by Brian Hughes
Number two, on the other hand, was considerably more important to our book.
It was the home of an acquaintance of ours. The domicile of Amanda Duck who was currently having a horrible time.
Amanda’s head felt as though it had grown too large to cope with. Not just psychologically. When she brought her hands up it seemed to have been structurally enlarged. She felt nauseous and had pains in every limb.
And such nightmares she’d had. Appalling, ghastly, feverish phantasms in which she had dreamt she’d been transformed into a giant black beetle whilst some Edwardian housemaid attempted to remove her from the ceiling with a broom. Now she staggered to the bathroom, fighting valiantly against her tumultuous stomach before thrusting her perspiration-dripping face against the plughole.
Amanda groaned, wishing she was dead. What a bummer of a hangover this was turning out to be.
Cautiously lifting her aching face her eyes made contact with the mirror on the wall. She blinked, unable to comprehend the reflection. Gingerly she brought her palms up to her face and to her horror discovered they corresponded exactly to what her nerve endings were reporting.
The truth was that Amanda Duck’s head had swollen into something so grotesquely disproportional that the Tefal advertising crew would have rejected her for being over qualified. For a moment Amanda’s mind found it difficult to absorb this new persona. Then the penny finally dropped.
“AAAAAAAARGH!”
Back onto the sweeping arms of our analogous clock once more. Back to the moment shared by all these happenings, through the door of the police station, down a small flight of stairs and into the collection of ancient cells.
Sergeant Bill Foster and off-duty Sergeant Jack Partridge stood and watched. Both wore an expression of puzzlement mingled with surprise.
“So, what you’re sayin’ is, she’s not actually always like this?”
Bill studied the old woman gripping the bars so vigorously small chunks of metal were beginning to splinter.
“Well, it’s ’ard t’ say. She doesn’t get out much.” Jack folded his arms across his chest, cocking his head on one side as if the change of view might afford some sort of answer. “I’ve seen ’er chase the odd cat off with a broom. Swear at the neighbours. That sort of thing.”
“But never actually bite a police officer on the leg?”
“No…not as such.” Jack leaned closer to the bars, adopting a reassuring attitude. “Would you like a nice cup of tea or something, Mrs. Doyle?”
A substantial hock of phlegm hit him squarely in the eye. The screaming continued.
“Patternoster Row! PATTERNOSTER ROW!”
“Bit like a parrot really,” said Bill, smiling contentedly to himself.
Jack removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, tugged the boiled sweet from its centre and proceeded to wipe the froth from his cheekbone.
“There’s been a lot o’ weird things ’appenin’ round ’ere over the past couple o’ days.” He checked the handkerchief for evidence before stuffing it back into his pocket. “Whatever’s making her do this, it’s probably connected to that...”
Jack checked himself. Bill would never go for the truth. “That arson attack on Brasswick’s last night.”
Bill raised his eyes, his expression denoting that he’d just recalled something important.
“We ’aven’t found ’im yet.” As there was no forth-coming rejoinder he continued. “Albert Brasswick. Must ’ave gone on ’oliday or something. ’Ee’ll be fumin’ when ’ee gets back and discovers what some nutter from the Animal Liberation Front’s done to ’is shop.”
“Animal Liberation Front?”
“Where is Patternoster Row any’ow?” The sudden change of tack brought Jack stumbling from his puzzled reverie.
“No idea.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Middle o’ town I think.”
“Well...” Bill examined the rusted keys in his hand before snorting down his nostrils dismissively. “Y’ can’t exactly arrest an ’ole street for doin’ nothin’! And the old bat ’asn’t exactly made a formal complaint against no-one...so...”
He signalled with his head for Jack to depart, reaching for the light switch by the door.
“We might as well let ’er cool off down ’ere for a bit, eh?”
Before they left Jack took one last look at the cranky old spinster. Long tendrils of slime appeared to be dribbling from the corners of her wrinkled mouth, the pupils of her eyes having turned black. She kept on repeating those same words with increasing impetuosity. Jack wondered what had happened to her and what their significance actually was.
“PATTERNOSTER ROW! PATTERNOSTER ROW!”
And finally we come full circle, returning to the roof of Greyminster library where Cissy Doyle is about to see her life flash before her eyes. It shouldn’t take long. If she edits the contents for misery and boredom there probably won’t be enough remaining to construct a radio advertisement.
Cecilia hung suspended, her hair flapping wildly in the wind. Exactly why she wasn’t falling at horrendous speed to a terrible death had started to bother her.
Then she realised that something had tightly bound itself around her ankle.
There was a grunt, then a heave. And the frightened butcher’s girl began to rise.
Seconds later she was gripping onto the slippery tiles for grim life, Commander Hogan sprawled beside her gasping awkwardly for breath. Cecilia swallowed, rubbed her ankle where he’d grabbed it and collected her thoughts into some sort of order.
“You must have bloody fast reactions?” she finally stammered.
Hogan puffed out his cheeks and sat upright, hands on knees.
“That’s all right, Marshal...” he muttered to himself. “Don’t mention it. Any bloody time.”
Cissy had in fact been prepared to say ‘Thank you.’ As soon as she’d gathered enough wits together to constructively think about it. But now a little black fume had appeared inside her brain. It was about to be interrupted by a startling recollection.
“Where’s it gone?” Cissy sprang to her ungainly feet. “Has it got away?”
“Cissy...” Hogan hoisted himself up, placing a hand on each of her shoulders quiescently. “Look...”
He peered into her massive, bloodshot eyes as if searching for something. Cissy could almost feel him touching her soul. In spite of herself she shuddered. The trench coat lapels flapped noisily around her head. At length Hogan summoned up the effort to broach what was obviously a difficult subject.
“Cissy Cecilia Doyle...I’ve got a confession to make...”
The Greyminster Scrapbook Part Three
A further extract from the Secret Journal of Amanda Duck.
The following pages were kept for a long time in Dr. O’Leary’s locked filing cabinet. Similar to the other diary entries these were photocopied and had scribbled notes in the margin. This time the addendums included, “Shows Improvement,” “Managing to re-establish contact between repressed neurotic episodes and Ego,” “Well Done!” and, “Amanda has superb breasts! With a little more work she should be able to avoid biting the other ‘Vegetables’.”
Dr. O’Leary’s comments tended to read like a sexually frustrated examiner marking a favourite schoolgirl’s report. Amanda’s own accounts also suggested some sort of growing bond between the pupil and mentor, although ‘Trust’ was obviously something that Dr. O’Leary wasn’t one to exercise much of. Not when you stopped to consider how he came about the files in the first place.
November Fourth: Dear Diary. Duncan has given me personal counselling. He is a very understanding and rather handsome man. I am beginning to realise now that the wild ideas I’ve been having were just ridiculous. Duncan has an excellent if not unusual way of putting his point across.
November Fifth: Bonfire night! Rain!! Mrs. Pootle involved in incident with dangerous firework going up her night-dress. Stayed indoors. Dr. Duncan kept me company.
Attended hypnotherapy this morning
. Dr. Schweiss is growing more mysterious by the session. This time when I awoke he had a wild, frightened look on what I could see of his face beyond his beard! Dr. Duncan turned up to take me back to the ward. The two of them spent a long time having some sort of muttered discussion. Every so often one or the other would look at me and raise an eyebrow. From now on Dr. Schweiss wants somebody to attend whenever he’s putting me under.
Had the strangest recollection. It was more of a sort of waking dream. Thought that somebody had erected a boiler in my head with all the pipes running round my body. And that a family of Norwegians had moved into my stomach. What they were using as a front door God alone knows.
Duncan told me that it was just the ‘Memories of Childhood’ working themselves out. Not sure what happened in childhood. Not sure I want to know! Mrs. Pootle appears to be getting over her shock. She has to sit down on a rubber ring now.
November Eighth: Dr. Duncan has told me that ‘He must keep our relationship on a professional basis.’ What does he want from me? To start charging him for it? Went on a bit of a downer after lunch. Had to stop myself biting a large chunk from Sister Richard’s liver.
Mrs. Pootle involved in dramatic incident with night-dress and log fire. All the inmates are now confined to the wards until new radiators are fitted. It’s very cold. I am wearing four sweaters, a scarf and two pairs of gloves as well as my night-shirt. There are icicles hanging off the end of my nose. Mrs. Pootle ought to be destroyed!
November Ninth: Warmed up a bit. Dr. O’Leary has been giving me private sessions with the office door locked! Mrs. Pootle gave me the evil eye earlier on. It might have been wind. Duncan reckons she is jealous. He said, ‘If she did it again, he’d put her out in the car park with only her socks on.’ Muttered something about Eskimo’s having the right idea.
Sometimes still wonder what became of Patternoster Row. Whatever it was it doesn’t seem important now. Am worried that somebody might be sneaking a look at what I’m writing. Have hidden this journal at the bottom of the po. Not even the sickest pervert would think of looking for it there.
The journal continued in this manner for several pages before reaching another gap of several uneventful weeks. It wouldn’t seem appropriate to delve any further into Amanda Duck’s inner thoughts at this moment. Most of them appear to concern Dr. Duncan O’Leary and his ‘Special Psychological Techniques’ anyhow. This is neither the time nor the place to open a discussion on ‘The Ethics and Morals of the British medical establishment.’
However, occasionally Amanda would question the events leading up to her incarceration. One or two recollections were obviously still trapped in her head, refusing to budge.
Because against all odds, against everything the good Doctor O’Leary had convinced her of, she knew them to be true. And the truth, however painful it might be, is harder to forget than any amount of fiction.
Chapter Eight: The Storm Troops in
Night had fallen over Greyminster with the heaviness of a damp duvet. It was a night that portended violent storms, now so close that the bellies of the clouds were scraping the rooftops. The air itself tasted rank, the dim glow of the street lamps wearily bouncing back from the dreadful ceiling.
On the outskirts of Greyminster two tree-lined roads crossed one another. Greyminster Old Road was one, West Wattling Lane the other. At the intersection several craggy buildings had stood for hundreds of years. One corner held a quaint Olde English bank with a sagging grey roof and a wooden front porch. On another corner stood a pottery that supposedly dated back to King Arthur. On the third was a subsidiary of Greyminster library, a small building that never seemed bothered enough to open. And on the last the memorial to those fallen in the First World War. A small, well-tended garden with a green statue of a soldier that forever hung its head in shame. A statue encrusted with several decades of bird droppings that it wore like a melted cheese hat.
Cissy curled herself up into a ball, her knees jammed beneath her jaw.
And she pouted. The most angry pout she could muster, forcing down her top lip so that only the impression of her teeth could be seen through the flesh.
Poor, fragile Cecilia Doyle. Through the difficult years of her adolescence all she had ever had to call her own were a pocketful of dreams and the unfeasible hope of a scientifically better future. The sort of future in which people went around saying ‘Live Long and Prosper’ ‘Make it so’ and ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a bald head. Or eyes that resemble bull’s gonads come to that matter!”
But not once had Cissy ever dreamt of the two-faced, lying bastard currently relieving himself against the bushes just behind her, the sound of which was making her see red.
Presently she felt a movement in the air caused by the loose pleats of an impressive trench coat. There followed an awkward silence that lasted a little too long for comfort.
In the distance a rumble of thunder echoed round the fells. The soft patter of raindrops began to prickle coldly across the ground. Unable to fight the indignation any longer, Cissy snapped.
“Don’t even think about talking to me!”
“I wasn’t.”
The silence crept back in, filling the void between them so that it crackled with tension. Anger boiled inside Cecilia with the same precariousness as jam in an oven.
“Filthy Lying Bastard!” Still no response but Cissy was buggered if she was going to turn her head. She pulled a childish face and continued in a mocking imitation. “‘I’ve just got a little confession to make...Cissy.’”
“Would you rather I wasn’t honest?”
“Honest? Honest!” Cissy forgot herself, turned on her companion and ground her teeth together. “‘There’s only six of ’em’ you said! ‘Only six of the buggers! Oh, but hold on...’”
She pulled the most unconvincing impression of Commander Hogan he’d ever borne witness to, letting her jaw swing open vacantly and crossing her eyeballs. Hogan had come across a lot of irony in his time but none quite so puerile and ill conceived as this.
“‘No, I’ve just remembered. There’s not six of them at all. There’s forty-odd of the bloody murderous bastards out there!’”
“Forty-two,” Marshal corrected her. Not that Cissy was listening.
“‘And I almost forgot. Our weapons are totally useless against them!’”
She prodded Hogan so hard on the chest that her finger bent in the middle accompanied by a weird little snap.
“So that’s it, is it? We’re just gonna let the bloody things run riot and kill off the population of Earth? Starting with Greyminster and all my friends?”
Hogan shrugged.
“We might be able to stop ’em.” He turned to stare into Cissy’s hard, glaring eyeballs. Round chunks of rock that were boring through him. “But we’d need a Tachyon bomb.”
“You’re a liar! A BLOODY LIAR!” No matter what he’d said it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference now. It was similar to trying to stop a kettle boiling by putting a spout on the nozzle and watching it get blown off again. Cissy extended a digit and started to count. “You lied about being a marshal!”
“No I didn’t! That was your mistake.”
“You lied about saving some furry creatures from an inferno! You lied about having to get in touch with the Warlord! You lied about the Great War!”
Hogan’s mouth opened and shut, resembling the doors of a faulty lift.
“You lied about the cargo!” Cissy extended another digit and marked it off.
“No! I just bent the truth a bit. It’s what I do for a living. I’m a sales representative!” It might be hard to believe but Hogan almost spoke those words with pride. He swallowed, attempting to get everything straight in his head without making matters worse.
“If the greengrocer says ‘Lovely morning,’” he ventured by way of explanation. “You don’t think he actually means it, do you? He’s probably got bills up to his neck and a suspicious lump that’s been bothering him for weeks. But h
e’s not likely to say ‘God, isn’t it bloody awful? I might go and cut me throat after lunch!’ Well, is he?”
“Bent the truth?” Cissy blinked, one eye twitching a little more than it ought to have done. She scrambled up onto her feet and pointed an accusing finger at her antagonist. The sort of finger that had it been loaded would have blasted a hole through his forehead. “Bent the truth?”
One corner of her mouth lifted into a snarl. “YOU TOLD ME THEY WERE FUCKIN’ HAMSTERS!”
Hogan considered that statement. He had to be honest. It was pushing back the boundaries of ‘Bending the Truth’ a little far. He felt his hair start to matt with the steadily increasing rain.
“You lied about being a ‘Space Adventurer!’”
Hogan made to open his mouth once more but his reflexes weren’t fast enough.
“You lied about being my boyfriend!” Cissy was now on a roll. She wasn’t going to let the odd discrepancy get in her way. “And you lied about that!”
Suddenly worried, Hogan’s gaze followed her trembling finger to a point on his body around the groin. He desperately tried to recall what he’d told her about that. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d exaggerated but somehow he found it hard to believe that he’d mentioned anything to the bedraggled bottle-opener fuming before him.
“You pretended it was broken!” He raised an eyebrow. “Nursing it round the back of my house! Well, you seemed to be running about on it perfectly fine in the library! With Debbie Bloody Woodthorpe!”
The Leg, the leg!
“ARHHHhh!” The word came out in the manner that a big game hunter would say ‘Gotcha!’ to a possum. “That’s where you’re wrong, y’ feeble minded, frog-eyed newt!”
Now Hogan scrambled onto his feet. He closed menacingly on Cissy, breaking her personal airspace with such hostility he could sense the aura of her teeth.