brown fur poked through from his chest and as Charles Shepherd was attempting to piece together all of the odd mixtures of costume style he noticed something rather more troubling. The character did not walk on stilts, as he had first presumed, but rather on two thin, hairy legs, each terminating in a bright black hoof. They were beautiful yet powerful, fragile yet threatening, like the quivering hind legs of a stag, poised to kick or bolt.

  The knight, the tall bird-faced figure and the old woman came in in solemn procession and formed a line on the opposite side to “Punch”. There was something judicial about their manner that heightened Charles’ terror.

  The “horse” shuffled in finally, and as he had first thought it had many legs. In his panic Charles thought he saw seven. What he had assumed, from his earlier glimpse through the snows, was a thick pole protruding from the front appeared instead to be a rotten horse’s leg. The other legs were also animal-like, one quite elephantine, with its grey flesh falling away in dry strips. He did not have time to discern the others, for the beast leaned its grim skull forwards and seemed to peer at him.

  He stared back. The skull was grotesquely disproportionate. Certainly a horse’s skull is big; it had taken Terry Darley a week to get the Alderley’s one down to the bone when he’d made their hobby horse over ten years ago. But this thing was huge. And what the hell were those long teeth, or tusks, on the thing—great curved incisors. It reminded him of a prehistoric creature he’d seen in the Natural History museum in London once. And somewhere deep inside the skull a blue light glowed, casting beams of brightness through the dark night, illuminating the relentless snowflakes with another twinkle of coldness.