by Brian Hughes
He leaned closer, the smell from his gums hitting Mrs Prune’s nose with the force of a boxing glove. She took a step backwards and heard a crunch. Looking down to investigate she discovered a pair of broken spectacles.
Rather thick spectacles. She glanced sharply up at Hobson, who now wore a licentious smirk across his haggard face.
“What ’ave y’ done with Our Ben?”
Thomas Hobson erupted in laughter that ripped his mouth apart like a set of bagpipes tearing. He rocked backwards and forwards, tossing the ball in the air. Then he held the orb up to his nose and spoke with a sneer. “Have a guess...you tiresome old bag!”
And he looked through it at her, his eye magnified by the glass. Deep in the orb Mrs Prune could see a wisp of coloured smoke.
“Let ’im out!”
“Or what?”
“Or by God I’ll…” She raised the stump of her brolly above her head, realised how ineffective that would be and added, “I’ll rip y’ worthless old bollocks off and push ’em down your neck.”
Hobson laughed again and tossed the orb across his shoulder dismissively. Mrs Prune made an agile dive, considering her age. Unfortunately the ball span across her fingertips. It changed direction and vanished into the column of light accompanied by a howl.
She hit the floor with the same momentum as a sack of King Edward’s.
“Tsk…tsk,” said Hobson. “Now look what you’ve done.”
He sprang down from the crate. “Time to die...”
Mrs Prune raised her head, one side of her face coated with dust. Her tone was still defiant. “You know y’ can’t ’urt me! Not whilst I’m wearin’ me prot...”
She fumbled awkwardly for the string about her neck.
It wasn’t there.
Far away across the rooftops, amongst the smoking rubble that was formerly 114 Applegate, fused into the bedside cabinet, was Mrs Prune’s pendant. It had been forgotten during the events of the last couple of days. It would have taken a spatula to remove it from the varnish.
“Betcha life...Bogie?” Hobson raised one eyebrow. He straightened his fingers. A fireball blasted from their tips. It snaked across the cellar, hitting Mrs Prune in the ribs with such force that she was lifted off the floor and flung against the wall.
For several seconds her whole frame shook, outlined by a glow. Then she started to expand. Mrs Prune tried to scream but her lungs never got the chance to open. Then she burst. Impressively, it must be said, like a tomato being trodden on by a schoolboy.
In a splutter of intestines she suddenly occupied a shape no longer recognisable. A morphous smear across the brickwork with a pair of bloodshot eyes at the top. Her remains slid down the wall, red globules jostling to the floor.
Thoroughly satisfied, Thomas Hobson turned dismissively and lurched away.
Chapter Twenty-One: Banshees in the Cupboard. Zombies in the Churchyard
Jess paced up and down in front of the cupboard, slapping the chair leg in his hands. At length he stopped and screwed up his face into what resembled a deflated medicine ball at the Banshee’s wail.
“Actually, I recall something from a book I read once,” Jannice said optimistically.
“I ’ardly think that burnin’ your bra is going t’ be a great ’elp in this situation.” Jess thought for a moment and added, “Besides which, it looks like she should ’ave worn one ’erself a bit more often.”
He examined the banshee’s anatomy. “She could tuck those things into ’er socks.”
Jannice paid no attention. Right now the liberation of anorexic women would have to wait. Instead she whispered something in Jess’ ear.
It was obviously something disagreeable, because Jess bolted upright.
“Y’ can’t be serious? Y’ want to me to do what?”
Jannice beckoned him down again, repeating the same comments.
Jess’ expression set solid.
“With that saggy-titted old cow?”
“Apparently,” Jannice continued aloud. “That way she’ll think you’re her long lost son and grant you three wishes.”
“That’s not enough.” Jess bit his bottom lip pensively. “Besides, I’d never ’ave done that to my mother.”
Almost as though it had taken offence the banshee started to howl.
Moments later it leapt from the cupboard and landed in a crouched position.
Time for action!
Jess heroically pushed Jannice from the reach of its claws. Defensively the chair leg was brandished before him.
“C’mon then, y’ shrivelled old bitch!”
Jannice’s fingernails pierced Jess’ shoulders as she stiffened behind him. He tried not to wince.
The banshee rushed unexpectedly across the carpet, shrieking.
Jess also screeched as the fingernails dug deeper.
Through watering eyes he watched the creature scurry into the fireplace. It vanished up the chimney with a whimper.
Jannice felt the tension sag from Jess’ shoulders and unhooked her fingernails again.
“Did it look frightened to you?” she asked.
“It would ’ave done if its ’ead ’ad connected wi’ this!” Jess swung the chair leg several times.
“It looked terrified to me,” said Jannice.
Something was bothering her about the banshee’s sudden exit.
It hadn’t struck her as being the sort of creature that would be threatened by a gormless middle-aged bloke.
She looked round the room with the vague hope of not actually finding whatever had disturbed it.
Unfortunately she didn’t succeed.
Not only had the corner of the room gone, but most of the wall as well.
Jannice screamed, regardless of what that might say about her ‘feminist standpoint.’
In panic Jess swung round, tightened his sphincter muscles and pointlessly lashed out with his weapon. The top of his club fizzled and vanished.
“What the Hell is THAT!?” Jannice yelled, mesmerised by the wall of darkness before her.
“The Window!”
“A window onto what?”
“NOT THAT! THE WINDOW BE’IND Y’!” Jess didn’t have time for this. He grabbed the slow-witted feminist by her collar and dragged her backwards.
Then he shouldered the pane in a loud smash, pulling Jannice behind him.
The human body is capable of many wonders.
Under pressure it produces adrenaline. Millions of microscopic globules charging through the veins, causing a traffic jam in the occipital lobe.
Observation slows down, to let those experiencing some terrible danger observe it more closely. Unfortunately, due to some evolutionary oversight, the muscles of the body don’t react any faster. Exactly why this is nobody knows, but it allows the individual a lot more time to worry about the fact that they don’t.
As he hurtled down Jess had time to reflect on several pressing issues.
It crossed his mind that he ought to have opened the window first.
It also crossed his mind that Jannice had parted company with him somewhere en route.
Then Jess realised that the window had been on the first floor. Now he, and several thousand shards of glass, were hurtling towards the pavement below.
Not much of a cushion from thirty-odd feet…twenty…ten.
There was the sound of bones snapping.
Jess waited for the pain to arrive.
Several seconds passed during which there was nothing more uncomfortable than the jab of an elbow in his ribs.
It was accompanied by the squawk of a squashed banshee.
He opened his eyes only to discover where Jannice had gone.
“You bloody stupid...”
The soles of her sandals grappled for a hold on the slippery bricks. The drainpipe gave an ominous creak as it tried to withstand her weight.
“Bloody bald headed bastard!”
Jannice was no longer proud of being ‘a large woman’. Right now she would have preferred be
ing bulimic. The drainpipe pulled away from the wall with numerous pinging noises.
“Let go y’ bloated SLUG!”
“How dare you? You chauvinistic...”
Creak!
“Petty minded...”
Crack!
“Penis brained...”
Groan!
“AAAAAAAARGH!”
The world rushed up in a blur. With a jolt the drainpipe stopped at an angle of 45 degrees.
It shuddered precariously, Jannice dangling below it resembling a teabag on a string.
She kicked out, her feet just managing to reach the bricks.
Just a little more and she might be able to grab hold of the...
CrrrRRRRRACK!!
Jannice fell with the weight of a mattress, her sandals above her head, her legs ungainly splayed and a draught whistling noisily through her toes.
She landed.
Like a child, on top of Jess.
A sixteen-and-a-half-stone child, the full weight of which brought him down onto his knees.
He met the ground with a crack, sending Jannice into the wall.
After several moments she opened her eyes.
Up above, with the faintest fizzle, the blackness gnawed at the Waldorf Hotel. A white line edged the roof where it devoured the tiles with invisible teeth.
“Get your fat arse into gear!”
For once Jannice didn’t stop to argue.
By common consent they hurdled the wall of St. Oliver’s, before stumbling across the graves.
St. Oliver’s on the Grey was no ordinary churchyard.
Only those who’d devoted their lives to the Presbyterian cause could rot away beneath its soil.
Here were the bones of the philanthropic dead.
The grave of Albert Bailey, who had died a very rich man.
Lady Antonia Spreight. The last woman executed in Greyminster for the murder of her husband. The crime had involved a bedstead, a breadknife and a fish bone.
But, despite this misdemeanour, she’d paid enough to the church coffers to be given a decent burial.
Sir Reginald Montgomery whose penchant for sheep was not reason enough to forfeit his right to hallowed ground.
All the filthy and despotic slept beneath St. Oliver’s soil. The sleep of the damned, that no amount of money could stave off in the end.
Or rather had slept.
The pounding of Jess and Jannice’s feet vibrated through the earth.
Have you ever watched a lugwormer call up worms for his bucket? What he does is push a garden fork into the ground. Then he drums on the handle and the worms think it’s raining.
Something similar was happening now on a much grander scale.
St. Oliver’s grounds tore into great mouths of turf, spewing up bodies as though they were lumps of old phlegm.
They broke through the grass as though it was no more encumbering than a piecrust...all putrid and rotten.
Their costumes stretched back over the centuries. The older the style, the less flesh the occupants appeared to possess.
The skull of Agnes Moorhen, a long forgotten dignitary, reared up. An earthworm wriggled in its eye socket.
Jannice screamed as Agnes’ head blocked her view.
She felt her arm being grabbed.
“It’s only a zombie...look...” said Jess.
His fist walloped straight through the skull and emerged from the back.
Instantly Jess regretted what he’d done. It took several seconds to dislodge the head from his wrist.
Pulling a face, he grabbed hold of Jannice by the hand and dragged her off.
Zombies, for reasons Jess wasn’t sure about, tended to walk in the fashion of scarecrows. All stiff arms and inflexible legs. Since rigor mortis only lasted for a few hours, Jess put it down to artistic interpretation and left it at that.
Reaching the corner of the gothic church tower he stopped, gasping for breath.
Jannice mirrored his stance.
The darkness had reached the church grounds. It silently munched at the hedge and swallowed the railings.
Zombies pathetically tottered on the edge of the world resembling tin soldiers on a narrow shelf.
Jannice was the first to stand upright. Unable to speak, she tugged desperately at Jess’ shoulder.
“’Old on a moment.”
An insignificant grave had been placed against the building. You could tell it wasn’t anybody special because the downspout from the gutter was directly above it. Every time it rained the water eroded the memorial away.
Jess thumped the headstone. Moments later the ground began to crumble. A mangy head emerged from the soil pushing the chippings to one side. It was wearing a lopsided grin where the lips had rotted away.
Jess swung his boot towards the grinning features.
The head burst against the tomb stone behind it.
Thoroughly satisfied, Jess turned to Jannice. She backed away in horror.
“Me old geography teacher.” Jess brushed his hands. “Last time he gives me the ruler for drawing breasts on ’is map of Europe!”
Moments later the two of them emerged at full pelt from the narrow ginnel that skirted the church.
Straight into a living wall of terrified townsfolk.
Jess pulled up short, Jannice careering into his back.
The crowd appeared impenetrable.
However the crackle behind them was enough inspiration for Jannice to lurch forwards. Moments later they were engulfed, being carried along on the crowd’s drifting undercurrent.
There was fear all around them now. Something new was approaching. People stood frozen in terror as a latticework shadow fell across them.
There was a creak and the sky turned seriously black.
Above the rooftops, sagging and groaning, rose an unnatural creature.
Tall enough to stride the houses, flimsy enough to let the wind whistle through it.
A figure constructed from wicker, knotted together at the joints.
Gutters crashed into the streets as the towering demon leaned on the treetops to steady itself.
A huge wicker foot trampled several struggling victims with an unpleasant crunch.
The body of this creature was an enormous scaffold constructed from several smaller cages. Occupying these were various items of farm produce. Some carried apples, others prize-winning cucumbers that would have made Mrs Prune blush.
A bantam with wild bulging eyes stared through the bars across the chest. It was steering the wicker man with a system of pulleys and frayed bits of rope. Using its wings and various levers, it tottered in the direction of Jannice and Jess.
Jess breathed heavily down his nose and let go of Jannice’s hand.
“Now, that’s just takin’ the piss!”
The streets tried to empty themselves without success. Several old people became trampled as the fearful crowd detonated in all directions. Prams were left abandoned to their fate. Barking dogs performed acrobatics.
The huge foot crushed another small army of tiny humans.
Decision time...forwards or backwards? Not much of a choice either way really. The darkness had already consumed St. Oliver’s.
“It’s a choice between the Devil and the dark black sea,” Jess muttered. Ah well. Better the Devil you know than the omnipotent dark that you don’t.
He grabbed Jannice by the first available piece of clothing.
Ironically this happened to be her bra strap.
Jannice was pulled off at a sprint, Jess darting between the towering wicker legs.
The elastic reached its limit and Jannice was twanged in his direction.
The two of them collided with a thump.
Jess dragged her through the gothic archway that led onto Abattoir Row.
This was where Lady Spreight had murdered her long-suffering husband. A scribble on the wall bore testimony to that fact. It read Mr Spreight was murdered here and Joanna Beardsley was shagged by me.
At that mom
ent in time the couple were re-enacting their histories. No! Not Joanna Beardsley and her boyfriend, whoever he was. Lord and Lady Spreight, demonstrating the danger in keeping the gene pool too narrow. What she was doing with that fish bone was an education in itself and local scandal had overlooked the pound of lard.
“What’s going on?” Jannice almost screamed.
The two of them watched the murder repeating itself.
“I’ve no idea. But I think it’s time we found out.” Jess’ words were punctuated by gasps for breath. “Did y’ see the look on that chicken’s face?”
“Jess...we’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
“Why was it after me?” Jess was now rambling. “What ’ave I done wrong? Apart from pullin’ the legs off spiders when I small.”
He thought about his childhood. “I did keep a wasp in a matchbox once. It got cooked.”
A look of horror crossed his face. “This can’t be happenin’ ’cos I cremated a wasp, surely t’ God?”
“Jess! Calm down and let’s try to figure this out.”
Unfortunately there wasn’t time. A thunderous whistle signified their troubles had started once more.
A wicker hand crashed through the plaster ceiling.
Jannice and Jess flattened themselves against the wall.
With their hearts beating loudly they held onto each other tightly.
The wicker fingers probed, going ‘Fizz’ as they touched the ghostly murder scene. A coil of electricity shot into the air. The fingers snatched themselves back in surprise.
Then the whole hand appeared to sense something.
It hovered indecisively for a moment, creaking as though suspended by some invisible chain.
Then it struck.
Jannice was grabbed by one leg and hoisted upwards.
In desperation Jess snatched her other ankle.
A tug-of-war broke out using Jannice for the rope. She screamed, suddenly discovering what it was like for a sixteen and a half-stone woman to do the splits against her will.
It was no good.
If Jess held on much longer then he’d get one part of Jannice whilst the bantam got the other.
So he let go.
With a violent jerk Jannice smashed through the hole in the roof.