The Complete Greyminster Chronicles

by Brian Hughes

  “Actually, I’ve got a dead good one here.”

  She found a larger than average photograph of herself. Mel Gibson’s head had been cut out and stuck onto the person standing next to her. She had used too much glue and he now had a thumb-smeared halo.

  “This is the time that Mel and I eloped to the South of France and had a dirty weekend without his wife knowing. It’s not true of course but it’s one of my greatest fantasies.”

  She hugged the scrapbook intimately to her flat chest.

  “Jar-nette. This sort of behaviour is just as responsible for female repression as those men. How can you let down the sisterhood in this manner?”

  “Oh get stuffed y’ stuck up cow! Just ’cos y’ can’t get a shag!” Janet’s patience was only a veneer to her personality it would seem.

  “I am a celibate feminist actually.”

  “You’re an ugly old dog who can’t get a pork more like.”

  The screen went blank.

  Next up was a shot of a hand-scrawled card pinned to a tree. It read ‘Jannice’s Guide to Feminist Principles’.

  Jess Hobson, several years younger but every bit as ugly, watched on from the park bench as Jannice testily attacked the camera’s remote with both thumbs. Jess looked miserable. But a promise was a promise.

  At length Jannice sorted out her technical problems and turned to face the camera, adopting what she considered to be an approachable expression.

  “In our constant struggle for recognition and equality in a chauvinistic, male dominated society,” she began. “Women must first recognise their natural enemy.”

  She turned to Jess.

  “Jess here is a typical example of the anally expressive masculine.”

  “W’at!?”

  “His behavioural patterns are inherent within all male offspring of our society, along with socially aggressive behaviour, gender stereotyping and extreme homophobia.”

  “Oy!”

  “The only way in which we, as women...”

  “Just a minute. Are you callin’ me a queer?”

  “Can combat such deeply engrained prejudices...”

  “Hold on. Are you sayin’ that I’m a brown hatter or somethin’?”

  “Is by drawing public attention to men’s fundamental faults...”

  “I’m not a bloody bottom bandit!!”

  “And holding them up to self scrutiny.”

  “Don’t call me a bender!”

  At this point Jannice turned around to the increasingly vociferous Jess. “What?”

  “I’m not a shirt lifter, all right? Turn that camera off now!” He closed in on the camera, one giant hand encompassing the lens. “Y’r not callin’ me a queer bugger!”

  Once more the video jumped.

  Jannice reappeared, standing in her room before a notice board containing several diagrams of female organs drawn with a marker pen. The words ‘Battery Low’ were flashing on the screen as, ignorant of this valuable piece of information, she started talking.

  “Now let’s look at some of the ways that women can avoid a build up of pus and membrane by using the correct sanitary towel.”

  Fortunately perhaps, the recording ended at this point. Later Jess must have reused the cassette because the rest was filled with cartoons recorded from the television.

  It was important to reveal the contents of the video at this point. It might not appear so right now, but they do bear a relevance to our unfolding story. And it’s as well to understand that particular part of Jess Hobson’s history, in the knowledge that at some future time, one of the characters might reappear.

  The only other video that managed to survive past the point of no return, in fact the only other video inside our mysterious box, bore the legend, ‘Revenge of the Chainsaw Prostitutes 5’. It had a gaudy cover, showing a surgically enhanced woman in a leather thong. She was wielding a chainsaw with blood smeared across her cheeks.

  There’s not much point in me saying what was on the cassette. I’m sure the readers can work out that one for themselves.

  That’s enough of the past for now. Wind the clocks forward again. Wind them quickly and let’s get on. Back through the discourse of the turbulent 90’s. Back to the point before our attention was drawn away.

  Chapter Eight: A Dance with the Devil

  Mrs Prune’s bedroom. A private boudoir where mortal man would fear to tread.

  Not that mortal man would want to tread in it anyhow.

  Apart from the lace curtains, the ornamental ewer and a gaudy baroque mirror, it was a practical enough room. The gigantic bed dominated the floor like some prehistoric animal, the eiderdown resembling a partially inflated hot air balloon. On its end an earthenware hot water bottle smouldered lethargically.

  Around the room fluffy toys shared their home with occult souvenirs. Cornish Tarot cards, astrological calendars from Dorset, The Bumper Book of Fortune Telling that she’d uncovered in a poky old bookshop on the Isle of Man.

  Amongst them all was Mrs Prune, attired for bed, though she was wearing more clothes now than she wore at any other time of day. Several jumpers created an unflattering bulge beneath her night-gown and her feet appeared to be swollen due to the numerous layers of socks she had on.

  It was 12:35 a.m. The witching hour. And all was not well at 114 Applegate.

  Here was Mrs Prune, a candle holder clamped onto her thumb, probing branches of light ironically creating patches of darkness in every corner.

  Uneasiness had settled on her brow. With the iron poker clutched in her other hand she interrogated under the bed. In the process she disturbed a few tired mice. Nothing of any consequence there.

  Also nothing inside the po which rang with the sound of china on iron. Nothing on the top of the wardrobe either, where several fluffy bunnies got a whacking. Eventually, apparently satisfied, Mrs Prune climbed back into bed, pulling up the bloated eiderdown. Resolutely she started to plough through an Old Rogers’ Almanac.

  “No bugger’s gonna frighten me out o’ me beauty sleep,” she muttered stubbornly. After a moment’s reflection she added, “Not that I need it, but principles are principles.”

  “Mrs Prune?” said a voice. It was so close that she dropped the booklet and her old heart skipped an important beat.

  “Mrs Prune? I’ve got to talk now and it’s more important than...than...” The voice trailed off, deep in thought. “Than a very important thing indeed.”

  “Buggerin’ ’Ell!” Mrs Prune tugged the poker from beneath her pillow and set her rumpled face against the dark.

  “Calm down. It’s me.” There was no response. Mrs Prune’s jaw had locked up solid. The voice continued regardless. “It’s me...Benjamin Foster.”

  “Ben Foster?” Mrs Prune looked around apprehensively, finding horror in every shadow. “The idiot ’oo looks like ’is ’ead’s bin down a disposal pipe? W’at’s the idea? Prowlin’ about in an ’onest woman’s bedroom?”

  Benjamin Foster manifested himself at the foot of the bed whilst Mrs Prune clutched the poker to her bosom. His appearance was just as ghastly as she remembered it from the seance. He looked down at his diaphanous boots, going pink with embarrassment. It was, admittedly, a rather unhealthy pink.

  “Sorry, Madam Victoria. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t entertain the idea of entering your bedroom.” He held that thought for a moment. “Not even for the largest cream cake in history.”

  It was an immature thing to say, but it grabbed Mrs Prune’s attention.

  “Talk like that gets y’ a slap round the chops. Now waddaya want?!”

  “It’s about that Presbyterian minister...” He cocked one eyebrow, as though mentioning Hobson by name was tantamount to blasphemy. “What with you being a witch and all.”

  He paused, hoping to avoid terms such as ducking stool and old biddy.

  Mrs Prune contorted her features into an unconcerned expression. “Oh ’im? We’ve met. Great big puff ’ee is. Don’t scare me none.”

&n
bsp; It was a good job that Mrs Prune wasn’t made of wood. If she had been, her nose would have just smashed through the mirror on the other side of the room. Instead, she defiantly brandished the poker, several specks of soot tumbling onto the quilt.

  “If ’ee tries it on with me, ’ee’ll know what Jack. B. Nimble felt like w’en ’ee slipped on the candle flack with ’is buttocks splayed!” She leaned forwards. “Any’ow, can’t you sort ’im out?”

  A twitch shuddered across her face. Ben suspected it was supposed to be a conspiratorial wink. In reality it looked as though she was trying to dislodge a cockroach from her ear.

  “W’at wi’ you bein’ dead an’ all?”

  “Dead?” Astonishment narrowed Ben’s eyes. With some obvious difficulty he tried to sort out the jumbled events of the last few hours. At least, what appeared to be the ‘Last Few Hours’ anyhow. Time works differently for the deceased. “What do you mean, dead?”

  Mrs Prune’s lips puckered up like a hen’s bottom about to lay. “Oh, bloody ’Ell. C’mon sit down on me commode, young Ben Foster. I’m not sure ’ow I’m going to break this to y’.”

  An evanescent blue glow formed around Benjamin. Then he was gone.

  Mrs Prune stared at the spot where he’d just been standing, and found herself examining a rip in the flowery border on the wall. She followed it along until it met with a lintel. Despite all the ghostly comings and goings already that night, this last act particularly unnerved her.

  She was just about to clamber out of bed when a voice uncomfortably close by her ear muttered, “Mrs Prune?”

  The shock knocked her backwards into the bedstead. There was Benjamin, seated demurely on the Georgian commode, his hands on his knees. Mrs Prune checked that her heartbeat was back where it belonged and gave him an angry glance.

  “Stop buggerin’ about like that!”

  Ben obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

  “I’ve got t’ get six sets o’ tights off t’ change me drawers, y’ know?” Mrs Prune continued. “An’ it’s bloody chilly in that bathroom.”

  She regained enough composure to carry on in a more moderate tone.

  “Now...” A thought struck her. It was apparent to anybody with a brain larger than a goldfish’s, that Benjamin had no idea about his supernatural nuances. If she wasn’t careful, breaking the news of his death to him might...well, it might kill him. She chose her next move with caution. “W’at I’m about t’ say might come as a bit of a shock to y’r system.”

  Wagging her index finger she pointed at the chipped chamberpot embedded in the padded seat. “So make sure the lid on that Victorian potty’s up.”

  “It’s not about the birds and the bees again, is it?” Benjamin frowned. “The last lot of advice you gave me about that was about as much use as crocheted bog paper.”

  “It’s bugger all t’ do with nuptials!” Mrs Prune drew in another deep breath that, had it been any stronger, would have loosened the wallpaper. “You’re dead Ben Foster! Stone, cold dead!”

  This seemed to throw Ben off guard. “What exactly do you mean by ‘dead’?”

  Defeated, Mrs Prune threw her arms in the air.

  “Dead! Y’ know..?” She struggled to find the appropriate words. “Dead as in the Labour Party’s socialist policies! Dead as in John Merrick’s sex life! Dead as in Douglas Bader’s tap-dancing lessons! You’re a ghostly phantom with no more right to God’s clean Earth than Attila the Hun! You’re dead, Ben Foster. D. E. D. Dead!”

  “Right...I wondered why that fat bird at the supermarket was ignoring me.” He thought about that. “And only you can see me, right?”

  Mrs Prune donned her half moon spectacles and blinked. The lenses magnified her eyes until they resembled two moist eggs. “An’ from where I’m sat, Ben Foster, y’ don’t look in none too good ’ealth neither.”

  “Well, that’s put a bit of a downer on Christmas.” Something in the back of Ben’s mind cried out for attention. “That probably explains what it is that I know...”

  “And w’at’s that?”

  “There’s something...horrible...hanging around this house...”

  Mrs Prune visibly relaxed. “That’ll be the plumbing. It’s bunged up agen. Some of Jess’ floaters are more like sentient life forms. I reckon there’s an ’ole gang of ’em somew’ere actin’ like performin’ sealions.”

  She took off her glasses, folded them and laid them to rest on the pillow.

  “My great grandfather...” ventured Ben, with some uncertainty. “He must want the last of the Hobson bloodline.”

  “Y’ know, Ben...” said Mrs Prune. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  She suddenly realised that had sounded sentimental. Mrs Prune wouldn’t stand for that. So she added a harder edge to her voice and continued. “I want you t’ look out for Jess. Ee’s bin acting odd lately.”

  She mulled over the most recent past events. “Very aggressive. Out o’ control.”

  “That’s not exactly news is it?”

  “Worse than usual. I think ’ee might be ’avin’ a nervicular breakdown.”

  At which point there was a crash from downstairs.

  It brought the conversation to a standstill. Both of them looked down at the carpet.

  After several moments, when it became apparent that the floor had nothing further to offer by the way of explanation, Mrs Prune flung back the patchwork quilt and struggled from the bed. With outstretched toes she plonked her feet into a pair of fluffy slippers with rabbit’s faces on them.

  “Bugger it!” she muttered, dragging her dressing gown from the back of the door. “There’s no rest f’r the wicked.”

  Downstairs Jess Hobson was staggering about, half a shandy off being paralytic. As he tumbled around the apartment he dislodged towers of books that scattered across the carpet. During his heady progress toward the television, he sang drunkenly in the sort of voice that only karaoke singers could manage.

  “Oh Mary this London’s a wonderful sight. It’s full of old cockneys an’ they’re all talkin’ shite!”

  Somehow he reached the gimcrack set and collapsed. Pointlessly he attempted to switch it on by jabbing angrily with the remote.

  Nothing happened. Nothing, that is, apart from the Biro sliding back down the tube of Sellotape.

  Jess clenched his fist and thumped the television set on the top. At which point he noticed the On/Off button and made a connection. Perhaps he ought to use his actual finger.

  After several drunken attempts the button clicked and the sudden scream of the Body Form woman sent him toppling over backwards. As he struggled up and crawled slowly back, Jess was suddenly filled with a sinking sensation. The impression that he was not alone.

  Another figure stood in the room. A gaunt and oppressive figure. Samuel Foster watched the pathetic creature beleaguered on the floor in front of him.

  Then he sprang with the agility of a cat. And he landed, claws outstretched, on Jess Hobson’s spine. A length of rope was instantly coiled around Jess’ neck. Jess gagged as it tightened, forcing his tongue from his mouth.

  “Got a problem, Hobson?” The incorporeal figure expectorated the words. “Last malicious home wrecker of the great bastard family!”

  Mrs Prune hobbled through the lamp lit streets, her heart pounding beneath her bodice. Out of breath she turned from the tree-lined crescent and entered the drive of a Victorian house. It would have been a pleasant driveway under normal circumstances. Austere trees stared gravely down onto mossy flagstones. Despite its great height the house was somnolent, very middle-class and extremely sensible.

  But Mrs Prune had no time for such trivialities. If Thomas Hobson or Samuel Foster were involved in the rumpus back at Applegate, there wasn’t a lot she could do about it herself. She’d decided to turn to somebody who might be able to help. Even those closely associated with the Pagan religion sometimes needed Christianity, if only for a second opinion.

  She stopped outside the front door
, clutching her knees with her copious hands. After several breathless moments she looked up at the window above her.

  “I’m getting too old f’r this sort o’ thing,” she muttered, her bosom still heaving like two bald headed pygmies. “Father Wordsmith!”

  She gave it a moment.

  “FATHER BUGGERIN’ WORDSMITH!!!”

  This time the window opened with a ‘Swoosh’ and the frowning head of the old priest poked itself out. He wasn’t used to being so rudely disturbed at this hour of the night. Picking up his spectacles, he positioned them carefully on his red-veined nose and squinted into the gloom.

  “Mrs Prune? What’s got your knickers in a flap at this ungodly hour?”

  “Just get y’r fat arse down ’ere Father. ’Scuse me French. I’m in need o’ y’r services, pretty damn sharp.” She looked at the boots that were pinching angrily at her toes. “An’ no smutty innuendoes neither!”

  Ducking back inside, Father Wordsmith called out, “I’ll just get my bag, Mrs Prune.”

  Mrs Prune, who was under the impression that men were men, even those as wore a frock, called back, “Leave ’er asleep Father. Just get y’ drawers on prompt.”

  She watched him vanish. Then she turned to the gate, her thoughts moving rapidly on to matters altogether more important. “I only ’opes we’ll be in time.”

  Jess Hobson writhed beneath Samuel Foster. His bloodied nose was buried in the carpet. The coarse rope that bound his wrists cut wields in the flesh. A pair of soiled socks had been pushed in front of his nostrils.

  “Breathe them in deeply, Jess Hobson,” trembled the hideous voice. “I’d like to think that your last lungful of air was made toxic by your own rank abominations. My only worry is they might crawl off before I’ve done.”

  Jess had reached the conclusion that his new found playmate had some minor psychological problems.

  “One hundred and one years, sixteen days and four hours.” Benjamin’s great-grandfather spat. “All that time I’ve spent trying to get back to this realm of mortality.” The word ‘mortality’ had a special echo all of its own.