by Brian Hughes
Through the window he could see hundreds of goblins attacking people. An old man was being ridden down the street, two goblins using his hair for reins.
Then the rumble started. It seemed to take an eternity to grow.
Blackberry Row, as it happened, was just around the corner from Old Bridge Lane and Mrs Forsyth’s front room commanded an excellent view of the column of light. It towered above the roofs opposite, it’s top somewhere beyond the December clouds. Still the grumbling grew.
Then the orb emerged. The size of the Ashton Memorial and four times the mass. It tottered for a moment. Then it plummeted into the screaming crowd.
And it landed with a thump that toppled chimney pots and sent a tremor across the town.
Chapter Twenty: Mrs Prune’s Last Waltz
The Waldorf Hotel wasn’t as grand as its name suggested. The ground floor was a pub, the only way to reach the rooms being up the stairs in the centre.
The building itself wasn’t hard to miss, though, being situated just behind St. Oliver’s and cornered by four tall trees. With a little imagination it resembled a four poster bed.
Jannice and Jess were still arguing as they walked back across town.
“If I’m such a bastard...” Jess stomped on the flagstones. “Why’re you still hangin’ around?”
A goblin was clinging to his bootlaces. It giggled and bit at his ankle. Moments later he scraped the remains off his boot and onto the curb. “I didn’t invite y’. So, why don’t y’ sod off?”
“It’s not as simple as that.” Jannice tried to keep pace, staring at the sad patch of goblin in the grid. She followed Jess through the Waldorf door.
“Nothin’ ever is simple with you!” Jess shouted above the din. The bar filled their senses from every direction. He stomped across the sticky carpet, up the staircase and into the ceiling of blue cigarette smoke. “You’re like a Siamese afterbirth.”
“Jess...we really have to talk.”
“What about? Why pre-menstrual tension is an excuse t’ let murderers free?”
“No Jess...”
Jess unlocked the door and stormed inside, his face a cabbage of frustration.
“It’s about our little boy,” Jannice shouted from the hallway.
A moment’s pause. Very gradually, the door creaked open again. Jess’ head reappeared round the jamb wearing an expression of astonishment.
“W’at?”
Jannice turned crimson and spoke to her stubby toes. “Our little boy...”
Jess’ lips twitched but no sound came out. His eyes flicked backwards and forwards. Jannice filled the silence herself. “Our brief encounter on the 19a. I...we...had a child as a result.”
Mrs Prune had been standing inside the door, listening to the conversation. She muscled the gawking giant to one side and took Jannice by the arm.
“Come on in, dear.” Jannice stared blankly into her well-seasoned face. “Would y’ like a cup o’ tea?”
One elbow connected roughly with Jess’ ribs as Jannice was led inside.
“W’at?”
“An’ shut the door.” Mrs Prune continued. “We don’t want ’er catchin’ any draughts, do we?”
This was all very difficult for Jannice. She wanted to point out to her congenial host that she wasn’t still pregnant. In fact her little boy was three years old now. But she couldn’t find the heart and, instead, submissively sat down on the sofa.
An idea struck her. She delved into the pocket of her granddad shirt.
“This is a photograph of him,” Jannice said as Mrs Prune donned her spectacles. “His name’s Tom.”
“Oh yes...’ee’s lovely.”
“W’at?”
“Look at ’is piggy little toes...” Mrs Prune grimaced, cocking her head on one side wisely. To be honest he was an ugly bugger, like most babies were. But Mrs Prune knew better than...hold on.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, Jess.” Jannice raised her eyes from the rug apologetically as Mrs Prune snatched the photograph from her. “I was going to raise him myself. You know? As an independent woman.”
“W’at?”
“But, recently he’s started...doing things. Man’s things. And...” Jannice found it hard to continue. “I thought he ought to meet his father.”
She swallowed and looked into Jess’ eyes as Mrs Prune opened her battered suitcase anxiously. There was a great deal of rummaging and shuffling and thumping from inside.
“Man’s things?” Jess frowned, what was happening still sinking in. “At three?”
“Yes...you know?” Jannice raised an eyebrow, ambiguously.
“W’at? Gettin’ drunk, eatin’ curries and having a slash in a telephone box?”
“No. He got his first... erection...”
“Ah...takin’ after ’is dad then.” Anything that would improve the local myths about his sexual prowess was guaranteed to hold power over Jess’ ego. “Bring the little sod over. I’ll sort ’im out.”
“Got it!” Mrs Prune emerged triumphantly from the suitcase, clutching an ancient photograph. It was creased and had a top corner missing. She placed the two of them down side by side on the table.
“Bugger me fat arse with a coconut!” She looked up concerned. “Where’s Benjamin?”
“’Ee’s gone off...”
“Gone off?”she repeated, as though Benjamin had turned mouldy.
“Yeah...gone off to...” Jess puffed out his cheeks in thought. “Old Bridge Lane.”
“Old Bridge Lane?”
“Yes...Old...Bridge...Lane.” He emphasised each word, because his landlady appeared to be having some difficulty understanding them. “Y’ know? The place where Dodgy Donald and Maudlin’ Martha enjoy slaughterin’ people!”
“Oh my God! Y’re a stupid great...” Mrs Prune lost control of her temper. “Great bald headed bastard!”
Jess stiffened at this comment on his ancestry.
“He said he was confident enough to sort out Mr Oakseed’s cellar now,” interrupted Jannice in an attempt to diffuse tempers.
“W’at’s the problem?” Jess snuffled. “Ee’s not likely to get hurt . He’s already dead!”
“What about Samuel Foster?” Mrs Prune glowered. “Was he indestructible?”
It was more of a statement than a question. Mrs Prune continued. “And what d’ you think this is?”
She lifted the stump of her brolly, shaking it ferociously beneath Jess’ nose.
“No idea...a sheep’s tampon?”
“It’s me brolly!”
“Very good. At least it won’t poke me eyeball out next time it rains!”
“It’s the end of the world!” Mrs Prune was reaching new depths of emotion. “That’s what it is! I stuck the bloody thing out by accident on the way down ’ere. And the end disappeared up its own jacksie, ’cos there was nothin’ there!”
Jess cast a worried, sideways glance at Jannice.
“Greyminster! Lancashire! The World! It’s all gone. Eaten up by somethin’ big an’ black an’ orrible. It’s got t’ be stopped! The ’ole world’s gettin’ smaller. Soon it’ll be so small y’ won’t be able t’ stand on it! Understand?”
“No...”
Well, Jess didn’t understand. And the fact that Jannice appeared to be impersonating a hungry goldfish seemed to indicate that she didn’t understand either.
“Nobody’s doin’ nowt! You’re all stood around arguin’, like there’s all the time in the world. Well, there ain’t! It’s ’appenin’! And if y’ don’t stop it now, you’ll be dead!”
“Madame Victoria. It’s bin a particularly tryin’ time lately...”
“Get your bloody big gormless ’ands off me, Jess ’Obson. I’m off out!” Mrs Prune removed Jess’ fingers from her shoulder. “Got to see a ghost about a photograph!”
In a huff of resolution she grabbed her coat and lanced a woolly hat to her head. Then she snatched the photograph off the table and turned to Jannice.
“Make sure this o
ne don’t nick off without marryin’ you, dear. Bloody men. They’re all about as much use as chocolate kettles.” A finger prodded Jess’ nose. “Give that a kiddie a father and stop avoidin’ responsibility! It’s not got much of a future as it is.”
She thought about that for a moment. “If it’s got any future at all...”
Then Mrs Prune span round, marched determinedly from the room and slammed the door behind her. Jess and Jannice looked at each other awkwardly.
The door opened slowly again. Mrs Prune hobbled back in, avoiding their gaze. She’d made a right fudge of that dramatic exit and no mistake.
She crossed to the cabinet on the far wall and pulled the doors apart. Inside the cupboard sat a very old woman. She was more of a skeleton than flesh and blood. A collection of bones with a loose-fitting skin. She started to scream, an ear piercing wail that vibrated the light-fittings.
Mrs Prune crooked one thumb. “And while you’re about it, sort this out, will y’?”
Greyminster was definitely shrinking. Being nibbled away chunk by chunk. It was also growing more crowded. The gentry who lived on the outskirts of town rarely set foot onto Greyminster’s streets. Today, however, they’d had a change of heart.
Giles Barley, owner of Nine Acres Farm, watched the darkness chomp off the end his field. Nine Acres Farm had been in the Barley family for several centuries. And so had the same set of genes. After many generations, where ‘Nepotism’ was a common business term and ‘Incest’ was local tradition, Giles had been produced with the sort of mentality normally associated with boxer dogs.
He didn’t jump off the stile as the void approached. Instead, he watched it swallow everything in its path.
The sheep had more sense. Unfortunately they couldn’t do anything about it. They had huddled together in one corner, their legs trembling, their plaintive bleats filling the air. Then the darkness came and enveloped them.
Two minutes later it reached Farmer Barley himself. He thrust his arm into the hollow curtain. When he pulled it back out there was only a stump. Having studied it for a moment, he then discovered his knees had gone the same way. And then...
Well...then there was nothing. Just emptiness, chewing up the landscape. Farmer Barley had gone to join the rest of his blue blood.
His wife on the other hand...or niece, or whatever you wanted to call her...watched her husband’s demise through the kitchen window.
Carefully Anne laid down the bloodstained knife she had been carving the suckling pig with, picked up her shopping-bag and buggered off sharpish.
Behind her the darkness marched on.
Town wasn’t quite what Mrs Barley had expected. A bustling throng crushed against her down the narrow streets. The giant glass orb that had plunged from the column of light was now embedded in Old Bridge Lane. Inconveniently it was blocking Anne’s route.
The hilt of a broad sword hit her squarely on the top of her head. She slumped to the cobbles, oblivious.
“Speak to me Merlin!” Arthur tugged his white moustache from his mouth and spluttered.
Lancelot’s wrinkled fingers gripped his shoulder with the strength of a claw. “Nobody could’ve survived that Arthur. He was only short before. He’ll be even shorter now.”
Together the two knights studied the orb. Around its circumference several more ancient knights had dug their walking sticks into the cracks. With a great deal of heaving they attempted to lift it from its moorings.
One or two backs could be heard going crack. Bedevere leaned onto an out jutting pike. Using his weight for leverage he almost swallowed his chin with the exertion. His Zimmer frame, decorated with an ‘I LUV THE NORTH OF ENGLAND’ sticker, buckled beneath him. It skittered across the road and hit the curb. Losing balance Bedevere tumbled. He met the ground with such force that his false teeth shot into the air.
“Stand aside. STAND ASIDE!” Despite his obvious dotage, Arthur’s voice was still commanding. Clutching at backs and holding down hernias, the old men hobbled apart.
With both hands Arthur held aloft Excalibur and swung it above his head. For a moment his arms almost gave way. The light sang from the blade in a miniature rainbow.
Then, with a rush of wind, Arthur brought the sword crashing down onto the glass. It struck with the sound of an anvil falling through a corrugated-iron roof…and snapped in half. The top part somersaulted across the road.
Arthur gawked at the stubby remains.
“You have broken that which could not be broken...” Lancelot said.
“The bloody thing snapped in ’alf in me ’ands.” The wizened monarch held up the stump and his baggy eyes moistened.
“Can I borrow y’r weapon a minute?” Mrs Prune had forged a path through the crowd. She plucked Excalibur from Arthur’s hands and attacked the wall of tape Inspector Nesbit had surrounded number thirty-two with.
“Madam...I beg your pardon?” There was a ring of petulance about Arthur’s voice.
“Ta very much.” With a hack Mrs Prune created a hole just the right size for a stout old woman to squeeze through. Then she handed the sword back . “Not a very big dagger, is it?”
Arthur’s cheeks grew red.
“Still, it got the job done, eh? And, y’ know w’at they say..? About size not bein’ important?”
Apparently a similar saying must have been around in the dark ages. Arthur tried to hide the stump back in its scabbard. He lifted a finger but was confronted by an ample bottom.
Mrs Prune wriggled through the plastic barrier and opened the front door.
3:05 p.m. December 6th. 113 Applegate. Joseph was playing a nonsensical game that involved his one-eyed teddy bear being beaten about the head.
He was now in his cot. Upstairs his parents slept. Every ounce of their energy had been spent on the emotional turmoil of the past few weeks. Now they dreamed, secure in the knowledge that the nursery had been boarded up. Three planks had been hammered across the door using twelve-inch nails. A chest of drawers had been dragged in front of that and then filled with the heaviest objects they could find.
Ironically the door opened inwards. Now it slammed against the wall with such a loud noise that, had they not been so exhausted from all their work, it would have woken them up.
A gaseous form shot into the hallway. It hurtled down the stairs screeching to a halt at the front door. There it performed a reconnaissance and shot off into the lounge. Moments later it reached the cot.
Joseph gripped the painted bars and stood on tiptoe. From here he could see the events taking place through the window. He gurgled in delight at the blackness hiking up the drive.
The wraith took this opportunity to strike. It struggled through the back of Joseph’s head. Then it wriggled and squirmed, thrashing its tail about until it was completely inside.
Joseph’s eyes turned red. A whip-like tongue shot from his mouth. With a snap it crushed a fly on the window ledge that had been hoping, somewhat over optimistically perhaps, to survive the winter.
Mrs Prune clumped down the cellar steps. She was getting too old for this sort of nonsense. She’d done her bit for ‘King and Country’. And most of the members of Parliament as well. And where had it gotten her? Buggerin’ nowhere that’s where. All that hard work, and all those hard members, and now there was hardly any country left.
Mrs Prune wanted answers and she was going to get them, if it was the last thing she did.
That made her stop in her tracks. She shook the worry from her head and carried on down. Gingerly she prodded the floor with her toecap on the off-chance that it wasn’t what it seemed. Several sparks flew from her segues.
Haughtily she crossed the cellar and paced the column of light. Bloody arrogant thing it was.
“I knows you’re ’iding ’ere somewhere!” she called at length.
“Ah, Mrs Prune.” It was a deep, craggy voice that came back from the shadows. “How nice to see you.”
The convoluted figure of Thomas Hobson materialised on a crate in
one corner. The skin now hung from his features in leathery strips. He flashed a toothless smile. When he spoke the phlegm rattled against his throat.
“I was wondering how long it’d be before you arrived.” Nonchalantly he passed an orb from one bony hand to the other. Occasionally he would pause to rub it with his hoary finger.
“I wants t’ talk with you. ’Bout this.” Mrs Prune held up the crumpled photograph. Hobson raised one eyebrow.
“Ah yes...rather good, isn’t it?” His voice crackled like a log fire. “I always was a handsome child.”
“All you ever was was a bloody great bastard!” The photograph disappeared into Mrs Prune’s pocket again.
“That’s probably true, Mrs Prune. Especially when you consider my family history.”
“So you never were Jess’ great grandfather then?”
“What?” Hobson bolted upright, startled at Mrs Prune’s question. “Oh, Mrs Prune. There was I thinking you’d got all of the answers in one spot. Of course I was his great-grandfather, you stupid, hideous old FRUMP!”
Thomas clutched the orb tightly, grinding his nails across its surface.
“’Ow?”
“What?”
“I said ‘Ow’? It’s a question.”
“I’m well aware of that, you grotesque side-show freak. I didn’t think you could talk Apache.” Hobson scratched the orb once more. It sent a shiver running along Mrs Prune’s spine. “The ‘How’ is obvious. So obvious I’d assumed that even a foetal-faced hamster like yourself could have worked it out.”
“Right...” Mrs Prune tensed herself. “You invented a machine that took y’ back in time. But...you can’t be both of ’em. Not both ’is great-granddad and his son!”
She frowned. “That would make you an abomnally.”
“An ‘Anomaly’,” Thomas corrected her. “And yes it does, doesn’t it?”
“But somethin’ went wrong with the machine?” Mrs Prune was working overtime again, the pistons thumping in her head. “Whatever it was caused the end of the world.”
“Keep going you flabby old teat.” Hobson suddenly loomed forwards. “Can you guess what it was?”