by Brian Hughes
A thickset arm wrapped itself round Benjamin’s neck.
“Don’t EVER disturb me mid-dump again!” Jess tightened his grip. “Or else you’ll be spendin’ the rest of eternity trying t’ dislodge a kidney from the top of your ’ead!”
A bolt of electricity sparked from Ben’s shoulder, earthing itself in his colleague’s chin. At that same moment an umbrella made contact with Jess’ head. Moments later it was accompanied by a rusted watering-can.
Jess slackened his grip.
“Leave ’im alone you useless great brute! Don’t y’ think ’ee’s ’ad enough buggerin’ problems of late without you ’alf mauling him t’ death?!”
“’Ee’s already dead!”
“Well, there’s no need for you t’ go makin’ it worse!” Mrs Prune prodded his shoulder. “And you ought to ’ave more respect for your elders! Now...listen t’ what Benjamin’s got to say. You might learn something.”
Jess turned to Benjamin, who was straightening the collar on his spectral pullover.
“Right. Well, let’s hear it then. This ‘profound’ revelation that’s goin’ t’ turn the World on its ’ead. Managed t’ formulate an equation for Einstein’s inverse-universe theorem ’ave y’? Or have y’ just found a nasty bump on your noggin?”
Ben slid the crumbling book across the table. “Have a close look at this.”
Jess picked it up, several pages coming loose in his fingers. “Peculiarities of the Physiognomy of Quantum Mechanics and ’ow to set up a Nicam VCR for the Absolute Beginner.”
He stared at the cover hoping for some great revelation. “’Ave I missed the point? Or was Stephen Hawking s’pose t’ come in an’ start ruminatin’ on some new theory ?”
Ben reached for the book. Jess childishly snatched it back. After several seconds of competition to prove who had the fastest reflexes, Ben finally slammed it onto the table. He thumbed back through a couple of pages and pointed to a line of small print at the bottom of page one.
Jess squinted.
“Authorship Thomas ’Obson and Samuel Foster.” He stood up baffled. “So they were a little ahead of their time? What’s the point you’re tryin’ t’ make, Ben? That they’ve come back from the dead to claim the Booker Prize of 1897?”
“Look at the publishing date.” Ben’s voice reeked of smugness. Jess repressed an overwhelming urge to clock him one and read the date.
“Twenty forty-six.”
“I found it over there in a box filled with old copies of Men Only.”
“Yeah, ‘Old’ isn’t the word,” Jess reflected. “Pre-Chaplin crap! All stuff about politics with the odd topless black an’ white shot. No wonder the Wambach’s put ’em out for the bin men. Talk about givin’ a starvin’ dog a rubber bone.”
“Jess…I know your brain sometimes needs a jump start. But, don’t you think the publishing date’s a bit odd?”
“So the publishers got the date wrong? Find us a pen quick and I’ll inform Ripley’s Believe It Or Not! You sad polyp!”
“Look Jess. I don’t know what this means, but it’s about Thomas Hobson, so it’s got to be important.”
The telephone had rung. Mrs Prune feeling obsolete answered it. Now she covered the mouthpiece and leant round the doorjamb.
“As much as I hate t’ break up this lovers’ tiff,” she interrupted. “Do either of you know a Donald Oakseed?”
Ben and Jess turned to each other.
“Name sounds familiar. What’s ’ee done?”
“Blown up a bus queue on Caldwell Crescent.” Mrs Prune thought about that before adding, for the sake of her own mental stability, “Apparently...any’ow, there’s a Miss Sonneman askin’ for you.”
Suddenly flustered, Jess took the receiver.
“Mrs Sasquatch? Don’t say a word. No, DON’T!!” Jess growled down the line. “Just ’old on there an’ I’ll come round. Just as soon as I’ve finished jammin’ a book up me partner’s nostril.”
Chapter Thirteen: Murder as the Evening Falls
November 16th. 4:00 p.m. Winter’s shroud draws over Greyminster.
The afternoons are much shorter at this time of year. The old are aware of this situation. What’s left of the old people anyhow, following the massacre at the rest home. Fewer days ahead now than behind. But for them there are other matters at hand.
The Albert Finney Memorial Hall. A wooden structure built on the slope of South Ringing Fell. There’s a jumble sale in progress; the annual war for the possession of second hand clothes and broken pots that buzz when filled with tea.
Father Wordsmith stood behind the ‘Collectors’ Pot Stall’. Around him old dears searched for that elusive bargain. Most of them were fighting.
Let’s concentrate on the two closest to hand shall we?
Edith Norton was wrestling Mrs P. Atkins over some tatty piece of cloth. The situation had escalated into one-on-one combat. The piece of material had started to rip.
“’Smine! Geddoff it y’ old walrus!”
“You horrible witch. I’d ’ad the vicar put this aside for me.”
Mrs Atkins, ignoring the Wisdom of Solomon, was allowing the cloth to tear. “That’s abuse of church committee privilages!”
Edith took a swing at Mrs Atkins with her brolly. It made contact at exactly the same moment that Mrs Atkins’ Zimmer frame crushed Edith’s big toe.
Father Wordsmith pushed through the hordes ignoring the barneys breaking out all around. He reached the stage and climbed up to his dais.
“Ladies!” he hollered. “If I could just have your attention for a moment. Ladies please! It’s time for the prize tombola draw.”
He leaned down to an old dear near the footlights. “Could you hand me the tombola bin, Gladys? Before things start turning nasty.”
Gladys obeyed, struggling beneath a large black plastic bin filled with pink tickets.
At which point a laser gun brought the crowd to a standstill. The laser itself zigzagged towards the rostrum. Moments later the bin exploded, showering pink confetti over everybody’s heads.
As one, the crowd turned to look at Donald Oakseed. He flourished his light sabre from the balcony.
“ArTwoDeeTwo?!” cried Cervantes, staring at the refuse container. “I’ll save you.”
Using one disproportionately large hand, he grabbed a nearby rope hanging from the rafters. With a Tarzan cry he swooped into the crowd.
Unfortunately in doing so he misjudged the rope’s length. He hit the ground and the old dears gathered round him in one highly compressed crescent. United at last against the common enemy. Nobody, but nobody, was going to take their jumble sale away from them. Senile solidarity had taken root.
Suddenly Donald was up on his feet, old dears flying in all directions. Stalls were overturned. Wall-bars broke beneath the bodies of geriatrics.
Cowering behind the lectern was Father Wordsmith. “It’s perhaps a bit more violent than usual Gladys.”
He wondered if he could make it to the trap door in time. All around him the confusion raged on.
Let’s not hang around to watch. Suffice it to say the pile of bodies only added to those at the retirement home.
Later Donald left the jumble sale and silently disappeared down a side-street as the lights of the police-cars reached the site of the carnage.
11:30 p.m. November 16th. Martha skipped along the hallway as Jess hammered on the front door. The welcome mat tickled her bare soles as she reached for the latch. She polished the window with the sleeve of her sweater and peered into the dark night beyond. Then she drew her dressing gown closed, flicked back her hair and nibbled her lip.
Jess was keenly attired tonight. Not a curry stain in sight. The funeral suit was pinching various parts of his anatomy. With an almost strangulating movement he adjusted his kipper tie.
Benjamin sniffed the thickening air and pulled his face. “What’s that smell?”
“Probably the turd comin’ out of your gob.”
“It’s Old Kung F
u, that aftershave Auntie Maureen bought you four years ago. It’s been gathering dust behind the cistern ever since. The only time you opened it was when you ran out of alcohol last Easter.”
The front door opened. Martha adjusted her dressing gown, in the hopes that it might make her look more endowed. As she did so Jess belted Ben on the nose. This time he’d worn a leather glove. The electricity crackled around his fingers before earthing itself elsewhere.
Jess caught Martha’s puzzled expression. In embarrassment he scratched his head.
Benjamin Foster clutched his nose and swore. Tucking his tie in his sweater his partner smiled. “Ah, Mrs Sassenach. I got ’ere as soon as I could.”
“Why, Mr Hobson...” Martha suddenly sounded like a Victorian maid. “I was beginning to think you couldn’t come.”
“’Oo the bloody ’Ell told y’ that?”
“Nobody.” Martha’s voice trailed off. “It’s just that I called this afternoon...”
“Oh...yes...” Jess straightened up. “I had to feed Mrs Prune’s tortoise.”
Martha paused. “For seven and a half hours?”
“Its jaw got stuck.”
“How?”
“When I was kicking it for askin’ too many STUPID QUESTIONS!”
“I ought to get the RSPCA onto you.”
“I wouldn’t do that Mrs Caesarean. They’d probably have y’ destroyed for havin’ a varicose VEIN FOR AN ’EAD.”
By this point their voices had risen dramatically. Several lights had come on along the crescent.
“Jess?” Benjamin hissed through his teeth.
“I’d rather have a haemorrhoid for a head, Mr Hobson, than a...a...BOLLOCK!”
“Jess!” Ben tried again to get his partner’s attention.
Jess Hobson, fist tightly clenched, swung round on Ben who ducked instinctively. He tugged the glasses from Jess’ nose and vanished from sight.
Jess stared angrily into space for a moment. Then he doubled up in agony, clutching his groin.
Martha’s anger dropped as the object of her distractions crumpled before her. “Are you all right, Mr Hobson?”
A muffled whimper seemed to indicate that perhaps he wasn’t. “Apart from the fact me scrotum appears to ’ave burst, y’ mean?”
Jess tried to stand up without tearing any ligaments, hobbled across the doorstep clutching the gusset of his trousers and turned purple. Martha took him gently by the elbow.
“I think you’d better come inside. We’ll have a look for some ointment.”
Begrudgingly Jess allowed her to drag him in through the door.
“P’raps a needle an’ thread might be better.” Jess staggered into the hallway. “And you’re not touching my privates!”
“Don’t be such a baby, Mr Hobson. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Jess looked up horrified. “When did you sneak a gander at me gonads?”
114 Applegate. Apartment Four. The Hobson & Co Library. Mrs Prune was making a most important discovery. There she is, amongst the old books that were once Benjamin’s pride and joy.
Two large volumes lay open on her knees. Mrs Prune’s eyes grew ever larger beneath her spectacles. Her puckered mouth had fallen open like a hungry barnacle.
“Bugger me fat Aunt Nellie with a cucumber.”
Another page was turned with little consideration for the book’s great age. “So that’s what’s goin’ on.”
She grabbed her hat and coat from the hook above her head and struggled to her feet. Moments later she wrapped her coat around her shoulders with determination.
“Time for action!” she stated firmly.
Chapter Fourteen: The Phantom Returns
There was the rattle of a teaspoon from Martha’s kitchen. In the front room Jess Hobson nursed his pride. He was perched on a cushion designed for haemorrhoids.
Martha entered carrying a silver tray. Two mugs of coffee rattled about on their saucers. They were surrounded by chocolate Hobnobs. Regardless of modern political-correctness, Martha still found enjoyment from tending to men’s needs.
“Feeling better now?” The refreshments were placed on the coffee table.
“I was! ’Til that Rottweiler decided t’ use me gusset as a scratchin’ post!” Jess narrowed his eyes at the shapeless cat clinging to the sofa.
“Oh Ginger’s just a big softy really.”
Ginger obviously didn’t think so.
“Well, as much as I enjoy our little ‘Tete a Tits’, Mrs Suspect,” Jess continued. “What did you actually want, any’ow?”
“Ah...” Martha lifted the coffee and blew the steam from its surface. “It’s Mr Oakseed. Something odd’s turned up in his cellar.”
There followed a familiar silence. A very long and embarassing silence. Suddenly Jess was up on his feet, wearing a frown that said, “This interview is over!”
“Right! I’m goin’ home t’ dunk me testicles in some ’orse lineament. When y’ discover how t’ communicate properly, Mrs Sausage, don’t hesitate t’ phone a priest.”
“It’s torn Mr Hobson!”
The remark made him stop. “Yes...it probably is! That’s why I’m goin’ ’ome.”
Martha grabbed him. She noticed his expression and repositioned her hands on her knees.
“I mean the fabric of reality in Mr Oakseed’s cellar has a great big rip in it.”
Now it was Jess who was taciturn.
“It’s the wrong time of month isn’t it? Greenwich Menstrual Time. Have a word with your GP, Mrs Sorespot. No doubt ’ee can ’ave you committed.”
“It was like a gash,” Martha struggled on. “A long pulsating hole with multicoloured balls coming out of it.”
“Sure you’re not getting confused with me accident?”
Martha sprang to her feet so excitedly that Ginger expanded.
“Something bad’s torn through from the other side!” Martha was working herself up into a frenzy now. “Whatever it is, it’s taken possession of Donald. Something uglier even than you! And something’s got to be done. It must be stopped before it destroys us all!”
Jess arched an eyebrow in a dismissive manner.
“’Ow come the smell of your feet didn’t see it off then?” Jess wasn’t in the mood for being described as ‘Ugly’. Especially by somebody whose hairstyle had gone out of fashion in 1975.
“If you don’t stop whatever it is then nobody will,” she added, archly. “Call yourself a ‘Paranormal Investigator’?”
As suspected that struck a chord deep down inside her protagonist. A slander against Jess’ ‘Detective Talents’ was the equivalent of calling him ‘A worthless pratt’. He pulled himself up to his full impressive height.
“Right then! Where’s Donald now?”
A look of relief swept across Martha’s face.
“Well, usually at this time he’s staggering home from the Bull and Duck.” She cast her mind back to the many hours spent in Donald’s company. “Singing sea shanties with the words altered to make them rude.”
Jess looked at his shiny new boots. Boots that were all laced up wrong and had been hurting his toes since leaving Applegate.
“Time t’ try out me new exorcise boots I think.”
Midnight. The witching hour. Druid’s End was bathed in a blue November moonlight. Mrs Prune hadn’t much time for aestheticism though. Atmospheric graveyards had the same appeal to her as a basket of washing. To Mrs Prune, the witchin’ thing was all about purple robes and sequins and giving old biddies something to believe in. Mrs Prune’s was the sort of witchcraft you bought from a stall on Greyminster Market. All skull candles and Tarot decks designed by the local school children.
Her boots crunched along the gravel drive. Small drifts of marsh fog separated around her ankles. There was no pointed hat on Mrs Prune’s head. No birch twig broom. Just her trusty old boots and a thick woollen coat, buttoned up to keep out the night.
And an umbrella. ‘Important bit o’ the Craft’, was that.
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Thomas Hobson’s burial plot was currently occupied. The courting couple on it had little consideration for what lay beneath the scrub.
Emma Wilkins was fast approaching sixteen - fifteen years, five months and thirteen days to be exact - and she was counting. The misapprehension that all her friends were no longer virgins put Emma under a lot of pressure to join the initiated before she attained the legal age.
Grant Warrenhurst was also a fumbling adolescent. He was hoping to gain his first sexual experience tonight.
A pair of boots crunched inconsiderately across the graveyard. Startled by the echo, Emma sat up straight. Hastily she rebuttoned her blouse.
“Did you hear something Grant?” Her breath turned into ice.
Grant sat up. “I couldn’t hear anything above your groans.”
“What bloody groans?” Emma stared at the spotty youth, realising how much more mature she seemed than him. “You’re not gonna tell your mates at school about this, are y’?”
Grant blushed. “Was it any good?”
One grope, thought Emma, and he wants me to compliment him on his technique. The Earth had hardly moved had it? All those books on the top of her parents’ wardrobe, full of men who looked like Quakers and female social workers. All that stuff about ‘Erogenous Zones’ and ‘Clitoral Stimulation.’ She hadn’t experienced much of that tonight.
“We haven’t done anything yet.”
“No! An’ your not goin’ to, neither!” Mrs Prune stepped out of the bushes. Her brolly brought Grant a crack round his head. “Get off that grave! No respect for the dead some people!”
Emma scrambled to her feet.
“Last of the great romantics, eh?” Mrs Prune looked at the flattened grass. “Y’ ought to be ’ome. Your parents’ll be worried sick!”
She belted them both a couple more times with her umbrella. Moments later the adolescents made their escape across the gravestones.
“Just cos you’re too old for a shag y’rself! Y’ frumpy, old Weeble!” Grant’s voice echoed off the headstones. “Whose grave is it any’ow? Yours?”