Scrapbook

by Michael White

  DAVID: Sorry?

  JOHNNY: It was wired to the mains old son. I put my hands around the stand as I warbled out my last little bit of the song and… BOOM!

  DAVID: Boom?

  JOHNNY: Boom indeed. Stone cold dead. Rushed me to the local hospital but it was too late. Heart failure. I have never had a terribly good constitution sadly. I suppose the copious amounts of drugs I had put away over the years didn’t help much either.

  DAVID: (Pauses): Haha. Nice one. So what happened to the album next?

  JOHNNY: Well. The record company were in a right old pickle. New album was as good as finished, and their main act so to speak had just expired. Luckily, one of the studio crew knew a voodoo priestess in the next town.

  DAVID: And?

  JOHNNY: Well. Let’s just say that the rites of zombie creation aren’t all they are talked up to be. In short, everyone was happy. I was back alive again. Well, of sorts, and the record company had an artist to promote the album again. We put a hush hush on it all of course, but a few little rumours escaped. Nothing serious.

  DAVID: (laughing) Your sense of humour cracks me up. It really does. So you’re a zombie now?

  JOHNNY: Not just any old zombie, David old chum. Oh no. It comes with a price of course. You notice the funny smell?

  DAVID: I thought maybe you had taken a little toke before you arrived.

  JOHNNY: Air fresheners. I keep them in my jacket pockets. The smell can be quite bad if I stay in one place for too long. Oh, and see this sun tan?

  DAVID: Good tan, I do have to say.

  JOHNNY: Varnish. I have to use it or bits of me start to drop off. Still. Could be worse, eh?

  DAVID: HAHA. Love it. Great sense of humor. Well that’s all we have time for now, Johnny. We’ll play you out with the single taken from the greatest hits album, “Long road home.” Thanks for coming in Johnny.

  JOHNNY: The pleasure is all mine. Thanks for listening.

  (The music swells, a loud riff playing across a pounding bass line. Drums hammering out a beat as the rhythm kicks in, the chorus (long road home / just one more drink / long road home / time to think) echoing and then into the solo, Johnny’s guitar soaring, feedback melding with the notes as it churns out its heart into the sound of the guitar and a long long night ahead, fading into the distance slowly, fading reluctantly as it leaves.)

  Some time later David finishes his show and hand over to the late night DJ, who plays “Your favourite requests for those close to you or those you want to be close to you” and he clears up the room, humming one of Johnny’s songs as he does so. What a great guy, he thinks. What a sense of humour! An absolute legend! He thinks it has been a great show. Johnny Ruskin certainly lived up to his name, and what a laugh! The zombie pop star! He chuckles to himself, picking up his used coffee cup off the desk in the semi dark studio and makes to leave.

  As he does so he drops his pen and stoops to pick it up. As he does so he sees something under the desk, and being a bit of a tidier at heart he picks it up, looking for the bin that he knows is on the other side of the desk.

  As he walks around the desk he holds up what it is he has picked up from the floor, holding it up to the desk lamp to see what it is that he has picked up before throwing it in the bin. At first he does not know what it is, for it is black and wrinkled, short and stubby, but as he turns it in his fingers and hold it up to the light and his stomach churns as he finally sees exactly what it is that he is holding, because what he has in his hand appears to actually be what looks like a toe.

  Scariest. Snowman. Ever.

  Around the corner from where I live there is a busy main road. Nothing remarkable about that of course, but last Christmas in the window above the shop presumably the owner had made a snowman out of cotton wool and what have you and stuck it in the window.

  Now all I can say is I hope this bloke’s furniture is better than his snowman, because this was a scary looking thing. I suppose it takes a particular kind of twisted talent to make a snowman look scary. It was traditional. Top hat, carrot shaped nose and large black eyes. Just a normal snowman. Yet it actually bothered me. Where it was placed in the first floor window it was impossible to miss as there was a lamp post outside the shop. Going to work in the dark in the morning? Snowman. Going to shops during the day? Snowman. Going for a takeaway in the dark at night? Snowman.

  You kind of get the idea.

  It almost seemed to loom forward as if it was peering through the window, and the eyes although no doubt made of dark cotton wool or cloth - that it was not real snow was obvious - seemed cold and hard, as if they were watching you somehow. Of this I am certain. It was the scariest snowman I had ever seen, and as far as I am concerned, snowman have no business with being scary in the first place.

  The nose seemed to droop. It was orange and carrot like, as if sniffing the air for something that only it could smell. Then the mouth. Why do snowmen have no mouth? A line drawn with a gloved finger in the snow, perhaps? This one however just looked as if it was sneering, or perhaps snarling.

  That was last Christmas anyway, and once the shops returned to normal after the break it was gone. That was last year. Now Christmas is here again and I went to get a takeaway from the curry house the other night. It would probably be the last one I could afford before Christmas, and as I turned into the main road and looked up above the furniture shop there it was again.

  The same bloody snowman in exactly the same position! It looked as if it was watching me and so I hurried on my way, forcing myself not to look up and watch it watching me as I made my way down the hill.

  So for the next few days I saw it every time I went out of the house and towards the main road. I considered going around the block to avoid its glare, but that would be silly, wouldn’t it? After all, it was just a snowman made of cloth and wool. The same battered top hat placed on its head at a jaunty rakish angle, the cold black eyes and drooping nose, the mere suggestion of a mouth where there was none. Whoever made that thing had issues, mark my words.

  The day before Christmas Eve I had to go and get a few bits from the shop and out of habit I looked up to see the snowman glaring at me, but I ignored it and crossed the road. The man from the furniture shop was outside, talking to a customer about a bed in the window as I went past but the woman who was looking was obviously not too interested for she wandered off as I passed, and the owner turned to go back into his shop.

  “Nice snowman.” I lied, winking to the shop owner.

  “Sorry?” he said, looking at me curiously.

  “In the window above the shop.” I said. “Kids must love it.”

  Of course, there was no way whatsoever that any kid could ever love this particular snowman. In fact, it had probably given half of the under nines who saw it nightmares for weeks. To my surprise however the shop owner just looked at me as if I were simple, and walked to the edge of the pavement looked up at the first floor window.

  Which was empty.

  “No idea what you’re bloody on about.” mumbled the shopkeeper as he pushed past me and went back into his shop, slamming the door behind me. An old fashioned little bell tinkled as the door closed.

  “Strange.” I said out loud to myself, stepping almost into the road and looking up. Empty still. No snowman.

  Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or a reflection, though that of course did not explain why it was not there all of the year, but I carried on with my shopping and tried to forget about it. As I made my way back home and turned the corner into my road, leaving the main road behind me I glanced over my shoulder, the two carrier bags I was carrying swaying awkwardly in my cold hands as I did so.

  It was back! It stood in the window above the shop watching me as it always seemed to, and I swear that the look on its face this time had changed and that it looked at me as if it was laughing at me. I increased my pace and left the road behind though it was not far to my house, and mercifully I was soon indoors and back into the heat, leaving the cold and
the thought of the strange snowman behind me.

  I put my shopping away, and as I live alone it did not take long, even though the things I had bought had weighed me down quite a bit as I had brought them home. I was tired though, and after a rudimentary dinner and staring for far too long at a program on the television that I was not interested in at all, I made my weary way to bed. It was barely nine in the evening, but it did not matter, for I was tired and needed to sleep.

  I slept quickly, strange dreams falling through my mind of snow and ice and cold breath fogging my windows on a winter’s breeze. I woke beneath my quilt and I felt cold, which was unusual as I had left the central heating on to keep the house warm, but as I came to and pulled the quilt up to my chin I saw the breath fogging in the air. Perhaps the heating had gone off?

  I lay there for a while but I was freezing, and although I was loathe to leave my bed I decided that I had no choice but to reignite the central heating and so I threw back the quilt and more or less ran across the cold bedroom floor to don my slippers and dressing gown.

  Having done so I made my way out onto the landing and turning the stair light on I was about to descend the stairs when I saw what looked like a small damp patch on the stair carpet ahead of me. I looked down the stairs. There were several patches of what looked like water on almost every step, as if someone had left wet footprints on the stairs.

  The one at my feet however was whiter almost and looked more like snow. I kneeled down and touched it. It was snow, melting quickly, but snow nonetheless. As I kneeled down to examine this I saw movement out of the corner of my eye behind me from the empty bedroom adjacent to mine. I startled and stood, looking into the darkness of the room. As I did so the shape of a large snowman lumbered into view. It was the same as that from the shop, only now it was somehow made of compacted snow and dark, hard ice. Yet it still had the same hat, the cold dead, dark eyes and the drooping nose, all of which seemed to snarl at me almost as I took a step backwards as it advanced towards me.

  Which is when I discovered why nobody ever puts a mouth on a snowman. They may trace a vague line with a cold, damp gloved finger perhaps, but there was never any fine detail. It was then that I discovered the one thing that nobody ever seems to notice about a snowman.

  It is the teeth.

  It is the teeth.

  Silent Knight

  So it came to pass that a knight of the realm found himself on a winter’s night a long way from his destination and far, far from home. He was weary, tiredness seeming to etch itself into his aged features, though a more thorough observer would almost certainly come to the conclusion that he looked older perhaps than he actually was. This he showed on his face; in his posture. His bearing was that of a man who had seen too much of the world, a weary and resigned look upon his face.

  His armour was long gone, sold to pay for his passage back from the holy lands on a succession of leaking sailing ships, most of which managed to deliver him to his next destination on his journey home in exchange for the armour he wore, or his fine belt, or on one occasion his best cloak. All he had left now were the leather clothes he wore, and the plain battered black cloak that he wrapped about himself this cold night to protect himself from the weather.

  He did however still have his sword. He knew that he would never sell that. He would rather starve than do that, for a knight without a sword was no knight at all as far as he was concerned. A sword was important for it conveyed authority. It said that here was a man who could look after himself. Yet he was a knight, and being a knight was knowing when to use his sword, not merely being in possession of the weapon. It therefore was equally important he considered, to know when not to use it.

  He had arrived back in southern England almost a week before, having crossed the channel on a French fishing boat that he doubted very much would ever see the shores of France again judging by the amount of water it had taken on during the journey to England. From there he had struck out north, his home far away, a long journey ahead of him until he reached his village; his home.

  That was if it was still there, for it had been many a year since he had looked upon the fields and pastures of the farm of his birth. The fight against the infidel in the Christian lands had stolen the years from him in much the same way that it had stolen the colour of his hair which was now paler than grey; white almost, the things he had seen turning his hair, if not his soul, colourless and lacklustre.

  Yet it was not just the things he had seen. It was more the things he had done, and done in the name of his God and the Christian Church. He felt tainted, the years of his battles in the far east draining him of his essential vigour and health, for he was now weary of war and death, and he was tired too of a God who demanded such things be done in his name. He had performed all of the tasks that were expected of him for it was not his place to question the God who created all, the holiest of all who sees everything and also demands complete obedience to his will.

  He carried upon his shoulder an old leather bag that contained essential tools for his journey; a money purse that was by now as good as empty, a knife for skinning any small animals he may capture, a length of twine and several other assorted items that had so far proved their worth during his journey. Here also was a small whetstone to keep the blade of his sword sharp, for not only was his sword the most valuable item that he now owned, it was also his only remaining method of defence.

  He knew it was a fine sword, the pommel round and golden, the grip to the cross guard of the finest leather, as was the scabbard that hung at his side, the locket unsealed, the sword ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. The blade too was of finest steel, long carved runes running down its length; Latin, the holiest of languages he felt, hammered into the blade itself, a fine symbol of both the quality of the sword as well as the semblance the weapon bore to a cross, the cross guard and blade resembling this holiest of symbols perfectly.

  When first he had set out from the holy land upon a horse he had sat; the finest of those bred by the plainsmen of the east that he could afford. It was a mighty beast, it’s coat all in white and its stature noble; regal almost, and when it galloped with him on its back he felt that it was like riding the wind itself such was its grace and speed.

  Yet when he had decided to return home and found himself at the port on the French side of the channel he could not find or afford a ship that would carry both him and his horse and so he had been forced to sell the beast for a pittance to a grinning horse dealer of the Franks, who no doubt was still silently thanking whatever foul gods he prayed to for their deliverance of such a fine beast to him.

  His mind drifted back to his current plight. The wind caught at his heels. He thought he could smell snow in the air. He had been absent from this land for many years but he would never forget that smell. He paused in his tracks, sniffing loudly as he walked. An inch would fall before daybreak he thought and so he strode onwards, desperate for shelter and rest, if not food too.

  The night was dark but overhead between the encroaching clouds the stars were bright, the moon full and illuminating the hills over which he travelled. Ahead he saw a tall hill rising from the fields. It was like a mound he had seen many times in the lands of his birth, but atop this one stood a tree, its low branches reflected in the moonlight. It looked strange in the dark, for the shape of its leaves did not look like those of trees that would be found hereabouts or like those of his homeland either. He stared at it and was surprised to see that they looked more like the leaves found on trees in the Holy Land. Curious, he deviated from his route and began to climb the hill to investigate. As he did so the snow began to fall around him, at first a few fluttering frosted flakes but they grew in size quite quickly, and soon a blizzard was falling across the land, swallowing him up in a fury of cold and ice.

  He wiped the snowflakes from his eyes and eyelashes and continued to climb the steep round hill, the tree above vanishing as he did so, so steep was his ascent. Slowly however he dragged himself
upwards and reached the tree atop the hill. He was even more weary now than before as he had been walking all day and was tired already. The hill and the weather slowed him down even more. Yet as soon as he reached the top of the mound and stood beneath the leaves that hung low but just above his head, the snow stopped.

  He paused to check what he was seeing in the moonlight, for the snow had not stopped falling beyond the reach of the tree beneath the branches of which he stood. It had not stopped at all. It had just stopped falling beneath the tree, as if the branches under which he was standing held the weather at bay somehow. Already the hill outside the circle was covered in snow as the blizzard raged about it, but beneath the tree there was no snow underfoot at all. The ground was completely dry.

  The knight paused, pacing around the tree trunk beneath the branches. There was a small circle of sanctuary under its boughs and as he yawned he was pleased to find that the air around the hilltop was in fact unusually warm and balmy. Yawning again, but even louder this time, he dropped his bag to the floor and sat down on the grass, his back to the tree trunk. It was not long before he fell asleep.

  Yet in that sleep there was no rest. In his dream he saw the temples burning, the slaughter of the innocents; not just soldiers or the armies of the infidel. The women. The children too. Here there was no peace, for their screams followed him, the smell of smoke, the burning buildings, temples and worse.

  With a start he awoke, and as he did so the snow covered landscape revealed itself before him, dawn breaking on the horizon and filling the frozen vista with a weak, weary light. As far as the eye could see, the land was covered in snow. It looked deep at the base of the hill on which he was sat, though thankfully the blizzard seemed to have ceased. Yet around the base of the tree and the low branches of dark olive coloured leaves that rose above his head there was still no snow at all. At first he looked to see if it was the branches that were sheltering him but that was not the case for they did not overhang the hilltop at all.