The Complete Greyminster Chronicles

by Brian Hughes

  “I know your mother, Grant Warrenhurst.” Mrs Prune didn’t even bother to look up from the ground. “Don’t think I’m so old as I can’t see straight.”

  There followed a moment of thoughtfulness.

  “And yours, Emma Wilkins. She’ll be gettin’ more than pile ointment off me when I catches up with ’er.”

  The muffled cracks of brambles breaking worriedly reached her ears with gratification.

  “No buggerin’ respect no more!” She turned to the gravestone and kicked it violently. “Oy! ’Obson, y’ wrinkled old stiff I wants a word with y’!”

  An owl hooted stupidly in the nearby copse. Mrs Prune patiently waited.

  “I know you’re there! Watchin’ what was goin’ on! Or comin’ off! Y’ sick Tom Jones.”

  “The expression, you turgid walnut, is ‘John Doe.’ And every corpse has a right to guard his own property.” Thomas Hobson appeared, leaning over the gravestone, his eyes smouldering dimly.

  “Not with ’is flies undone!” Mrs Prune squinted. “I knows what you’re up to, Thomas ’Obson! Witch Destroyer an’ Defender of the Faith, me big, fat arse! If you come from the past then Cyril Smith is the lead ballerina wi’ the Bolshoi.”

  Thomas sucked in his cheeks so that his face resembled a piece of brown paper on a vacuum cleaner nozzle. “What makes you think I couldn’t crush you?”

  “You can’t ’urt me. Not whilst I’m wearin’ me protective.” For some unknown reason, that sounded rude to Mrs Prune. Her bent old fingers fumbled for the pentangle about her neck. With a grunt she shoved it beneath Hobson’s twitching nose.

  Thomas Hobson sneered in disgust. “You bought that in Patels’ Novelty Souvenier Emporium! Worthless plastic made in Taiwan.”

  His grin coruscated in the moonlight.

  “Works though, don’t it?”

  That much was true, as Hobson’s expression revealed. He leaned forwards again. “One day, you sour old mutton, you’ll not be wearing it. It’ll be on the bedside cabinet, forgotten. And when that happens I will destroy you. Now, BUGGER OFF you obese toad and leave the dead alone!”

  Then he vanished. Mrs Prune looked around. In the copse the owl fluttered off.

  “I’ll put a stop to your evil games, Thomas ’Obson.” Mrs Prune’s voice carried the weight of the dead with it. “God ’elp me so if I don’t!”

  12:35 p.m. The end of the universe is well underway.

  Not that anybody would be aware of it.

  There had been a rumpus round the old town that night. The townsfolk were already calling it, ‘The Old Bull & Duck Massacre.’ In spirit it was similar to, ‘The Great Retirement Home Massacre’ and, ‘The Great Massacre of the Albert Finney Memorial Hall.’

  Miguel De Cervantes steered Donald Oakseed back down Old Bridge Lane. His reptilian eyes wept like ghastly sores as he stumbled towards his home.

  In the cellar of number thirty-two a narrow light pulsated. It crackled and span, highlighting the lumps of coal along the skirting boards and the spider’s webs.

  Jess and Martha were snuggled together on a sofa that resembled a Yorkshire pudding.

  “What do you think it is then?” Martha asked quietly.

  “Well...it’s obvious.” Jess sorted the words out in his head. “It’s a light that goes up an’ down.” He narrowed his nostrils thoughtfully. “And pulses...”

  Martha edged a little closer across the cushion. Jess didn’t try to stop her, although, it should be noted, he thrust one finger down his sweater collar because it had suddenly tightened.

  “Tell me, Mr Hobson…are you scared?”

  “God no!” Jess felt his cheeks burn. “Women are always comin’ on t’ me.”

  “You will protect me, won’t you Jess?” Romantically she brushed her cheek against his sleeve. Nothing could destroy this moment together...

  “What the HELL’S THAT!?” Martha’s scream shattered the serenity.

  Benjamin Foster had appeared in front of them. Jess patted Martha’s head in what was supposed to be a comforting manner. “That’s just me partner, Benjamin Foster. He had a little accident…”

  “I nearly had a little accident myself.” Martha released her grip, realised what she was doing and tightened it again.

  “How come Miss Sonneman can see me when I wear the spectacles?” Benjamin asked.

  “Y’ wouldn’t understand, bein’ a bald brained afterbirth.” Jess wasn’t sure that he understood the principle of ‘Phase Re-alignment’ himself. It had just been an idea that suggested itself to him at the right time.

  “Your ghostly form is out o’ phase with our reality,” he explained, not so much dragging the concept from his head, but having the words appear there as if invited in by somebody else. “The glasses twist the space between time differentials.”

  “A bit like Scooby Doo?”

  “Not really. On Scooby Doo it was always the janitor with a projector.”

  Benjamin chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully.

  “It always bothered me that.” He blinked at Martha, giving her an excuse to snuggle closer to her protector. “How did the janitor always manage to create a holographic image using a Super 8mm projector?”

  Ben paused. “And how come when you wear them, you don’t go out of phase yourself?”

  “Buggered if I know,” Jess replied.

  This is the lounge at number thirty-two, Old Bridge Lane. It’s dark and silent.

  A growing rumble fills the empty atmosphere. It shakes the building with invisible hands. Suddenly half of the wall comes crashing down in a confusion of bricks and dust. The wallop is deafening.

  Slowly the smoke cleared. Donald Oakseed strolled out of the dust wearing a poncho and a cowboy hat across his alligator eyes. From a holster he drew a Colt 45. With five rapid rounds he disposed of several ornaments on the mantelpiece. Then he totally demolished the lounge.Videos were shattered beneath his heels. Furniture was hurled against the walls.

  Downstairs, Martha held ever more tenaciously onto Jess, now out of genuine fear. Jess stared vacantly up at the ceiling. He was trying to work out Donald’s position from where the chunks of plaster were giving way.

  An explosion rattled deep into the night. That one must have woken up the rest of the street. As for what had caused it the most possible explanation was a gas cooker colliding with a fridge.

  The noises stopped somewhat abruptly. Jess breathed in. “Donald’s ’ome then?”

  At which point the cellar door burst open in an eruption of light, framing Donald’s silhouette. He seemed to be holding a dripping knife. His voice echoed down the steps, turning their blood as cold as ice. “Norman? Have you got a girl down there?”

  Chapter Fifteen: The Thunder Breaks

  Jess struggled onto his feet. In the process Martha was flung across the sofa like some sort of rag doll.

  With a sweep of his muscular arm Jess pulled a crowbar from where it had been taped beneath his sweater. Gunfire and flashes pumped through the dark. Stonework detonated into chippings. In confusion Jess Hobson looked around, only to discover that Donald had somehow ended up behind him.

  A hand grabbed hold of his sweater. Cervantes crammed his demented face into Jess’.

  “In all the confusion I kinda lost count of the number of bullets I fired.”

  Sixteen thought Jess, not that he’d been counting.

  “Do you feel lucky Punk?”

  A carving knife was brought to the bridge of Jess’ nose.

  “Do you know what sound an eyeball makes when it’s punctured?”

  “A poppin’ noise?” Jess shrugged, staring into Donald’s dark, emotionless eyes. “’Oo are you?”

  “You’re a smart kid...figure it out for yourself.” He released his grip. Seconds later Donald squeezed two old fashioned pennies against Jess’ eyes.

  “What is your problem mate?” Jess flinched in pain. “I know chartered accountin’ isn’t a fulfillin’ job, but this is goin’ a bit far!”

 
; “I am the ghost of Miguel De Cervantes...” Donald vomited the words. “For centuries I have struggled to return to the world of mortals...now let’s see how mortal you are.”

  Jess screwed up his eyes and prepared himself for death.

  The sort of noise that a gavel might have made had it been slowed down, ripped through his ears.

  Then silence.

  Jess opened one eye cautiously.

  Donald had collapsed on the cellar floor, clutching the back of his head. A weird blue cloud emerged from his mouth.

  There was Benjamin stooped over the body, brandishing a cricket bat in his hands. Electricity outlined the metaphysical weapon.

  “Out for another century then!”

  The cloud disappeared into the glass orb at Martha’s feet. Which seemed a good point for Jess to crush it with his boot. A nebula of tiny glass shards exploded outwards, hovered briefly and then fell to the stone floor in a curtain.

  “Sorted!” Jess beamed. “Right, Mrs Sespit, that’s forty quid.” A thoughtful expression washed across his face. “But a pint in The Cockerel’s Sphincter should suffice.”

  Then he saw her. Martha was down on her hands and knees administering aid to Donald. The sort of aid that only the intimate could administer. Donald had a number of lipstick prints plastered across his head. It looked as though he was being attacked by butterflies.

  “It’s over now, Donald. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll dig out your Baywatch collection...”

  Jess felt his heart sink. “On the other hand, business ’as been poor of late. P’raps the money would be more convenient.”

  Convenient or not, Martha was no longer listening. She lead Donald towards the cellar steps. Benjamin looked at Jess, unsure what to say. “We’d better let them sort this out for themselves.”

  He placed his hand on Jess’ shoulder. It passed straight through. Jess followed the couple up the stairs and out of the cellar.

  1:35 a.m. November 17th. The ferry boat house. A ramshackle shed with a jetty leading down to the rusted ferryboat.

  Across the river mouth lay the patchwork countryside of ‘Devil’s Crevice.’ An eiderdown of feudal horticulture washed in a pale blue moonlight.

  Benjamin leaned over railings. Jess Hobson sat dejectedly on the damp flagstones. Each were impressively potted.

  On the off chance that the reader might be wondering, Benjamin had just discovered that ghosts could become drunk. He was now attempting to ascertain by how much. His phantom bottle emptied intself into a supernatural tankard.

  “When I was a young boy I use’ t’ come ’ere a lot.” His voice was slurred. “I’d watch all the ferry boats strugglin’ across the river.”

  He sounded quite philosophical. The sort of philosophy that sober people would describe as, ‘Utter Bullshit.’

  “Stupid, cruddy boat...strugglin’ over the silt before reachin’ the slimy tongue of Devil’s Crevice jetty. Every day, regardless of the storms, it’d struggle across.”

  Benjamin cast one transparent arm about himself. The Phase Realignment Spectacles slid down his nose.

  “An’ I always thought...‘What’s the point?’” For some reason, alcohol always coaxed his Lancashire accent out. “W’at’s the point, eh? If there’s nobody on it, what’s the point of battlin’ across?”

  He studied the murky depths of his bottle.

  “Then one day…I was standing in the rain watchin’ the stupid buggers when I thought...‘What’s the point of me standin’ ’ere?’”

  “Rorrocks!” Jess knew what he meant, but he was he drunk and the word had come out wrong. “Bloody women, eh Ben? Y’ can’t live with ’em. But it’s against the law t’ murder ’em!”

  With a trembling arm that could no longer support his dead weight, Benjamin stood up. “C’mon, y’ fat bastard. Let’s be ’avin’ y’.”

  “Geddoff, y’ shirt lifter!” Jess waved his bottle above his head. “And I’m not a FAT BASTARD!”

  “Actually, you are a fat bastard, Jess.”

  Look at them now. Already forgotten by the residents of Greyminster for the deeds they’ve done. Watch as we pull away. A police van surrounded by blue light draws up. Benjamin removes his glasses and disappears.

  Jess’ shouts echo upwards, muffled by the dragnet of the clouds.

  “I’m not a Fat Bastard!”

  Mrs Prune sat behind Benjamin’s old desk, partially hidden by an enormous book. On its cover were a large embossed pentangle and the words ‘Malius Malafacturum!’

  “Oh...my goodness!”

  Tilting the book down with horror-struck eyes she pressed her nose against the window, squinting out into cloudy night.

  Donald Oakseed’s cellar. Next to the spatial rift, several orbs begin to judder. An echoing laugh fills the room.

  The thin line of light starts to tremble. With a loud rip the column doubles in height. Shredding and creaking it continues its growth into the roof.

  Mrs Prune stared through the window. In the direction of Old Bridge Lane a finger of light lit the underbelly of the clouds. It ripped and darted above the rooftops, shredding right across the sky.

  It was accompanied by a blasphemous farting noise.

  “Oh...Bloody ’Ell!” Mrs Prune stumbled backwards, her excited breath steaming up the pane. “That’s torn it now!”

  Chapter Sixteen: Another Dip into the Box

  When all was said and done...when all the universe had been lost to posterity...the following article somehow managed to find its way into the box that survived the Armageddon. The page had been removed from Martha Sonneman’s Diary. There follows a transcript in full. The additions in black could only be guessed at, though.

  Dear Diary,

  Sometimes I look at my reflection in the mirror,

  And wonder who it is, that’s staring back at me.

  (The inscription, ‘An old bat’ had been inserted in black ink.)

  Sometimes I am sad, and sometimes I’m down,

  And sometimes like a bird, I want to be free.

  Sometimes I watch the autumn rain,

  Running down my window pane,

  And sometimes I feel,

  That I am not real.

  Who am I?

  The poem was completed by a drawing of a flower crying. Beneath this in black were the words, ‘A stupid old bag’.

  What makes one scrap of nonsense more likely to survive to the end of time than another? This is a question that seems impossible to answer at the moment. The world is rapidly disappearing. No time left now for questions about the nature of the universe right now. Let’s press on with great haste.

  Chapter Seventeen: When the Bowels of Hell Burst

  December 5th. 8:30 p.m. There was nobody at home when it happened.

  Jess was down at the Old Bull and Duck somewhat the worse for drink.

  Mrs Prune had volunteered to do the cub-scouts’ jamboree. She had taken along several trays of what she called ‘Spastic Toffee’ and was now unlocking jaws and removing teeth.

  In the centre of Greyminster, 32 Old Bridge Lane was cordoned off. The police had thought that restricting public access would be a wise move. At least, until they found out what the column of pulsing light was.

  The column itself had torn through the roof and the far end had disappeared into the heavens. Several ministers had said they would come down from London and investigate as soon as they got the chance. But no men in bowler hats had been sighted around Greyminster yet.

  Let’s have a closer look ourselves.

  The column was roughly four feet thick. It was rotating slightly with electrical discharge spiralling round the outside. It had attracted large crowds at first. But after several days, when it failed to produce anything deadlier than the occasional tanned bald head, it just became another feature of the town.

  Constable Parkins couldn’t have cared less as he stubbed out his dog-end with his polished boot.

  8:31. Only another seven hours to go. His thoughts turned to r
oast beef crackling on a log fire. Warm slippers being toasted, watching the smoke curl up the chimney.

  That was when it happened.

  When a Lancaster bomber emerged from the column with orange and black flames bulging in its wake. It lit up the sky like a Chinese demon. A great fist of molten metal. The engines howled, the smoke painting shadows across the rooftops.

  And it crashed, with the explosion of a small atom bomb, straight through 114 Applegate.

  The building toppled in on itself in a mushroom of bricks, sending bayonets of flame high into the air.

  For a moment Constable Parkins remained perfectly still. His hands were still knitted together in front of his lips. Then the shock wave ripped across him, tearing at his hair.

  Fire engines screamed. Blue light lit up the crescent. Distant voices ran amok amongst the confusion. A crowd of dog walkers and women in dressing gowns suddenly gathered about the blaze. Butterflies of timber were pursued by blackened moths of brickwork.

  Jacob Wambach stood and watched, his arms folded, his breathing slow and regular.

  The tail of the plane was sticking out of the burning ruin at an angle of 45 degrees. Every so often it would creak and the crowd would shuffle backwards as one.

  The flames crackled and spat, the roof collapsing inwards with a volley of rubble. The smoke stung Jacob’s eyes. Through the tears he caught a glimpse of a figure. The top half was enlarged by an RAF bomber jacket, the fur lapel of which was smouldering sluggishly.

  The stranger emerged from the wreckage, his teeth glinting like piano keys beneath his handle bar moustache.

  The crowd cheered as he approached them carrying a small bundle.

  A bundle of pyjamas with tiny pink toes.

  “Joseph...” Jacob ran forwards now, as though lost in a dream.

  “Morning Captain.” The pilot spoke with an English accent so pronounced it sounded as though he’d swallowed a whole bag of plums. “Sorry about the mess. Bought a mortar on the sausage side. Barely made it back to good old Blighty in one piece.”