by Brian Hughes
With a ripping noise that sounded similar to two chaffinches having a farting contest, the invisible ribbon of his awareness was sucked from his skull. Unable to hold its shape once deprived of its soul, his swarthy body reconverted to its original structure.
With a sense of irony only usually found in Bronte novels, a snorkel and flippers slapped onto the lawn.
They were accompanied, of course, by Flinders’ missing limb that had somehow managed to survive the alteration of the morhpic field.
All over Greyminster similar souls were being drained from helpless victims.
Egg cups recently bent on destruction now rattled in clusters around the grids, the tributaries of their wraiths gathering beneath the storm clouds as one gigantic river of essence. It was almost as though a huge web of existence was being woven above the treetops. A snarled congestion of minor souls forming one great paranormal inkblot around the chimney stacks.
From the most glutinous end of this canopy a single thread of light seemed to be acting as a guide rope, tethering the life forces down to the town. This amorphous ligature flowed and sparkled, penetrating the window of forty-one Caldwell Crescent and anchoring itself into Felix’s bulging temple.
The pensioner thrashed about his patchwork cushions, Miss Duvall and Pip holding him down in the manner of orderlies attempting to restrain a severely disturbed mental patient.
Across the lounge, half-hidden by the scattered books and magazines, Jess Hobson studied the monitor screen intensely. Slowly but surely Malcolm Clewes’ hard drive was being filled by Felix’s recollections.
In fact, right at that moment, the whole computer was growing dangerously close to bursting point.
Just a few more meg and even the zip-drive would be going into meltdown.
“T’ be ’opes t’ God there isn’t much left,” Jess shouted across his shoulder against the rising whine of the circuit boards.
Fortunately there wasn’t.
As the final few wisps hissed their way through the streets and into Felix’s mind, the hard drive creaked. Microsoft Office 95 was overwritten by Felix’s recollections from 1864 and the computer wheezed, spat out its floppy disc as though disgusted by the taste, then sent an electrical bolt hurtling down the mouse lead and up Jess’ arm.
Finally it conked out.
The clockwork spider made a noise that sounded like a child’s kazoo performing a bowel movement, unhooked its talons and spiralled up towards the ceiling.
A corkscrew of blood pursued it towards the rafters where, much to everyone’s horror, it exploded.
A shower of cogwheels and microchips rattled down across various heads, the small metal plaque bearing the words “Patented Thomas Hobson 2037. Guarantee void if this plate is removed!” clattering down the back of Flinders’ wheelchair.
One last port of call before we end the chapter.
Let’s return to Wainscot Lane.
Or more precisely, let’s return to Winifred Duvall’s garden where, hovering patiently before the hole that she’d dug between the red-hot pokers, stood Millicent Broadhurst’s soulless corpse.
What little light had played in its eyes before had now totally gone, sucked from one of her ears during the mass exorcism in much the same manner that the other fragments of Felix’s soul had been re-harvested.
The temperate breeze produced by the weight of the storm pressing down on the rooftops made her stiffening body sway back and forth on its lonely spot.
Each passing zephyr increased the precarious rocking until...
Soundlessly the old dear tumbled.
Not backwards into the muddied maw as she’d originally hoped. But forwards instead.
Millicent’s forehead collided noisily with the trunk of the apple tree. It loosened several Granny Smiths high up in the branches. They thudded onto the moist earth around her.
Even in death the poor old cow couldn’t do things properly.
Chapter Twenty-One: Of Final Words and Fond Farewells
Here’s another thought. Again, not much of an observation in the great scheme of things, but one that deserves mention in passing if only to be stored away in the dusty attics of the memory for possible future reference or litigation.
What an incredibly sombre occasion for the British people the Queen Mother’s funeral was. Especially when you consider that there was talk in the House of Commons of turning her death into an annual event.
Apparently we Brits have almost as many bank holidays as the American slaves did in the 19th century. (Not quite as many as the rest of Europe perhaps but...well...we like to be fiercely independent.) Tony Blair, in his infinite wisdom, was considering turning May Day into ‘The Queen Mum’ day, instead of adding a new holiday to our already replete national syllabus. Phallic poles, rose queens and Morris Dancers...all swept aside to reflect on how the Queen Mother snuffed it...no doubt a ceremonious occasion with much public mourning and standing around for hours waiting for the BBC to balls things up.
Sergeant Partridge had watched the news on that occasion. There had been a queue which ran from the coffin (though not the body it should be noted...the corpse was covered by a flag. For all those filing past knew the coffin might have contained three mothballs and a half eaten cheese and pickle sandwich)...ahem...a queue, as I was saying, which ran across the Thames and into the great ringpiece of central London. When asked by reporters why they’d felt it necessary to wait for almost a day to view what amounted to little more than an empty sports centre with a box in it, they’d all replied, “Don’t know really. Everyone else was doing it.”
And there, thought Jack to himself, lay the problem with humanity.
Brains are like computers...some have the ability to program themselves whilst others (football fans, fashion followers, royalists, bigots, racists, people who think that Posh Spice is talented) have to be programmed by their peers.
Not exactly a life-changing prognosis on world events. But it had been a long evening and Sergeant Partridge had read Model Makers Monthly so many times his weary mind had started to wander.
In fact, it had been a particularly long fortnight following the events related in the previous chapter. Despite his premature resignation at the time, Jack now found himself longing for small grey aliens to investigate.
“I’m off to the ball, Sarge.”
Sergeant Partridge looked up from the paragraph he was poring over concerning the latest upgrades in wood glue. He’d read it fifteen times and hadn’t digested a single word.
Constable Robins was standing in front of him, smartly attired for once in his well-pressed uniform. His blue domed helmet was cocked at a jaunty angle across the well-scrubbed pumpkin of his head.
“I’ll leave you to ’old the fort.” There was a certain amount of cheek in Robins’ words as though the occasion demanded it of him. “Don’t wait up, Sarge. I’m hopin’ t’ pull tonight.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Jack nodded his junior a wink. “’Ave a good time, Constable. Eat some vol-au-vents an’ give the barmaid one from me.”
He watched the expectant policeman march from the foyer, swinging his truncheon cheerfully round on its short leather strap. The young constable’s lips were pursed, his out-of-tune rendition of Dixon of Dock Green echoing round the lobby.
As he opened the door to the station house, somebody pushed Robins ignorantly backwards.
Convivially he stepped aside to allow the visitor access.
A pot bellied figure wrapped in a long brown cardigan with startled pencils poking out of its pockets sidled over the step. Moments later he was languishing with over-familiarity against the counter.
He nudged Jack’s magazine in an attempt to gain his attention.
“’Ow do, Jack. Got anything for me tonight?”
“Not really, Mr Mungford. Apparently that seagull’s back down Ormond Street.” Jack thoughtfully chewed the end of his pencil, ignoring the taste of graphite as it spread up his tongue. “Broke three mil
k bottles an’ left a present on Mrs Beaumont’s bloomers, apparently.”
There followed a pause for the consideration of that statement.
“They were ’anging up on ’er washin’ line at the time.”
Mungford leaned over the ledgers, tapping frustratedly at his open notepad. Following an insidious glance around the walls he continued.
“Between you and me, Jack, I reckon there’s a cover-up going on around Greyminster.”
He winked.
Then again it might have been a nervous twitch. It was hard to tell with George Mungford. He had the appearance of a lice-filled scarecrow at the best of times.
“The ’ole of ’ell broke lose this fortnight last.” The pencil’s tip tapped knowingly against Mungford’s nose, as though doing so would somehow ward off uninvited listeners. “But no-one seems to know nowt about it.”
This time Jack leant forwards, folding his magazine as he did so and plonking his cocoa down squarely on top of it. Bringing the apricot of his nose against Mungford’s own chiselled affair, he swallowed resignedly.
“Wouldn’t know about that, George," he said. “There must ’ave been somethin’ in the water affectin’ people’s brains. It’s a well-known fact that ’alf the population of Britain abuse illegal substances. So it’s ’ardly surprising nobody’s been in to report whatever it was they’re s’posed to ’ave witnessed.”
“D’ you reckon, Jack?” Mungford angled both his question and his body more acutely. “You must ’ave seen somethin’ out there on those wild streets that night?”
“Nothing t’ speak of,” replied the sergeant with a grin. He uprighted himself, his broad chest swelling with just the hint of a threat. “Might ’ave seen Councillor Ordenshaw down Crookley’s alley. And we might ’ave had words about foreign investment. Then again, we might not.”
Jack’s grin grew broader as a number of expressions toyed with Mungford’s features.
“Doesn’t look good to outsiders...havin’ mind-altering pollutants in the water supply.” Jack watched as the editor of the Greyminster Chronicle started scribbling frantically. The erratic movements of the pencil were halted however by the sergeant’s hand. “I’m not sayin’ I did see ’er mind. And if I did I can’t say as words were exchanged...”
He tapped his left nostril with one large finger.
“But rumour ’as it that she’s reconsidering ’er part in the council-property sell off to the nuclear reprocessing boffins.”
Time to leave that conversation to its own devices.
Some subjects are not for public consumption. They are bound by the Official Secrets Act to remain forever under lock and key. You’d be surprised how many reports, supposedly ‘restricted from the public to protect the country’s interests’ are actually protecting those damaging the country instead.
Then again, perhaps you wouldn’t.
Whatever the case, it’s time to catch up with Constable Robins. He’s currently heading towards the stile at Strongarm Lane that leads to the Albert Finney Memorial Hall.
South Ringing Fell was awash tonight. Snatched refrains of fiddle-music escaped through the toilet windows, bewildering the sheep that were huddled together beside the standing stone. Their fleecy bodies kaleidoscoped through strobing hues cast from the hall above, giving them a psychedelic sixties appearance.
The Policeman’s Ball, previously bothering Superintendent Hodges so much, had been greeted with far more enthusiasm than anybody had anticipated. The events of the previous fortnight still hung heavy in the locals’ memories and there’s nothing like a party to take your mind off outside troubles.
Especially when the party mainly consists of the town’s police force.
Not that their presence had quelled the fear in the bothered sheep. The fattest one bleated as the fire-exit opened and two slightly humped silhouettes filled the frame.
Miss Duvall and Felix Wetherby were blown through the opening by a short but violent blast of the Electric Light Orchestra.
The door closed again behind them, stemming the detonation at its source.
“Right then, dear.”
It was dark and neither of the old couple could see much. But Felix felt the pressure of Miss Duvall’s hoary palm against the back of his fingers.
“How are you feeling now?”
“I’m sure those prawn vol-au-vents ’ave turned,” Felix replied. “But my stomach’s standing up to them on the whole.”
“I meant in general, dear...”
There was a snuffle from the darkness. It might have been Miss Duvall’s unique method of admonition, her snuffle being more refined that a tut. Then again, it might have been one of the sheep drawing closer to investigate.
“That is to say, how are you handling the knowledge that your life is now of limited span?”
“Well...” Felix turned the events of the fortnight over in his head. He might have been facing his dotage again nowadays. And he might also have been facing all the obvious disadvantages that went along with it, the main one being its fatal conclusion. But for the last two weeks he’d been able to live.
He’d left his apartments on Caldwell Crescent for the first time in decades, possibly centuries.
Even his check-up at Greyminster hospital had been exciting and new for him. On the last occasion that Felix had seen a hospital the method of anaesthetic was a mallet to the skull. The sounds of sawing intermingled with screams weren’t something for which the past was a better country.
“There aren’t any creatures running around causing chaos no more,” he eventually added. “So that’s got to be a good thing!”
It wasn’t much by way of conversation, he had to admit. But after hundreds of years alone he found it difficult to discuss personal matters in depth.
Ever the detective, Miss Duvall thought about his response and then tried again. “You still miss her don’t you?”
There was no reply.
“I refer, of course, to Madeline. Even after all these centuries you’re not used to being without her.”
Again Felix held his own. But he felt a comforting increase of pressure around his knuckles.
“I’m all alone now as well, dear,” Miss Duvall went on. “I think it would be best if you moved into Millicent’s room. There’s no point in us both being lonely for what little time we have left on this earth.”
And that, in a nutshell, was that.
Felix’s autumn years had been decided for him. Although, to be honest, he wasn’t grumbling.
“Hello, Flinders.” Pip bustled through the crowd holding the tumbler of punch above her head to avoid it being knocked down her petticoats. All in all she resembled a submarine’s periscope, cutting her wake through the ocean of revellers towards the iceberg of the bar.
Flinders himself was propped up against a barrel that had previously contained Thackery’s Owd Bastard but was generally regarded these days as a makeshift table. His stump was sore from where it had been rubbing against his recovered limb. Two kids had come across the abandoned appliance down Cornwall Close on Saturday evening and had spent several hours using it as a surrogate cricket bat. Their batting average had improved considerably but it had done little to mellow the false leg’s abrasive socket.
“You didn’t call me.” Pip placed her tumbler down on a sodden bar-cloth and eased her long black tresses over one ear. Then she gazed up at the archaeologist with a piggy eye. “I was wondering if we were still friends?”
“Sorry, Pip. I’ve been rather busy.”
There was something frosty in his reception. Not that this was unusual in any way. But Flinders continued to stare across the crowded hall to some invisible attraction beside the hat stand without giving her much regard.
Pip followed his gaze but could only see a group of beer swilling farmers in their string vests cackling wildly at each other's witticisms.
“I’ve been documenting Felix Wetherby’s diaries,” Flinders went on, without turning to face her. “It’
s going to be one heck of a job convincing the Historical Society that they’re theories are full of holes.”
“Still...” Pip ground the pointed toe of her boot into the floorboards, ponderously. “We’re here now and...”
She’d practised this speech for days. Over many long hours locked away in her bedroom she’d worked out exactly which baubles to wear for maximum impact, what subjects to cover and how to flutter her eyelashes convincingly.
Unfortunately she hadn’t counted on Flinders being so ignorant.
“Is there something over there that’s bothering you?” she suddenly snapped. “Or do I just disgust you as a woman?”
“That Seymour Barley...” Flinders replied, not rising to the bait. “He’s very attractive don’t you think? For a bit of the rough stuff.”
Pip squinted across the strobing hall to where the enormous dolt of a land worker, champion of the beer drinking contest and executor of every offensive joke ever told in a pub, was quaffing unpleasantly.
“Do you reckon he’d go on a date with me?” Flinders added, more rhetorically than expectant of Pip’s response.
There followed several moments of silence.
Well...to be more accurate...there followed several moments of silence between the two companions, at least. The room itself continued to swirl with carousel lights and hypnotic eighties music.
At length, Pip frowned.
“You’re gay?”
“What?” Flinders finally turned, wearing a frown himself that was more down to puzzlement than anger. “Of course I’m gay!”
“But...” Pip glanced awkwardly at the plastic leg and twitched her eye enigmatically. “I thought that...”
“Just because I’m disabled doesn’t mean I have to be straight!” Flinders’ sudden resentment floundered, turning to an expression of pity instead. “Look...I’m sorry Pip,” he added more quietly.
“You could ’ave bloody told me!”