Spindrift

by Jonathan Broughton

I flick his ear. “The trouble with you Ben, is you make too much saliva.”

  He gives me a sulky pout, but his eyes blaze. “There wasth caraway theed in that carroth cake an’ I hateth caraway theed more than I hateth carroth cake. AND...” he spits on the ground. “Puthu! I HATESTH BEING BLOO MORE THAN I HATESTH CARAWAY THEED!”

  I give him a sideways glance and picking up his helmet, plonk it on his head.

  “Ow! Brutal bathterd.”

  “So. Mr Sulky, how do we get you back to the proper Ben?”

  He stares at me like the world has crashed. “I hath to thee the Guv’nor afterall... and be punisheth.”

  “Come on then, let’s go see the Guv’nor.” It is out before I realise I’ve said it.

  He looks at me sharply and is on his feet in a flash. “Yooth come with me?”

  I’d never seen such an expression of hope on such a pathetic little saggy-face before.

  I sigh. “Yes, I’ll come with you.” I give him my hand and he grabs it in both of his and bounces on his toes. A little voice in the back of my head says, ‘You’ll be sorry.’

  “Ok Ben. Which way do we go?”

  He points to a path I’ve never seen before. “Thith way.”

  I’m not sure this is a good idea, me going to see the Devil, but I’ve said I would and now I can’t think of a dignified way of backing out.

  Ten minutes later we come to a branch in the trail.

  “Which way?”

  “Up there,” and he points to a large cave entrance in a cliff I don’t recognize.

  I give him a sideways glance. “You sure?”

  He regards me with an innocent smile. “Yeth, itsth the gateway to Hadesth.”

  *

  With Ben at my side, I walk into the cave and along the pathway to Hell. The cavern walls secrete a sickly smell of seaweed and sulphur, but it is the thought of facing the Devil that puts knots in my stomach.

  The deeper in we go, the darker it becomes and the stronger the smell. We turn a corner and enter a second cave. Here, fire is everywhere and it moans like the drone of furnace gasses. Hot stones crack open. Flaming pieces shoot past me. The air in Hell is searing hot and it stinks. A small piece of burning stone shoots up the leg of my shorts and stings my backside. I yelp and leap in the air. Ben sniggers and I glare at him. Strangely though, I don’t notice any tormented souls serving time.

  “What’s that awful smell?” I ask, holding my nose.

  Ben cackles. “Burning demonth guano. Getsth upyer noseth, donitt?”

  Dirty yellow vapour coils roll over the ground. Gobs of molten slime spit upwards.

  “Thstay on the path an’ yooth won’t geth burnedth,” advises Ben.

  The temperature on the path is bearable, but I’m sweating like it’s going out of fashion. Then ahead, through the ripples of heat, I see a magnificent keep of a gross, yet impressive design.

  “So this is where the Devil lives,” I say.

  Ben gives me an odd glance. “No, usth demonsth livesth there. Ee livesth round the back.”

  Behind the keep, some metres off, stands a neat little cottage with a thatched roof and pink painted walls, surrounded by a large lawn with water sprinklers and several well-tended vegetable gardens. Hell seems peaceful, cooler and smells sweeter here.

  We stroll up to the front of the cottage and Ben crouches behind me. I knock and we wait. A moment later the door is opened by a very attractive redhead wearing a tight fitting onesie.

  “Can I help?” she asks huskily.

  “Yes, can I speak to Mr Bub please?”

  She frowns. “Who?

  Ben rolls his eyes. “Beelzthebub.”

  “Uh... Mr Beelzebub,” I correct.

  She smiles and disappears into the cottage. Ben smirks and gives a lecherous snigger

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  “Eeth fanthee piecesth.”

  The Devil comes to the door wearing a pale, sage-green suit. He is a tall, well-built person, apart from a bulging stomach. His black hair is slicked back from the high forehead of a finely chiselled face and his skin is red. Ben hides behind me and clings to my leg.

  “What can I do for you?” Beelzebub asks in a deep well-spoken voice. “Have you come to sell your soul?”

  “No. I’ve come to talk with you about the diet you imposed on my friend here.”

  “Why are you shaking?” he asks. “There is no need to be afraid.”

  “It’s my friend, he’s shaking and he has hold of my leg.”

  The Devil peers behind me. “Ahhh... a little blue demon. Hallo Ben. Now I understand. You’ve been eating illegal food again and you’ve got this bright fellow to talk for you.”

  Ben bows his head and cowers. “Isthp, ther-ther...”

  Beelzebub seems a nice enough fellow, but I’m so full of tension I jump right in. “Why must he eat brimstone and wild garlic all the time and none of the other tasty things he likes?”

  The Devil grins. “Is that what he’s told you, brimstone and wild garlic eh?” He regards the grovelling demon with a twinkling eye. “Who’s been telling porkies again, Ben?”

  “Isthp-isthp. Th-Thorry-Thorry-ther.” Ben bows low and doffs his helmet.

  The Devil beckons. “Come forward Ben and I will give you back your colour.”

  The little demon shuffles before Beelzebub, helmet under his arm and his head inclined. I can hear his knees knocking.

  Quicker than lightning, Beelzebub cuffs him on the back of his head. Ben screams and bursts into flame. He hops up and down and runs round in circles, cursing loudly. Beelzebub leans forward and blows out the flames.

  Ben is still hopping and cursing, but he is black again. “Ow-ow, BATHSTA...”

  The Devil puts a hand on the demon’s shoulder and holds him still. “If I hear you call me that once more, I’ll set you on fire and I won’t blow out the flames. That’s five hundred and thirty times you’ve sworn.”

  Ben’s eyes grow round. “Yooth counthed?”

  “Of course, you know I don’t hold with bad language. Now, go to your room and think about all this. I’m giving you two punishment marks.” He takes a small notepad from his inside pocket and writes ‘Ben’ twice.

  With his lower lip protruding like a sulky child, Ben backs away and starts towards the keep.

  “Don’t forget to apologize to your friend here.”

  Ben scowls over his shoulder. “Thorry.” And looking like the smoking wick of a blown out candle, he walks into the keep.

  “You know,” says Beelzebub. “That little scamp gives me more grief than all the other’s put together yet, I find, I’m most fond of him.”

  I smile nervously at Beelzebub. “Well, I’d better be going. Nice to have met you and your good lady.”

  He ambles over and puts his hand on my shoulder. I feel apprehensive and look sharply at his hand. I can sense a tic beginning in my left eye.

  Beelzebub chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to burn you, that’s strictly for demons. I need to be firm with them or they take all sorts of liberties. I have one hundred, ah...” He glances up and squints, “and thirty-five demons living here and they’re all natural gluttons, especially for junk food. Left to their own devises they would soon become grossly overweight, so I’ve given them each a list of foods they can and cannot eat. If you meet that rascal Ben again, take a look at the list tucked inside his helmet and you’ll know what he’s allowed.”

  “But Ben is as thin as a rake.”

  “Yes, that’s because demons are all part of me, flesh of my flesh, so to speak. That means I have a hundred and thirty-five pairs of greedy eyes with eager mouths sampling all sorts of tasty delights on my behalf... not forgetting the drinks.” He leans forward. “Now, here’s the catch. They eat as much as they like and stay skinny, because I get fat for them. I thought it might make them think twice, but do they care? No!” He wobbles his belly. “I eat strictly healthy stuff. Ben and his mates ate this lot for me.”

 
“Why don’t you let them pay the price for bad eating?”

  He looks astounded. “I can’t do that. I have to maintain a smart set of demons! What would people think of fat unhealthy staff all over the place?”

  Well, I guess that’s his problem, so I shake hands with the Devil and nothing happens to my hand. I wish him well and make my way back up the path and away from Hell.

  “Goodbye,” he says, showing me a contract from his inside pocket. “Don’t forget, I’m always in the market for another good soul.”

  Just around the corner, I’m out of sight... and I run for it.

  A Hastings Tale

  by John Ballard

  My earliest literary and artistic influences were drawn from comic books. I confess that occasional echoes of ‘The Beano’ and ‘The Dandy’ can still be detected in both my artwork and my writing. The two dimensional, uncomplicated, almost cartoon-like quality of the characters and scenes in ‘A Hastings Tale’ are, perhaps, yet another unintentional homage to those timeless and much loved publications.

  The word ‘ordinary’ as defined in the dictionary refers to the usual, the plain, the undistinguished; to those things so every day and commonplace that they are barely noticed and largely ignored.

  Joe Bates was ordinary. Not just ordinarily ordinary. Joe embraced ordinariness to the point of invisibility. There was absolutely nothing unusual about him. Nothing to notice. Not a single feature worthy of praise, criticism or even the vaguest modicum of interest. He was of medium build, neither fat nor thin, tall or short. His hair colour hovered somewhere between dark and light. He wasn’t handsome, but then he wasn’t ugly and the clothes he wore were neither ‘workaday’ nor ‘Sunday best’. He lived in a nondescript house, had a job not worth mentioning and, until a series of remarkable coincidences, Joe’s life had drifted past in a seamless stream of nothing much at all.

  The first coincidence came about as Joe took his customary midday stroll. At the very moment he turned into Spiggot Street, a Mrs Ada Blenkinsop along at number sixteen popped upstairs to attend to some urgent pillow plumping and a spot of light dusting, entirely forgetting to turn down the gas under a saucepan of vegetable stew. Just as Joe passed the house, the first whiff of burning stew wafted up the stairs and into the bedroom. Mrs Blenkinsop, being the possessor of both a sensitive nose and a highly nervous disposition, convinced that the house was ablaze and that she was only brief moments away from a fiery demise, threw open the window and began shouting and screaming at the top of her voice.

  Joe, a man not easily roused into action and indeed a stranger to excitement of any kind, stopped and looked up at Ada. A woman at an upstairs window, not just shouting very loudly, but shouting very loudly at him, as though she expected him to do something.

  Joe raised his hat. “Err... what seems to be the trouble?”

  “Fire! Fire!” Ada screamed. “Save me! Save me! For pities sake! Don’t jus’ stand there! You need a ladder! Go an’ get a ladder!”

  Joe nodded his agreement. Yes, a ladder was definitely needed.

  It was at this point that a second coincidence occurred.

  There, standing at the curb on the opposite side of the street stood a window cleaner’s cart, complete with rags, buckets and a short extension ladder. The owner of the cart, a Mr Bertram Biggins, had returned home for his lunch break and parked it outside his house.

  Until his recent marriage, Bert had spent his lunchtimes at the local enjoying a quiet pint and a Ploughman’s, but since the wedding he now hurried home each day where his brand new wife, all pink and panting and plump as a pudding, waited with far more interesting fare to offer than bread and cheese! So, it happened that just as the dramatic events at number sixteen were unfolding, Bert’s lunch break had reached a stage that even the shrill screams of Mrs Blenkinsop could not hope to interrupt.

  *

  In the absence of any assistance, Joe, with a sudden uncharacteristic display of decisiveness, took matters into his own hands. He crossed the street, removed the ladder from the cart and carried it back to number sixteen. After a brief struggle, he managed to raise it to the bedroom windowsill and, after climbing up to the terrified Ada, began the difficult task of manoeuvring her considerable bulk out through the window and onto the ladder.

  *

  This was the moment when a third coincidence occurred. Around the corner into Spiggot Street came Miss Penny Snippet, junior reporter for ‘The Hastings Gossip,’ armed with a Brownie box camera, a reporter’s spiral bound notepad and a well licked H.B. pencil. Penny, an ambitious girl, rarely found an opportunity to practice her journalistic skills, being mostly confined to the nicotine stained, pin-up bedecked offices of the ‘Gossip,’ making tea and avoiding the unwelcome advances of Charlie ‘Wanger’ Watson, her middle-aged and decidedly unsavoury senior colleague. It was little wonder that she preferred to spend her lunch hours wandering the streets, hoping to stumble upon something, indeed anything, worth reporting.

  The goings on at number sixteen caused Penny’s heart to leap with excitement. The wisps of grey smoke. The ladder. The heroic gentleman struggling to save the life of a lady in distress. In a town where nothing much happened with depressing regularity, this was a scoop well worthy of the front page! Penny raced down the street and, arriving at the foot of the ladder, began snapping away with her Brownie box.

  When Joe and Ada eventually completed their rather ungainly descent and stood safely, if a trifle unsteadily, on solid ground, Penny flipped open the cover of her spiral bound reporter’s notepad, licked the point of her H.B. pencil and began to conduct her very first interview.

  “Penny Snippet, Hastings Gossip. Could you tell me what’s happened here?”

  Ada, though rather breathless, was only too happy to oblige. “I was upstairs, jus’ doin’ a bit of dustin’, when I smelled the smoke. ‘Allo, I thought, my bloomin’ ‘ouse as only gorn’ and caught light. I’d best open the winder an’ shout for ‘elp!”

  “Have you any idea how the fire started Mrs... err, what was the name?”

  “Blenkinsop. Ada Blenkinsop. No idea! I remember bein’ in the kitchen earlier, makin’ a drop of stew for me’ lunch and... oh no!”

  Ada put her hands to her mouth and raised her eyes to the heavens. “I know what I’ve done! I’ve only gorn’ traipsin’ upstairs and left me stew on the gas! That’s what I’ve gorn and done!”

  Penny paused her frantic scribbling and gave her trusty H.B. an extra lick. “And your name sir”?

  “Joe Bates. Err... look,” he mumbled. “I can’t think of nothing much to say at the moment. I think I’d best pop in and turn off the gas... all right?”

  Joe walked to the front door, pushed it open and made his way through the smoky passageway to the kitchen. He turned off the gas under the smouldering saucepan, let himself out through the back door and made his way home.

  *

  The story of the gallant rescue, complete with a picture of Joe struggling down the ladder with Ada Blenkinsop, duly appeared on the front page of the ‘Gossip’. The headline, ‘LOCAL HERO SAVES ELDERLY WOMAN’ was followed by a lurid and grossly inaccurate description of the incident. Strangely, the story was credited to a Charlie ‘Wanger’ Watson. (This was, in fact, the last story that Charlie ever reported, sadly losing his life in a bizarre office accident involving a fall that somehow drove a well licked H.B. pencil into his ear. Miss Penny Snippet was promoted to fill the vacant post.)

  All across Hastings, people read and marvelled at the story, not the least of these readers being Mr Reginald Crumley, the Town Mayor.

  *

  Reginald Crumley, who had refreshingly few vices considering his exalted position, did harbour a passion for dressing up. In fact, apart from the rather tricky incidents that led Mrs Crumley to change the lock on her wardrobe door, the main reasons that led Reginald to seek the job of mayor were the many opportunities it provided for putting on and swishing about in lots of robes and regalia. Oh, how he loved those s
atin tights with their pretty, pretty garters. The dainty pumps with their cute little buckles and the hat, the glorious hat, with the fur trim and the bouncy white plumes. Reginald adored his outfit so much that he constantly searched for even the slightest of reasons to put it on.

  And there on the front page of the local newspaper was the perfect excuse for just such an occasion. He lost no time in announcing that he intended to hold a grand ceremony in honour of ‘Joe Bates. Our very own local hero!’ He would give him a medal perhaps. Or grant him ‘freedom of the town,’ or something. There would be flags and bunting, a brass band, crowds of people, coachmen in fancy waistcoats, aldermen in tight leather gators, firemen in their bright shiny helmets. Ooh! Such a spectacle!

  And there at the very centre of this glorious gathering would be Reginald Crumley, resplendent… no… one might even say… beautiful… in his lovely, lovely costume.

  *

  So little of interest ever happened in the town of Hastings, that anything even slightly unusual or out of the ordinary could be guaranteed to attract a sizeable audience. (The local constabulary had recently been called upon to disperse a large crowd that had gathered around a man with a wooden leg.) So it was that, when the afternoon of the ceremony arrived, a boisterous crowd had congregated early. They milled around the large stage that had been erected in the town square, waiting impatiently for the show to begin. The fact that the day had been declared a public holiday and that public houses were allowed to remain open all day, probably did much to encourage the high spirits of a gathering that, on its outer fringes, bordered on the riotous.

  The arrival of the mayor in his open-topped, gilded carriage was marked by loud cheering, followed, as he climbed the steps and swaggered his way across the stage to the microphone, by a barrage of wolf whistles and raucous laughter. Undeterred, he adopted a suitably regal pose, one hand on his hip while the other gently waved a delicate lace hankie.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, good people of Hastings. We are gathered here today to acknowledge the selfless heroism of Mister Joseph Bates who, without a thought for his own safety, bravely saved an elderly lady from a fiery conflagration.”

  He paused and executed a graceful half-turn to the left, artfully causing the bottom of his coat to open just enough to reveal the red velvet pantaloons. There was a fresh chorus of hoots, whistles and catcalls from the crowd.