by Brian Hughes
“Y’ know w’at I mean! Can’t y’ find out w’at’s going on? ’Ave a word with Arthur Scargill or somethin’.”
“Arthur Scargill isn’t dead yet, Mrs Prune.” The fact that he hadn’t been on the telly for a few weeks was enough for Mrs Prune to assume the worst. “Unfortunately,” Ben added.
He looked puzzled, then spoke without making eye contact. “What do you suppose happened to my great grandfather?”
“Back where ’ee belongs. Bowels of Hell with Beelzebub’s pitchfork up ’is jacksie no doubt!” Mrs Prune removed a string of gammon from her teeth. “Actually, ’ee’d probably like that! Roarin’ great ponce that ’ee was!”
“One thing that bothers me though,” Ben bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. “If he was around in Victorian times, why was he wearing denims?”
That thought struck home. In all the confusion Mrs Prune hadn’t noticed that anachronism. Well, you didn’t go round isolating minor discrepancies when some demented ghost was trying to tear your head off. But now that she thought about it, the faded denims were certainly an enigma. Not only had Samuel Foster been wearing them, but so had Thomas Hobson. In fact he’d been wearing bloody sneakers as well.
“I don’t rightly know, but...” She stood up and crossed to the mantelpiece, bread crumbs tumbling from her pinny.
Three crumpled calling cards were hidden behind the carriage clock. Mrs Prune pulled them out and flung them down in front of Jess. He stopped his inventing and raised his head at the interruption.
“Take a gander at these.”
“W’at’s this? We out of the quilted stuff again?”
“It’s y’r Christmas bonus.” Mrs Prune sat back down, folding her arms across her chest and adjusting her bosom as she did so. “That’s the third call for y’r ‘Paranormal Services’ this mornin’.”
With a knowledgeable look that Jess suspected as not being terribly knowledgeable at all she nodded smugly and sat back. “Somethin’ rotten this way comes. An’ I’m not talkin’ about ’Arry Norton neither!”
Jess read the words on the top card aloud. “Madame Victoria Whiplash. All manner of unusual requests granted.”
The card was snatched from his hand. Mrs Prune compressed her wrinkled lips. “’Ow did that get in there? Bloody kids an’ their April fool pranks!”
She coughed, a little high pitched cough, then tapped the following card as though nothing had happened. “Look. Thirty-three, Old Bridge Lane. Disturbance next door. Only just round the corner from the cemetary that one. Grave goin’s on indeed.”
Jess had to admit it was all rather coincidental. Since Hobson and Co had been established their pathetic excuse for a business had only received four calls. Such was the lack of demand. Two of the calls had been from the kids off the council estate who had found their advert in the Yellow Pages and thought it would be fun to go ‘Whooo’ down the phone. The only other call had been from an old woman who had lost her keys.
But now there’d been three calls in one morning.
Benjamin, alert and eager as ever, was up on his feet before his partner had finished reading. “I’ll pop off down there. ’Ave a quick rummage around. See what I can discover.”
“’Oo do y’ think you are?” Mrs Prune straightened. “Randal an’ bloody ’Opkirk? There’s only me as can see y’, y’ daft sod!”
“Well, all things considered...” Benjamin stared at his partner. “Jess would be about as much use as an elastic truss on his own. I wouldn’t trust him to stand the right way round at a urinal.”
Jess’ face appeared from behind the toppling pile of junk. He was wearing spectacles. The frame was roughly two inches thick with two camera lenses bolted over the top. A motor was attached to one of the arms.
Following a short pause Jess punched Ben hard on the nose. There was a muffled crunch and several blue bolts shot out of Benjamin’s jaw.
Jess removed the glasses and turned them over in his hands, a satisfied expression across his face. “Right. Well they appear t’ be workin’ okay.”
He glanced at Mrs Prune. “Certainly proves me theory that Ben’s not a proper ghost. Seems a bit too solid f’r that sort o’ thing.”
He turned the glasses between his fingers, marvelling at his comprehension of quantum mechanics. “Simple ‘Phase Re-alignment Mechanism.’ Now I can keep tabs on Timothy Claypole ’ere!”
With a sweep of his shovel-like hand, Jess snatched the cards from the crumpled cloth and stood up, ready to depart. “No rest f’r the terminally greedy.”
He reached for his maroon body-warmer, cramming the new invention into one pocket.
“Work t’ be done! Ben?” Jess spoke to the empty air beside him that he was sure would be cussing to itself. “When y’ve finished wiping the ectoplasm off y’r chin, meet me at Old Bridge Lane. An’ bring the account book.”
A greedy smile spread across his jaw. “This one looks like it could keep us in Figgy Puddin’ ’till the New Year.”
November 16th, 1998. Another filthy morning. The bloated sky was being propped up by the chimney stacks. Stinging rain bit into the shoppers hands and faces.
11:34 a.m. The annihilation of everything steps up its pace and marches towards Armageddon.
Old Croft Mill. Built circa 1746. The sails hadn’t turned for the past decade. They’d been blown off in the great storm of 1988. Now they rotted against the pepperpot of the mill itself, causing a nuisance to passers by.
Next door to the grubby landmark was the Barn. What had once been a red brick building with doves in its eaves was now a shop of curiosities. It hadn’t been one of Greyminster council’s better development plans. Nothing ever got sold in the Barn, its shelves of pottery and home-made peg-dolls gathering a layer of grey dust.
Donald Keith Oakseed strolled into the square.
He stopped beside the half-erected firtree, prodding his sunglasses up his nose. He was oddly attired for a man of such humble disposition. A leather jacket hung open around a brilliant white tee shirt. His leather trousers hugged his short but muscular legs, tapering into his black cowboy boots. In his hand he held a brightly coloured water cannon. A yellow and pink affair with several drops of water dripping from the nozzle.
When he spoke his voice had a Scottish inflection. “Ah, Mish Moneypenny. Ey shee the sitchuation in Bulgaria ish deteriorating again.”
Mrs Edith Norton was leaving the Dried Fruit Specialists, a large tub of all-bran under one arm. Beneath the other, a bag full of shopping was causing her transportation problems. It would be fair to say that Edith wasn’t sure how to respond to Donald’s solicitation. She had known him for most of his life and he’d always seemed a boring sod.
“Ev’ry bloody town an’ ev’ry village,” Edith muttered to herself. “There’s always some nutter ’as to approach me!”
This is Donald’s mind’s eye. Things have become jumbled. Two personalities struggling for the control of one body. A crosshair target moves in front of his eyes, trained on Croft Mill and its soiree of buildings.
Donald fought valiantly against the powerful influence. There wasn’t much chance of his own mind coming out on top but he’d made an effort and perhaps that was worthy of note.
The target focused on a baguette poking out of Mrs Norton’s bag. It went to maximum zoom, Donald supplying his own special warning noise.
“Please put down your weapon!”
Edith backed away. Donald’s manic red eyes glowed through his sunglasses, keeping a steady lock on the promontory of bread. “You have twenty seconds to comply.”
This statement was obviously some sort of bluff. Without waiting for a fraction of the time to elapse, a stream of water shot out of the toy gun. It completely missed the loaf, hitting a deliveryman’s bobblehat instead.
The man struggled beneath the weight of his boxes as the water ran down his head. “Oy! W’at’s your game, y’ daft pillock!? Y’ nearly ’ad me eye out then!”
Edith seized that opportunity to make her
excuses and depart. “Well, I must be off, Mr Oakseed.” A puzzled frown tugged down on her brow. “I do ’ope your little problem clears up.”
She paused, then opened up her handbag and began to rumage. “You know, I’ve got the name of a good psychologist somewhere...”
“The name’s Bonk. James Bonk.”
He’s really gone this time, Edith thought.
“Licensed to have major sex.”
Edith Norton froze. For a moment she seemed to be playing musical statues. Then her eyes narrowed.
“Not with me, y’re not mate!” The handbag snapped shut. Mrs Norton span on her heels. “I’ll ’ave the police onto you! If my ’Arry was still alive ’ee’d ’ave y’r kidneys for braces.”
She marched off. Being old and unstable at the best of times, this resulted in a sort of half-run, half-stumbling walk. Not a terribly practical gait for someone in stilhetto heels it must be said. Shopping spilled across the cobblestones, rolling higgardly piggardly into the gutters.
Donald slid the glasses down his nose. “Moneypenny. I’ll fight those commies for you.”
Just for a moment the real Donald struggled to the surface. Then he was gone again. A wave of confusion dragged him down into the depths of his mind. Cervantes’ re-emerged triumphantly.
“And for England. And the Queen of course. I’ll kick Robby Coultrane’s backside all round the British Isles with my stinger-mounted boot from ‘Q’. Even if it means losing my foot in his mammoth buttock cleft!”
By now, several inquisitive shoppers had appeared in the surrounding doorways. Donald’s declaration of undying love sent a nervous titter through the ladies. Edith fumed. She wanted to hurl something abusive back at the watchers. But when she turned, Donald was already facing the mill.
This is Donald’s mind’s eye once more. Or rather Cervantes. The broken-down building no longer resembled the mill that had overlooked Greyminster for as long as he could remember. It now wore a fuzzy-filtered border that on films usually denotes a dream sequence.
Croft Mill creaked and metamorphosed into an unconvincing tyrannosaurus rex. The dinosaur snarled, its chiselled teeth filling its scaly lips. Donald threw back a sneer.
“Godzilla! If I had my special Roboman power I’d morph to the same size as you and kick your butt to Kingdom Come.”
The water cannon was raised. Donald fired a laser bolt, aimed between the monster’s eyes. To the gathering crowd he squirted a limp column of water into the cold November air. It feebly arced into a puddle.
Mrs Edith Norton watched from a safe distance. Wearily she shook her head and then hitched up her skirts to regain her dignity.
“Donald Oakseed. W’at a sad bugger ’ee turned out t’ be,” she continued to herself. “’Oo would ’ave thought it? ’Ee was always such a quiet man.”
This is the home of Martha Sonneman, number 33, Old Bridge Lane. It is approximately 12:00 p.m.
Jess Hobson in his quilted body-warmer looks out of place in the dainty front room.
Pottery shire-horses forever towed polished carts along the shelves. Latticed bookcases displayed their unread books to visitors. An antique writing-bureau had been forced into the alcove beside the fireplace. Receipts stuck out of the cubbyholes as if whoever had placed them there had deliberately created an organised chaos.
A ginger cat was asleep on the armchair in the fashion of a headrest.
Martha Sonneman herself was a thin, pale creature with auburn hair and a sprinkling of freckles carefully arranged about her features. She was wandering around without any shoes on. Her tight fitting sweater was covered with fanciful roses that tried to disguise the fact that Martha had nothing much to put in it. It wasn’t that Martha was particularly thin. It was just that there had never been much of Martha to start off with.
“Right, so…” Jess turned. “Mrs Sausage?”
“Miss. Actually, it’s Miss.”
Martha didn’t have an actual voice. It was more of whisper. The sort that makes romantic icons at the cinema but in reality strains the listener’s ears.
“Yeah...personally I couldn’t give a toss whether it’s Miss or Mrs It’s your money. If you wanna waste it bickerin’ over details then that’s your lookout.”
Jess tucked his thumbs into his belt and hoisted his denims.
Martha’s demeanour changed dramatically. “There’s no need to be rude!”
“I charge by the hour Mrs Sexpot. So if y’ want to discuss ’Etti Quettie’ y’d better ’ave a full purse. Otherwise, let’s get down t’ business.”
Flustered, Martha brushed the hair from her forehead and jabbed her pointed nose towards the ceiling. “Well, it’s about my next-door neighbour...Donald.”
A long and uncomfortable pause followed. Jess and Martha stared into each other’s eyes, each expecting the other to re-establish the conversation.
After several seconds the tension was unbearable. With a snort that made his nostril hairs whistle, Jess gave way.
“I am actually a paranormal investigator, Mrs Saucepan...not a mind reader. ‘It’s about my next-door neighbour, Donald,’ ’ardly qualifies for any sort o’ reaction. So either elaborate on w’at Donald has done or stop wastin’ my buggerin’ time. I ’ave got more pressin’ engagements. Such as removin’ the winnits from me rectum!”
Martha compressed her wan lips to stave off the insult and started again.
“Well, something’s happened to him.” She looked up at the ceiling and studied the magnolia swirls. “He’s sort of changed...”
There followed another lengthy pause. Eventually Jess broke the tension once more.
“Yes...obviously we’re ’avin’ a little communication difficulty ’ere!” He folded his arms across his chest. “It might ’elp in future if you continue speakin’ until, perhaps, somethin’ relevant actually occurs. Then we could avoid standin’ ’ere like a pair of autistic aristocrats tryin’ to discuss quantum mechanics. Now, w’at was unusual about Donald’s behaviour this BLOODY MORNING?”
His voice slammed across the room and rattled a Devonshire pit pony.
“Well, he doesn’t usually have columns of green light coming out of his eyes for one thing. Or smoke coming out of his nostrils FOR ANOTHER!”
That seemed to qualify.
“Right...” Jess stuffed his large hands into his pockets and rocked back on the balls of his feet. “Now...w’at’s your relationship with Mr Oakseed, Mrs Sexorgan?”
“Well...”
It was obviously an uncomfortable question. Martha screwed up her face by way of dealing with the inner struggle. Jess breathed in patiently.
“P’raps it might ’elp if you just spoke one syllable at a time.”
Martha pouted.
“Or p’raps we could try charades,” Jess ventured further. “Or maybe I should just use a cricket bat round the back of your ’ead t’ remove the blockage!”
“I’m trying to think! Stop pressuring me!” If she could have twisted her limbs around each other any more Martha would ended up totally knotted.
“It’s not the finals of Mastermind is it, y’ stupid woman?” Jess was now leaning so close into Martha’s face that gusts of alcoholic breath were flushing her cheeks. “W’at’s your relationship with him?”
“I...I...I don’t really like to say...” Her voice trailed off like the last dregs of bath water going down a plug.
“Awh...why ever not? Frightened of what the paparazzi might make of it? I could just see tomorrow’s ’eadline in the Mirror. ‘Sad, Lonely Old Nobody involved with Unheard Of Twat!’”
Martha bit her top lip to prevent the fury from erupting, folding her arms across her minuscule bosom. “No! Of course I’m not bothered about the papers! But...you know what the neighbours are like?”
“NO I BLOODY DON’T! If I did I wouldn’t be fartin’ around tryin’ to get a stupid cretin like you t’ bloody tell me. Would I?”
“Mr Hobson. Your attitude is...”
“Going t’ get a
lot worse if y’ don’t start bein’ a bit more co-operative. Now! Mrs Sexbomb, were you shaggin’ Mr Oakseed or not?”
After several moments gnawing her lower lip, the sinews down her neck turned into piano wires and Martha muttered, “Sort of...”
“Sort of?! You were sort of shaggin’ somebody? In a sort of innocent, sort of shaggin’ sort of manner?”
“Well...yes...I suppose so…sort of...”
A grin spread across Jess’ head that almost split it in two. “Good,” he said. “Then you’ll ’ave ’is backdoor key I suppose!”
Number 32, Old Bridge Lane. Previous scene of paranormal activity. A rusted key rattled in the lock. The door swung open, the creak shaking the spiders from their webs.
Jess and Martha’s shadows fell across kitchen floor. The short hairs on Jess’ neck stood to attention as they nudged their way towards the lounge.
Nothing much had changed since the previous night. Except for the two round scorch marks of course, still smouldering about halfway up the wall. Presumably they’d been created by the columns of green light. Chestnut-coloured smoke coiled up towards the ceiling like pubic hairs.
Jess looked around. The sitting room appeared to be a shrine to Anglo-American culture. Video films with gory covers occupied every space. Jess pulled one down from an overburdened bookshelf.
“He was very keen on videos,” said Martha, peering over his shoulder. “Arnold Schwarzenegger films. Sylvester Stalone films and one or two others we shouldn’t mention.”
Jess wasn’t going to ask why not. He’d no intention of spending the next hour trying to coax an answer out of the woman. Instead he inserted the cassette box beneath a mound of crusty dinner plates and looked at Martha from the corner of his eye. Embarrassed, she retracted her head from his shoulder.
“Mrs Cesspit. I’d like you t’ do me a favour.”
Martha’s face lit up with expectation. “Of course, Mr Hobson. Whatever I can do to...”
“I want you t’ piss off!” Jess stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m sick of your inane gibberin’. So if y’ wouldn’t mind crawlin’ back beneath whatever stone you originated from...”