by Brian Hughes
“It takes a sick mind to throw a spanner in the works, Mr Boroughs. The diseased mind of a cynical old fool in fact. And you know what we do with sick minds, don’t you, Arthur?”
“Fry ’em up and eat ’em?”
“No, Mr Boroughs. We have to separate such cancers from the healthy body of social order before they spread their foul malignancy amongst the workers. That’s what Greyminster’s all about, you see? A self-contained world where the mentally ill receive their treatment.”
Arthur frowned. It was about as much as he could achieve under the circumstances. “What exactly are y’ saying, Arkayla?”
“I’m saying, Mr Boroughs, that Greyminster’s a hospital designed for those who refuse to conform. Somewhere to clear your addled brains, then fill them up again with clean fresh memories. A place where we convince you that the world is round instead of the collection of cubes you’ve recently witnessed. Where we can force you to believe you’re actually going to die…”
“Hold on a moment? Are you trying to tell me that in reality nobody drops dead?”
“Really, Mr Boroughs? What would be the point in life if we were all going to die?” Arkayla nodded to the other occupant of the chamber. “We just tell you that to make you suffer. So that you’ll realise how much better life was in the bureaucratic world outside. We need our bureaucracy, Mr Boroughs. Our meaningless existences must have something to keep them going.”
She dug into her pocket and pulled out a set of vicious looking nail clippers.
“Every six months we review your case, you understand? To decide whether you’re getting better or not. All we want from you is your compliance, you understand? To keep the cogwheels of society turning.” There was a worrying pause as she set about the nail of her right thumb. “Only, stupidly Mr Boroughs, your curiosity got the better of you.”
“So everyone else in Greyminster is being punished as well, are they? Just for ’aving a different opinion than yours?”
“Not everybody, Mr Boroughs.” A piece of grit ricocheted off the bookshelves, disappearing between the works of Shakespeare. “Some occupants are wardens. The trawlermen that live on the edge of town, for example. We don’t want our patients going off on their own and colliding with the outer wall, do we? We’d rather keep them ignorant of what we’re up to.”
The rumble of wheels indicated the approach of some new threat. Arthur stared at what resembled a 1950’s jukebox.
“So it’s all a con then? The ’ole buggering world is just invented to brainwash those who can’t stand the monotony of work?” The machine stopped in front of him. “What’s this do? Remove me brains t’ give ’em a scrub?”
“It’s nothing to worry about, Mr Boroughs.”
Something that resembled an old fashioned hairdryer was pulled down over Arthur’s head.
“It simply purges your mind of malicious intentions, so that we can put you back inside where you belong.”
With a flash the world broke loose from its moorings. Arthur battled valiantly, or at least as valiantly as he could under the circumstances. But it wasn’t long before he succumbed once more to insensibility.
Episode Seven: The Sting in the Tail
11.34 a.m. Thursday morning. Footsteps echoed around the Psychiatric Unit.
Coughs resembling diesel engines rattled round the wards. The distant shuffle of slippers, the chink of walking sticks on chamber pots.
And finally the thud of Dr. Downey’s oxford against Arthur’s skull.
“Bit of an odd one this.” Downey stood up straight. “Police found him in the channel off Devil’s Crevice. Kept banging his head against the jetty, muttering something about ‘Conspiracy’.”
“Delusional?” It had always been difficult to understand Dr. Patel’s Punjabi accent. It was now his custom to prune his questions down to the minimum number of syllables.
Arthur struggled against the bindings of the straightjacket.
“Very much delusional, I’m afraid. Obviously the poor chap’s suffered some traumatic event. I was told he got laughed off the stage at Arkayla’s jamboree. Brain probably couldn’t handle the embarrassment.”
The doctor indicated where his own brain was with the nib of his pipe.
Arthur snarled, chewing the bandage between his teeth.
“Perhaps der’s somethink in dis conspiracy theory den?” There was a moment of silence before Mohamed Patel’s features split into a grin. “You’ve got to laugh at them really, haven’t you? Watch you reckon he’s got den, Charles?”
“Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome resulting in Paranoid Schizophrenia. From all accounts he always was a peculiar bugger. Not much we can do him for now.”
Downey removed his pen from his pocket and scribbled something on his clipboard.
“I’ll put him down for a course of electro-convulsive therapy. If that doesn’t cure him then at least he won’t be in any fit state to complain about it.”
The pen was replaced, a splodge of ink leaking into his pocket.
Arthur bit defiantly at the gag as the satisfied couple turned to the door.
Dr. Patel raised one finger questioningly. “Did I tell you about Mr Atkins’ accident, Charles?” The pad of boot soles was followed by the key being turned in its lock. Dr. Patel’s words could be heard echoing along the corridor beyond. “Had to tuck it back up wid my thumb, I did. He’s got a thumb print on his rectum now.”
The footsteps faded, leaving only the crush of silence against Arthur’s eardrums. Damn and bugger it! He’d tried to warn them. But the buggers had left him, ignorantly believing their diagnosis was irrefutable. Unaware that digging into Arthur’s palm was a cylindrical object. A tube of metal with the camera lens still attached to one end.
Intermezzo the First
“Er, yeah...that was great,” said Lucy in the sort of voice that suggested it was anything but. “At least it would have been great if that was the sort of inspiration I was looking for?”
She stared into her empty notepad in the hopes that the mysterious stranger would now leave her alone. After a few moments she added more to herself than anyone else and going off at a complete tangent, “It’s a pity that Spike Milligan died, don’t you think?”
The stranger shrugged, obviously not disposed to argue one way or the other.
“Shortly after his death, some bloke on Question Time asked whether politicians should ban swearing from comedy,” Lucy went on, although on a completely different track. “Don’t you think that’s terrible? We might as well burn all humorous novels that get a bit saucy as well, if that’s the case. Then the only comedy books we'd be left with would be those written by Gyles Brandreth and ‘Life’s Little Instruction Book’.”
“Speaking personally I couldn’t give a shit,” the stranger replied, stuffing the lens back into his pocket and toying with the other objects neatly laid out before him. “So? You want a love story then? Something about kittens and apple blossom?”
“Something more horrific might be appropriate!” Lucy checked her cup and realised that her coffee had gone cold. “Actually, I’d just like to be left in peace!”
“Now...if it’s horror you’re after,” persisted the stranger, looking suddenly threatening (or at least, as threatening as a man with cheeks that resembled a hamster’s could look). “Then you’ll be wanting this.”
From the middle of the junk he pulled a bent television aerial. Then he smiled to himself. On the other hand it might have been wind, Lucy couldn’t quite tell. “This might look like just an old aerial to you,” he said, shoving it discourteously in front of her nose.
“To be honest it looks like a coat-hanger!”
The stranger snuffled awkwardly and pressed on. “But in reality this holds a secret. A very dark and sinister secret.”
“Could you hold on a second?” Lucy stood up, brushing the crumbs of a digestive from her summer frock. “I’m going to order another coffee. I suppose you’ll want one as well, seeing as I’m not going to g
et rid of you in a hurry?”
Eavesdropping
Act One: Faute de Mieux
It was December 31st, or New Year's Eve for those who can’t be bothered acknowledging dates.
The teats of the gathering storm clouds were replete with snow. In this eerie half-light their sagging canopy transformed the Greyminster streets into vaulted colonnades. (If anybody would like to know more about the creative writing course that made this short story possible, please contact the publishers through the usual channels.)
Dewdrop dodged the puddles, several second-hand paperbacks peering out of her rucksack in the manner of infants from a papoose. Walkers Bookstore where Dewdrop worked wasn’t exactly a going concern any longer, although the financial situation was a growing concern all by itself. The paperbacks from the storeroom had become so dusty and worn through the lack of customers that Mr Walker had said she could take them to make up for her Christmas bonus.
Emily Dewhurst had always been known quite simply as Dewdrop. She was a peculiar child, her face resembling a slab of upside-down Toblerone. To say that she was lonely would be like describing a nit as being mildly vexing to a headmistress.
This, combined with the fact that her television had just exploded, meant that Dewdrop’s New Year's Eve wasn’t looking the rosiest of colours.
Oddman’s Antique Emporium was an oddity in itself, the main bulk of the building being Tudor with Edwardian drainpipes and latticed windows. Each pane was iced with frost, yellow illumination spilling onto the pavement beyond. Curiosities from every corner of the globe peered out. Musty tomes, politically-incorrect money boxes resembling hungry Africans and top-hatted peanuts, all crowded eagerly around the sill to watch the world go by. It was the sort of shop that Oliver Postgate might have owned.
Mr Oddman inched his pince-nez to the end of his nose and blew the dust from the mechanical mouse organ he’d been studying.
The shop doorbell tinkled.
Well, actually it ‘tinked’, because the bell itself had rusted solid years before. If Walkers Bookstore was experiencing a financial depression then Oddman’s Antiques had downed a bottle of sleeping pills and turned the oven on.
At the distinctive sound, Mr Oddman looked up. He adjusted his cravat and chanced a minuscule cough.
“And what can I do for you, Madam?”
“My television set’s just exploded…” Dewdrop shuffled her boots. “Well, not just exploded exactly. It was about twenty minutes ago to be more precise. Trouble is, I don’t have any money left over from Christmas.”
She gave Mr Oddman the most appealing expression she could muster. Mr Oddman took a careful step backwards.
“On the other hand, I do have some old paperbacks that Mr Walker couldn’t sell.” She emptied the books on the floor. “Could I possibly do you a swap?”
“We don’t sell an awful lot of books, I’m afraid…” Mr Oddman removed the meerschaum from his smoking jacket and crammed a knob of best shag into the bowl. The truth was, he didn’t sell much of anything.
“But you look honest enough, my dear. And times are hard for all of us. Let’s see what there is in the cellar…”
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle! Mr Oddman bumbled down the stairs, the smoke from his meerschaum clinging to the ceiling.
Thump, thump, thump! Dewdrop followed the shopkeeper down, the pair of them resembling some sort of dilapidated steam engine.
“Now then…” Mr Oddman slapped his palms together enthusiastically. “What have we here?”
“Looks like an unlit bonfire!”
Dewdrop craned her neck, hoping to glimpse the rubble’s summit.
“I’ve never seen such a collection of worthless rubbish.”
“Come along, my dear.” Oddman rolled up his sleeves revealing two elbows that resembled parson’s noses. “Get stuck in!”
Several antiquities were tossed across the cellar. On the far side of the mound there were one or two avalanches of Dinky trucks and decapitated dolls.
“Aha…it’s not exactly the latest model, I’m afraid…”
Mr Oddman gritted his dentures and gave a tug, his knuckles turning white beneath the strain. The buried object resisted stubbornly.
“But it’s got to be better than nothing at all…”
Dewdrop wrapped her arms around the old man’s waist.
The smoke from his meerschaum metamorphosed from a drifting pennant into a series of exclamation marks.
With a sudden jerk the machine broke free from its moorings.
The two of them tumbled backwards.
“There you go!” Mr Oddman set his pince-nez straight and adjusted his Fez. “It’ll need a bit of polish! A dab with a duster! Perhaps a good thump! But it should work okay.”
“Could I have that in writing?” asked Dewdrop, doubtfully.
It was an incredibly old machine, about eight inches high and four foot deep. The sort of machine that Michael Faraday would have rejected for being out of date.
“It was part of a house clearance, if I remember correctly.” Mr Oddman picked himself up, offered Dewdrop his faggot of fingers then brushed the straw from his crumpled cravat. “Belonged to some misanthropic inventor.”
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Murdered! Brutally, from all accounts.”
Dewdrop turned the aerial between her fingers. She’d seen more realistic things on Blue Peter.
“The CID claimed it wasn’t murder at all. Just local gossip. But all the blood was drained from his body, so it was said. And there were puncture holes in the side of his neck. Inspector Nesbit reckoned he’d been bitten by a savage hamster!”
“It’s only got one channel button!”
Taking the set from Oddman’s arms, Dewdrop tilted it studiously in front of her nose.
“Not to worry!” Mr Oddman shuffled the television, Dewdrop and all, towards the staircase, his wrinkled palms acting as sheepdog to her faltering steps. “I’ll think you’ll find the programs are every bit as awful, regardless of its age.”
‘Tink!’ Dewdrop paused on the icy doorstep.
A sprinkling of snow had turned the Greyminster streets into cobbled fondants. The set was wrapped up tightly in brown paper, butterfly bows adorning the places where the string had broken.
“Are you sure you don’t want any of these lovely books, Mr Oddman?” Dewdrop disappeared behind her hot breath. “I know the covers are missing, but…”
“No, no, look upon it as a belated Christmas present, my dear.”
With some alacrity Mr Oddman slammed shut the door, ground the bolt along its groove and turned the yellowing sign to read, ‘We’re Closed. Bugger off!’
Having drawn the shutters, he appeared to stoop as though he’d been struggling to stay upright.
Rubbing his hands together he called through the letterbox, “All the best.”
Then in a cantankerous whisper, “You’re going to need it, my dear girl.”
Act Two: Fiat Experimentum in Corpore Vili
Thud! Bump! Thump! There was still no picture! Just interference as thick as the snow falling in Bethlehem Drive outside.
Dewdrop’s toes gripped the edge of the window sill. Resembling some sort of sporting trophy she hooked her arm above the curtain rail and swung the aerial to and fro.
There was a flicker, followed by the outline of a man toasting his slippers before a log fire.
Dewdrop changed position, the seashell cabin she’d bought from Scarborough plummeting noisily down the back of the radiator.
It was difficult to make out his face, but the man on the screen looked vaguely familiar...
Mr Wambach tugged his coat lapels together.
Hunching his shoulders, he raised one ruddy, wind-stung cheek and stared into the cruel midwinter’s sky.
It wasn’t terribly late but the British climate being what it was at this time of year meant that Greyminster was already blanketed by a gloomy half-light.
Every so often an ice-
cold blast would race round the corner of Bethlehem Drive. The glow of the street lamps only added to the general malaise, yellow fingerprints smeared unpleasantly across the tumbling snow.
Mr Wambach thought of home and a roaring log fire, it’s feathery smoke sauntering up the chimney.
...Dewdrop clambered over the headrest of her voluptuous armchair, not taking her eyes from the flickering screen.
Still holding the aerial above her head, she chanced a quick glance through the window.
Mr Wambach was rounding the corner. As he did so the image on the screen fizzled and turned back into snow.
“What sort of contraption is this?”
Dewdrop stared thoughtfully at the ribcage of metal in her hand, pointed it at the old people’s home across the street and watched the picture come back into focus...
Irene Pootle, ninety-three years old and with a matching IQ, steered the tablespoon towards the crack that was her mouth. The glistening jelly was shovelled between her gums and then gnashed violently into a pulp.
Moments later most of it had escaped, lambasting the table in the fashion of lemmings.
Mary Ellen, the nurse who resembled a potato in knitted stockings, flattened her palms against her knees and bent over condescendingly. She readjusted the paper crown on the old dear’s head.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Mrs Pootle?”
In her haste to please, Mrs Pootle almost choked on her pudding.
“No thank you, dear. It’s very nice. Everything’s very nice.” Her gooseberry head bobbed up and down. “You’ve been very good to me…”
...Dewdrop could just make out a young woman in Victorian clothes on her mysterious set. An attractive girl frolicking barefoot through a meadow.
Woodpigeons cooed and a glassy river filled the air with summertime sounds. Huge dragonflies piloted themselves across the buttercups in the fashion of Sopwith Camels.