by Tony Lewis
“That was about a week ago,” said Ollie.
“Really! Well, galloping pancakes. That just goes to prove that time certainly does fly when you're having fun. Conversely, if you're not having fun when you're flying then time won't fly at all. Or, if you're timing a flight then you could very well be having fun. Or maybe, if you're in a plane and having fun at the same time, time stops altogether…”
“Prof.”
“Yes.”
“I came down for a visit, not a lecture on chronology and aeronautics.”
“Of course. Sorry. I do tend to blather on, don't I? Would you care to see what I've been working on?”
“That's why I'm here.”
Crumble turned to the bench behind him and grabbed something. Something was as accurate a description as Ollie could come up with. Crumble placed it onto the bench and spun it round a hundred and eighty degrees. It was only then that the odd shaped object became recognisable, mostly because of the buttons it had for eyes, and a carrot for a nose.
“A snowman?” asked Ollie.
“Indeed. Or a representation of one, anyway. This little chap is made of polystyrene. Observe.”
Crumble took hold of the model's head and lifted it, so that the entire thing split about halfway down the torso, like a Russian doll. He put that onto the bench and reached into the base from which he pulled a second object. This one was round and about the size of a honeydew melon, and appeared to be covered in poppy plastic, the type that keeps kids entertained for hours at the supermarket whilst their parents get a double hernia pushing overflowing trolleys around.
Poppy plastic is the one reason that children never get lost in large shops. You can guarantee that if your little one goes missing you'll find him (or her. Don't want to be accused of being sexist) by the bananas with some poppy plastic in each hand and a piece under each foot, doing an excellent impression of a bowl of Rice Crispies (please note that the author strongly advises that potential child kidnappers disregard the last paragraph about the bananas, poppy plastic and the fact that lots of children are to be found in this location. And by child kidnappers I mean adults that kidnap children, not kidnappers who are children, because that would be weird).
“Inside this,” explained Crumble, “is a high explosive that I've encased in poppy plastic for safety. This all then sits in the model. The top then goes back on thusly,” he put the top back on, “and hey presto, it's ready for deployment.”
“Mmmm. And what's this particular wonder called?” asked Ollie, taking a couple of hamstring stretching steps backwards.
“A Bomb in a Bubble Snowman.”
Ollie was too dumbfounded to formulate any kind of response, well, a rational one anyway. Perhaps the most terrifying thought was what if Crumble ever decided that he had had enough of living in his lab and wanted to subject the rest of humanity to his strange, wacky and quite frankly extremely dangerous way of thinking. It would make a stay in Baghdad seem like a restful retreat at a monastery with the monks of The Order Of Being Pretty Quiet Really, We Don't Get Up To A Lot And We Don't Go Out Much.
“So how do you envisage this contraption being used then?” Ollie asked, not really wanting to know, but morbidly curious nonetheless.
“Oh, I don't know,” said the Prof. “Could be fun to scare children in the winter time. You could tell them that their snowman committed suicide because they didn't look after him properly. Might instil a sense of responsibility into the little tykes. It would also be rather handy if the polar bears or the penguins ever decided to revolt. They'd never suspect a thing.”
“Interesting. Dark certainly, disturbing in the extreme of course, and definitely worthy of an intense psychiatric review, but interesting.”
“Indeed. Those polar bears aren't to be trusted, you know.”
In an effort to distract the Professor from formulating any plans for world domination by way of eliminating only the animals at the top and bottom, Ollie pointed at the Petri dish that Crumble had been staring at when he had first come in, which now seemed like a month ago. It still looked like spores flourishing in the bottom.
“What's that?” he asked.
Crumble picked it up and gave it a shake. It turned out to be a fine white powder that had the consistency of baking soda.
“One of my best, I think,” said Crumble. “It's powdered water.”
“You're kidding me right?”
“Absolutely not. Imagine how amazing this wonderful invention would be in an area that suffers from drought. All you would have to do is ship in tonnes of the stuff and add water. No one anywhere ever need go thirsty again.”
There was absolutely no point whatsoever in trying to explain to Crumble what errant nonsense he had just come out with, no matter how well intentioned. All he could do was smile politely, wish him good day and leave him to his majestically mad ramblings. And lock him in of course. The world wasn't ready for Professor Rufus Barber Crumble.
* * *
Ronnie stepped outside and took a deep breath, trying to get the conversation that he had just been involved in with Flug out of his head. He loved the big dope to bits but he could be such hard work. Still, if nothing else, it gave a group of confirmed bachelors a bit of an insight into what having a child was like. Maybe the child in question was the evolutionary equivalent of a mushroom, but you couldn't have everything. Beggars can't be choosers after all (In fact they can. They can choose which town to locate to, where to sleep, which is always in the fresh air, who to ask for money from and which train station offers the best earning potential. Then there's which super strength liver destroyer to consume, what breed of scrawny dog to have at your side, and which tune to play endlessly on a mouth organ that sounds like it's been tuned by a tone deaf moose. In fact beggars have lots of choice, so the phrase is now going to be 'People who work for a living forty hours a week and have a family to look after which includes shopping, cleaning the house, washing the car and taking the kids to school and hoping there's enough money left over after the monthly bills to take the aforementioned sprogs on an outing that they won't enjoy anyway before the whole thing starts all over again on Monday morning…can't be choosers. There you go. A bit of social realism for you. Uncomfortable, I know, but necessary nonetheless).
Ronnie glanced around and saw that the night was in full swing. In fact a drunken demon was currently swinging from a lamppost right at that very moment and would no doubt be there all night. It was coming on for one in the morning, which meant that Skullenia was as active as any normal town or village might be in the middle of the day. Of course when we say active, we don't mean loads of people out shopping for bargains or kids bunking off school, or office drones dashing round frantically to get their banking business concluded so that they can get back to their places of work before their jobs-worth bosses have a panic attack. No, this was more of a shuffling, staggering, floating and altogether more ethereal affair that was punctuated by the odd howl, screech, scream or combination of the three.
Ghosts and apparitions filled the dark sky, as did witches and warlocks on their various flying thingamajigs. Creatures that defied any sort of classification wandered slowly about the streets. Some were hungry, some were thirsty, and the rest, who knew. It was certainly an eclectic mix. Think of a cross between a George A. Romero film and a partisan Iron Maiden audience circa 1986, and you'd be pretty close to having an apt image.
Ronnie crossed the street, passed the fountain and sauntered breezily the hundred yards or so to the `corner shop.' It wasn't actually on a corner, but it was the only establishment of its kind in town, and you can't very well have an `almost on the corner shop' now can you? You'd feel silly saying `I'm just off to the shop that's not quite on the corner'.
Surprisingly though, for Skullenia, Grendle's was comparatively normal. Obviously you couldn't go in for a Mars bar or the latest edition of the Radio Times, and there was always a chance that when you left your body might have been modified slightly, but it had shelves with stuff
on them so there you go.
Narrowly missing a wandering splat of ectoplasm, or Bernard as he was more commonly known, with a deft side step, Ronnie entered the shop to the clanging of the little silver bell that hung over the door. Old Grendle had a habit of nipping out the back to check on his various whatever-it-was that needed checking on and nine times out of nine he wouldn't have had a clue who or what had entered his establishment.
DONG, the bell rang out, announcing for two hundred yards in every direction that Grendle had someone on the premises. Quite how such a tiny object made such an ear splitting racket was beyond Ronnie and the laws of acoustics. He reckoned that Mrs. Ladle must have had a hand in it. She was quite a compact little creature, but some of the banshee like wails that she was able to create were truly marvellous, especially after she'd had a double helping of curried bat wings.
The door swung shut, eliciting another DONG that could have burst an ear drum a couple of time zones away.
“Grendle!” Ronnie called out. “It's Ronnie, mate. I want some baccy.”
Ronnie's brow furrowed and he absently scratched his cheek. Grendle always came out after the tolling of the first bell. Always. He could have been in another part of town and would have still appeared in the shop before the door shut. It was one of the main tenets of his business vision. The customer always comes first, because he would always want something, and he would always have money to spend. There was no way that the old boy would let potential profits walk out of the door.
“GRENDLE!” Ronnie called out again, only this time a bit louder. There was still no reply, and no matter how hard he listened he couldn't detect any sounds at all from anywhere in the shop or the back room. All he could hear were the muffled goings on outside. Feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck and noticing that his heart was beating ever so slightly faster, Ronnie tentatively stepped forward, all the while carefully listening, but all that he could hear now was the pad of his own footsteps and the rush of blood in his ears. He lifted up the hinged counter that nestled between the sweet racks and the till and crossed over into shopkeeper territory.
“Grendle, come on man. What are you playing at? My lungs are rapidly clearing up.”
Ronnie didn't realise that he had lowered his voice, and a wobbly hint of nervousness had crept into it. The door to the back room was just to his right, next to the tobacco stand. Without even realising what he was doing, Ronnie grabbed a pouch of Smouldering Fluff and left the money on the counter. He was many things, some of them less than savoury and no doubt against the law (both judicial and natural) in ninety nine percent of the civilised world, but he was no thief.
As he stepped into the back room and was about to call out again, the sight that greeted him stopped the words dead in his throat. Grendle was sprawled out on the floor, flat on his back and out colder than a yeti's fridge. Ronnie rushed over to the elderly shopkeeper and knelt down beside him, checking desperately for any signs of life. Then he remembered that Grendle was a ghoul and that he'd have more chance of finding signs of life on a piece of toast. Just then Grendle's eyes flickered open and he moaned wearily as if he had just woken up from an extremely long slumber, which was handy because he kind of had. Ronnie grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and shook him gently.
“Grendle. Grendle. Are you alright? What happened?”
The shop keeping ghoul slowly lifted his head off the floor and propped himself up on his elbows.
“I…I don't know,” he said unsteadily. “One minute I was in here getting some Dreaded Wheat to put out and the next…..I haven't got a clue, Ronnie, I really haven't.”
Ronnie looked around the room for anything that might help him in trying to work out what had happened here, but there didn't seem to be a single clue. The place was as neat and tidy as usual and there was no indication that there had been a struggle of any kind.
“Do you remember who was in the shop last?” he asked, helping the old fellah into a chair.
“I think I do, actually,” replied Grendle, a look of concentration on his face, but a far away look in his eyes. He was obviously still very groggy. “Hector came in for a bottle of Hornswaggler, then after that Mr. Singh arrived to collect the latest copy of Assassins Monthly and then, oh I remember, Ewan Death wanted some cereal, which is what I was getting from out the back.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes and shook his head. “And that's it. The next thing I remember is you.”
“Hang on a second,” said Ronnie. He went back out to the shop and checked the till.
“At least we can rule out theft as the motive,” he informed Grendle when he returned. “All the money is still there.”
“I'm not so sure about that,” said Grendle. “Look.” He pointed to a shelf that was to Ronnie's left. It was stacked with glass jars full of sweets (he had tried selling jars full of glass sweets but they didn't prove to be very popular. Only Flug seemed to like them). There was a gap.
“What was there?” asked Ronnie.
“A jar of Sherbert Demons,” replied Grendle.
“Mmm. Anybody in particular buy those on a regular basis?”
“No, actually. I haven't sold any for a long time. That jar must be all of twenty years old. Why on earth would someone steal a jar of old sweets? If they had asked I probably would have let them have it for nothing,” said Grendle.
Ronnie doubted that very much. He knew for a fact that Grendle had a piece of string tied up in the kitchen that had tea bags hanging on it. The tight old chap would use both sides of the toilet paper if he could.
“Well, be that as it may,” said Ronnie, “will you be alright for a few minutes while I go and find Constable Gullett?”
“Is that really necessary?” pleaded Grendle. “I don't want to make a fuss.”
“Oh I think so. We can't have thieves running about the place thinking that they can get away with this sort of naughtiness, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“Right answer. Now you just take it easy. I'll be back soon.”
* * *
Around about the same time that Ronnie was dealing with the unfortunate Grendle, two figures were walking hand in hand through the Skullenian Cemetery, or as it was more commonly known, The Dead Centre of Town.
“Oh, Noah, this is so romantic. I can't remember the last time I was this happy. Promise me that we'll always be together.”
The second, taller figure stopped and turned to face his companion. He took her three hands in his and kissed each one of them tenderly. Then he looked her lovingly in the eye and smiled, revealing a beautifully maintained set of fangs that a tiger would have been jealous of.
“You know you're the only one for me, Gertie. Ever since the night we met I knew that I would never look at another girl and, if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my unnatural life trying to make you happy.”
“Oh you do, you do,” she gushed before covering Noah in big, sloppy, wet but well intentioned kisses.
Five minutes later they continued their promenade under the pale moonlight.
“Do you think it'll always be like this?” asked Gertie.
“I suppose so,” said Noah. “But then cemeteries don't tend to change much, do they?”
Gertie detached herself from Noah's clutches and gave him a gentle slap on the arm in feigned shock.
“You know exactly what I mean, you naughty bloodsucker. Us.”
“Of course it'll always be like this,” said Noah stifling a cheeky snigger. “You'll never get rid of…”
Gertie walked on a few more paces before she realised that not only was her hand empty, but so was the space next to her that had previously been occupied by her boyfriend.
“Noah,” she called. “NOAH!”
“….n …..re.”
“Noah, is that you. You'll have to speak up. I can't hear you properly.”
“I…..wn…..ere.”
In spite of being more loved up than a very loving person who was in love with a really lovely per
son who was lovely, Gertie was starting to get a tad miffed.
“Noah, this had better not be one of your silly practical jokes. Remember what happened last time. The cat still can't walk past the bathroom.”
“I'M DOWN HERE.”
The voice seemed to come from about ten feet behind her and, strangely, from about six feet below.
Gertie followed the disembodied voice which ultimately led her to the side of an open grave. Luckily the moon light was bright enough for her to see into its depths.
“What on earth are you doing down there?” she asked.
Noah was sat on his backside on top of a coffin looking up at his girlfriend. He had a very hacked off look on his face.
“I'm not on earth. I'm bloody well under it. And my bum hurts.”
“Noah.”
“Yes, dear.”
“You do realise there's no lid on that coffin, don't you?”
Noah looked down. There, between his splayed legs was the head of, well, he didn't exactly know who or what it was but that was beside the point, quite frankly. Ultimately he was sat on top of a rotting corpse and the remains of its putrefying cranium was staring up at him from between his feet.
“Oh, terrific,” he said as he attempted to wipe himself clean of dirt, dust and various other particles of cadaver related detritus. “I just had this suit laundered.” He gazed around at the earthly confines of his situation. “Shouldn't this be filled in?” he asked nobody in particular.
“What do you mean?” asked Gertie.
“Isn't it obvious? If there's an occupied coffin down here there should, traditionally, be a couple of tonnes of mud on top of it. Surely you only leave graves open if they're empty.”
“I see your point,” said Gertie whom, it has to be said, wasn't exactly the sharpest bulb in the box (see, even the analogy is wrong). “But what does it mean?”
Noah got himself to his feet and perched on either side of the coffin.
“Well, I'm no expert, but it would appear that maybe someone has come along and, for whatever reason, dug it up.”
“Maybe they forgot,” said Gertie helpfully.