by Euan McAllen
Doc thought about the offer hard for no more than twenty seconds before accepting. Ingella would be pleased and proud. Now all he had to do was tell the others that he wasn’t going home, and pray that the Prince Regent would forgive him for his act of desertion. The royal family had never shown him respect; never regarded him as a serious professional; never given him the support required. Here, he convinced himself, he would have status, the backing of the Elders, and patients who would show total gratitude. His first patient proved to be not a tax-paying villager but the crazy girl from beyond: the young hooligan, Grimble, had sought him out and begged him to see his girl for she was poorly, very poorly. Doc could not refuse him.
Doc found her in bed shivering and shaken, sweating and swearing, thin and pale. She was not asleep, but she was not awake. She was in some in-between place, in her mind between Heaven and Hell, out of favour with God. Grimble was afraid he was going to lose her: life without his crazy bitch was a life he could not contemplate. Holding her hand, he watched the doctor’s every move, which was not much; thinking to himself ‘if she dies, you die’. Doc did what he could, which was no more than to repeat his earlier advice: leave her to sleep; and when she doesn’t want to sleep, give her lots of soup. And when she has an appetite, force-feed her. Make her eat. She must put on weight. Other than that, let time heal. Grimble nodded furiously in anticipation of his new, critical role. He would save her, he promised himself, as she had saved him.
***
Grimble had a visitor. It was The Village Idiot and he was beaming with admiration. Grimble, the leader of the Skunks, had done a great thing, a heroic deed. Grimble found him tiring to listen to.
‘Get on with it. What do you want?’
‘To give these to our Sinead.’ Simple Simon held out a bunch of flowers.
‘My Sinead, not yours. I’ll give them to her later. She’s asleep right now.’
‘Please?’
‘No. I won’t wake her just so you can give her some stupid fucking flowers.’
Simple Simon looked heartbroken, then concerned, for Grimble looked in a bad way, very bad. He was suffering.
‘I need a smoke,’ explained Grimble, wishing Simple Simon gone.
‘Your head is bad?’
‘Yes. As I said, I need a smoke. If I don’t get some fucking weed, I’ll die. Now fuck off.’
‘But I have these flowers?’
Grimble grabbed the flowers. ‘Now fuck off!’
‘You will give my lady the flowers?’
‘Yes!’ said Grimble as he began to scream inside.
Simple Simon thought hard for a moment - an activity he found quite enjoyable in small doses - then spoke, for he had a suggestion, an answer to Grimble’s predicament and his death threat.
‘I think I know where you can get some.’
‘You know? What do you know? It’s all been confiscated by those bastards.’
‘My mistress had to supply the Senior Elder. For medical reasons, she said. If he’s still sick, he must still be using it surely?’
Grimble took a step back: he hated being outsmarted by stupid people, but the idiot’s logic was impeccable. He could not dispute it. The flowers fell to his side - petals scattered around him. Simple Simon was afraid he was going to drop them.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘Come on,’ said Grimble, now suddenly revitalized.
‘Come where? I came to see Sinead. I must give her those flowers.’
Grimble pushed the unwanted flowers back at Simple Simon. ‘Give her your fucking flowers then come with me.’
Simple Simon, beaming once again, thanked him and went inside; and while Grimble agitated outside over each creepy-crawly second which passed him by, Simple Simon stood over his Sinead, almost to attention, flowers now sitting on the floor by the bed for lack of a vase. Simple Simon paid his respects and prayed for her full recovery. He wanted to lean over and kiss her on the cheek, but fear of discovery held him back: he did not want Grimble to hit him again; he did not want Sinead to know he had kissed her. Back outside, he was snatched up by Grimble and led away at speed.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘To the Elder’s house, stupid.’
‘Are you mad?’
Grimble looked at the idiot who constantly intruded on his life, wanting to smack him again. ‘Yes.’
Everyone is mad these days, thought Simple Simon. The whole village has gone mad. Who makes all this madness? Is it dug up? Does alcohol grow it inside heads until it spills out?
The two of them approached the rear of the big, grand house with caution: Grimble with malicious intent; Simple Simon with trepidation. Simple Simon gave Grimble a lift up to help him scale the garden wall and waved as he disappeared out of sight, wishing him luck. Grimble told him in no uncertain terms to keep his mouth shut and stay out of sight. Simple Simon, still beaming despite the open hostility, promised to do exactly that, and looked around for somewhere to hide.
Grimble swore as he fell into waist-high nettles. He looked around, expecting trouble, but the garden was deserted. It was overgrown. It looked wasted. It had been forgotten. Nature was slowly reclaiming it with patience and determination which only Nature could apply over the long term. The centrepiece of the garden was a stone statue: weathered; painted green by creeping moss; splattered by bird shit. It was the statue of a man, a great man. It had once seen better days, in a time when a Builder was someone to behold.
He was wearing a big hat, the like of which Grimble had never seen before. It was a hat for keeping off the sun. In one hand, the great man held out a long measuring rod; in the other, a strange two-pronged device which formed a ninety-degree angle. Grimble thought perhaps it was a fork for stabbing meat? The face was stern, weighed down by gravity; brooding, deep in concentration. Grimble avoided the look as he sneaked on past towards the house, and the goodies it promised. He kicked the base of the statue on his way.
The house was empty save for the one loyal nurse who had stayed by her patient’s side during all the commotion of the previous day. All other staff had returned to their homes to be with family, to ‘protect and survive’; and some to consider a change of career.
The nurse did not hear the intruder at first, not until Grimble began making a racket in his search for weed: any weed, any amount. Right now, he was not fussy. Terrified, she slammed shut the bedroom door and bolted it, which only alerted Grimble to her presence. When she heard footsteps come flying up the stairs, all she wanted to do was cry.
‘Keep away!’ she shouted, tears flowing. ‘I’ll have you arrested! I will!’
Her words fell on deaf ears, and the door was blown open by the force of Grimble: nothing could stand in his way; nothing could come between him and something to smoke. He looked at the nurse as if she was an object of curiosity. The nurse peed in her pants.
‘Where does he keep it, woman?’
‘Keep what?’
‘Weed stupid. Fucking weed! Tell me now if you don’t want to get hurt!’
The nurse pointed at a drawer by the side of the bed: the bed in which the Senior Elder was slowly stirring from a troubled sleep. As Grimble crossed the room, she saw her chance and fled the scene. She was a nurse, she told herself, and not a well-paid one: she was not a bodyguard. Grimble didn’t try to stop her - though later he would wish he had. He needed a smoke, a slow, drawn-out smoke; preferably up in his treehouse. One day I will rebuild it, he promised himself. It will be taller, grander than the one before. It will be my fortress, my escape from all this crap.
He pulled on the drawer in anticipation of a glorious find. It refused to shift so he rattled it and hit it, and swore, and nearly kicked it before it finally conceded to his demands; scattering its contents across the car
pet as he tipped it upside down. No weed. No fucking weed! Bitch! He shook the old man awake.
‘Where’s the fucking weed!’
The old man was barely able to speak, just as he was barely able to grasp reality, just as he was barely able to vote.
‘Weed,’ he murmured.
It was a special word he recognised. It was a word he liked for it brought him pleasure to those corners of his brain where pleasure rarely permeated.
‘Later. Sleep now.’
The old man fell asleep again, leaving Grimble stumped. Hitting him was pointless, as was shouting at him. Grimble had no other weapons at his disposal.
Defeated by old age and sickness, Grimble went on a grand tour of the grand house in his quest for weed. Its size, its extravagance, angered him: all this just for one man. It was filled with undeserving wealth accumulated over the decades and centuries: in Grimble’s opinion, wealth leeched from the poor when they were not looking, when they were weak. It was anathema. It was a red flag to an already outraged bull, and Grimble went berserk.
It was a sacking. It was a rampage. It was the revenge of the dispossessed poor over the privileged rich. He was a drunk tourist. This was his two weeks in the sun: plenty of cheap booze; plenty of fodder for food; plenty of sex, sleep, sun, and snoring. He ripped open what could be ripped; knocked over that which wasn’t nailed down; spilt that which was liquid; but never any sign of weed, his precious weed. He went back upstairs, this time holding a kitchen knife. The old man had to share his pain if he would not help it go away.
In a sweat, in a turmoil now worse than that being suffered by the sick old man, Grimble held the knife at the throat of the Elder, but the threat to kill him proved pointless for the man was in another world, another place and time. The real world barely impinged on his brain. He had had enough of reality for one life. He had had enough of The Village, and the Maze which kept it bottled up. Deep down, he was ready to die.
Mentally, Grimble nearly collapsed. Physically, he went mental. He trashed the room to the sound of the sick man moaning. The Elders had it all. He had nothing. So unfair! He broke what could be broken. He tore up that which could be torn. He snapped that which snapped easily. He spat here and there, leaving his mark like a cat on heat or a dog on patrol, or a bear in the woods.
Suddenly he froze; disturbed by a sound he did not want to hear: the sound of men approaching. It was The Village Hangman. Trapped, Grimble delivered one final act of protest: he set fire to the Elder’s beard as the hangman came bounding up the stairs in attack mode. This moment would be his. No one could take it away from him. They would tell stories about him. Sinead would be proud. He looked down at the Senior Elder and laughed. The old man was pathetic, sick, and so stupid he didn’t realise he was on fire. How had such an idiot come to be elected? What abilities did he have, which made him the one to rule, to decide, to dictate?
The Hangman burst in and, taking in the scene, smothered the glowing beard with the blanket under which the Senior Elder was now throwing spasms. He kicked Grimble to one side and stood staring down at the old man, unsure what to do or say, or report. The two men who caught him up stood behind him, out of breath, also stuck for words. Everyone in the room stopped to take a breath. For a nearly a minute they stood as equals without an agenda.
The Hangman and his men had not seen the Senior Elder in months. He was a shocking sight. He was thin, frail-looking. He looked broken, dead to the world. All dignity was gone. Elders were not supposed to look like this, like a village cripple. Grimble had no such problem: he simply laughed - which broke the spell which had descended on the room - until that is Breamston punched him in the stomach and he curled up in pain on the carpet.
‘Bastard!’
‘Grab him. Hold him.’
The men did as they were told and jumped on Grimble smartly, at which point the Senior Elder died, suddenly, of a heart attack. He regarded it as a peaceful exit from a wasted, troubled life.
No one noticed at first. The men were too busy trying to restrain Grimble - Grimble the mad, manic leader of the gang of delinquents known as the Skunks - and Grimble was too busy trying to worm free and make a run for it. Only when Breamston tried to shake the old man awake did he realise that something was seriously amiss. The old man refused to wake up. He was not breathing.
‘Shit. I think he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ asked one of his men, his grip on Grimble slowly weakening as the news sunk in.
‘Shock?’ suggested the other. ‘Too much shock? He was seriously ill they say. The shock killed my dad.’
‘No,’ said Breamston firmly, and he stated an alternative fact. ‘He killed him.’
‘Who?’
Breamston pointed at the prisoner. ‘Him, stupid, whom do you think?’
He stared down each man as he spoke on, demanding acceptance, agreement on what he had to say.
‘He was dead when we got here, right? Strangled. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Right.’
Grimble, already as mad as hell, was still able to explode.
‘You killed him, you bastards! I just singed his beard!’
‘Take him away. Lock him up.’
One of Breamston’s men felt required to state a harsh fact.
‘But there’s no more room?’
‘In with the women then! Do it! He’s just a big girl.’
‘Yes, boss.’
As he was dragged away, Grimble spluttered with rage and kicked out, trying to hit anything and anybody. Fed up with this attitude of violent non-cooperation and abuse, Breamston pushed him down the stairs, hoping Grimble might break his neck or a leg. But Grimble jumped to his feet; fine; still able to fight; so they had to restrain him again. The calmest person in the whole house was the man who had once been elected to the position of Senior Elder, but he was dead.
Grimble took it as the ultimate insult when he was thrown in the cell meant for girls. And The Village Witch was still there, still sitting tight; still looking strange and giving him the strangest look, a look driven by curiosity, disbelief and utter contempt. But she said nothing. Any words she spoke might cause the crazy Skunk to lash out in her direction.
Grimble sat as far away from her as was possible in this cold, cramped space: and without knowing it, he ended up sitting exactly where his Sinead had been sitting only the day before. He tried to read the messages scratched into the wall: ancient messages; pleas for help; protestations of innocence; weary acceptance; final confessions; from girls and women now presumably long dead, he supposed. Join them, he thought, as he thought of The Village Witch. Our village has no need for a witch now. He sat back, closed his eyes, and prayed for his Skunks to find the balls to come and rescue him. They were outside the law now: he knew that; they knew that. Did the Skins know it too?
Here, in the cell, Grimble was not safe. He was not left to his own devices; to brood, to climb the walls; to torture himself or the wicked witch who sat in the far corner casting her spells over him. He had a visitor who put a stop to all of that. It was The Village Hangman again, and he was in an evil mood: his request for a pay rise had been rejected due to lack of funds and his bluff had been called. He had not resigned. (Unlike his blacksmith brother, he had no trade, no skills to sell. All he knew was how to shout at people; mishandle them; beat them up; lock them away; and sometimes, once permission had been granted, hang them.)
The old woman shrank back, trying to melt into the wall; wishing not to be seen, to not be a witness to what she knew was to come. When Breamston was in this mood, he was nothing less than a psychopath: a psychopath looking for a target on which to dump all his misfortune; a psychopath looking for a punch-bag.
Grimble, on seeing The Hangman’s discomfort, smiled but in an instant Breamston wiped that smile from the face of the jumped-up little shit
by punching him hard in the stomach and throwing him against the wall.
‘Find this funny, do you skunk? Where’s your friends now Grimble? Where’s that gang of yours? Run off, that’s what. All cowards. All scum.’
Grimble, having no need for words, spat back and was thrown across the floor in retaliation, despite not hitting his target. There was no respite: Breamston stood on his back and began bounce-jump up and down as if to test a dodgy, wooden bridge which had seen too many years of service.
‘Does this hurt?’
‘Yes, of course, it does,’ croaked Grimble.
‘Do you want me to stop?’
‘Of course, I do, why wouldn’t I?’
Mockery was the only weapon Grimble had left to deploy.
Breamston laughed. He had no intention of stopping. Suddenly he turned on The Village Witch.
‘What are you looking at, you foul bitch?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m looking at nothing.’ She was desperate for him to believe her.
Fearing similar attention, the old woman was reduced to a wreck of a witch: any power she had to cast over the world around her had evaporated. All that was left was a poor, croaking, near voiceless woman; ready to croak her last at any moment.
‘Nothing. Exactly. You see nothing. Keep it that way.’
The old woman nodded and focused on some obscure point on the floor - a point where an uneven paving stone stood proud. (Over the years it had successfully tripped up many.)
Satisfied, Breamston refocused his fire on his victim, Grimble; the big-headed leader of a pack of scruffy, smelly, long-haired delinquents. When he had been their age, he had known his place; he had shown respect; he had looked for a job. (It had been nothing of the sort. He could have trained to be The Village blacksmith and in time taken over his father’s forge, but he was lazy by nature and had no ability to concentrate on anything complicated.)