“Come on; follow me, we have need of supplies.” With that, he disappeared into the greenery of the overgrown garden.
Back home, Jimmy search the garden shed, looking for something. To be truthful, it was not a garden shed, it was an outside toilet, albeit abandoned. Moreover, their garden was only a small back yard.
Sauntering into the shed, yawning, scratching his sleepy head, Jimmy’s brother Jack, asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” Jimmy lied.
“What kind of a nothing? I might know where it is…”
“If you must know, I’m looking for the wire cutters.”
“It’s up there, on the shelf,” Jack replied. “Look!” he said, pointing at one of the rickety shelves.
Picking it up, Jimmy inspected the wire cutters, a miserably small affair; more akin to a pairs of pliers than the object that he was wanted. “No, not this one,” he said, “I’m looking for the other, the big one.”
“Oh,” Jack mumbled sleepily. “You mean the bolt cutter. It’s not here.” Thinking it over, adding one and one together, but getting three, he said, “You’re cutting a new hole in the fence at the coal mine, aren’t you?” You know mum doesn’t approve of you doing that.” He was right, their mother had no qualms whatsoever about them collecting coal that had gathered, going to waste at the base of the slag heaps, but she drew the line at damaging private property.
“I’m going to tell her!” Jack warned.
Darting out from the shed, grabbing hold of his brother by the scruff of the neck, then yanking him into it, Jimmy asked, “Do you want a knuckle sandwich? Or are you going to behave?”
“Stop it!” Jack yelled. “Stop it! I’ll behave!”
Tightening his grip around his distressed brother’s neck, Jimmy asked, “Now where is that bolt cutter?”
“I’ll tell you where the crumby thing is!” Jack yelled. “Just let me go!”
Squeezing even more, cutting off his air supply, “Jimmy said, “Do you mean it, do you really mean it?”
“Yes!” he cried out. “Yes, let me go! I can’t breathe!”
Releasing his grip, Jimmy watched as a red ring of hurt welled on his brother’s neck. Perhaps, he thought, he had been a bit too hard on him. Remembering the unfortunate horses, he said, “Well? Where is it, the bolt cutter?”
Rubbing his soreness, Jack replied, “You’re mad! You are barking mad! They should lock you up! I’ve a good mind to-”
Taking a step forward, Jimmy reminded his brother of the dangerous position he was in. “Stop!” he protested. “It’s at Mrs Alibonker’s house. She borrowed it, to fix a widget.”
“A widget?”
“Yes a thingamajig, in her kitchen… on her gas cooker.”
Thirty minutes later, after Mrs Alibonker’s widget and gas cooker were fixed, and the bolt cutter thus secured, Jimmy made his way down the street, to Eric’s house.
Knocking the door, checking his duffle bag, going over the bits and pieces he had put into it, necessary for what he had planned, Jimmy waited for a reply. When the door opened, Eric’s mother greeted him. “Hello, Jim,” she said cheerily. Seeing the bag with the bolt cutter sticking out from it, she said, “What’s that – tools for a bank raid?”
“Yes, something like that,” Jimmy replied, thinking nothing more of it.
Scrutinising the bolt cutter, she said, “I hope you’re not planning what it looks like you’re planning!”
“No, not at all!” Jimmy replied, worried their adventure might be stopped before it had even begun. “We’re not going anyway near the coalmine – I promise!” Seemingly satisfied, she invited him in, telling him to wait in the parlour.
“Watcha,” said Eric when he entered the parlour. “What’s that you got there?” he asked, seeing Jimmy reading a book.
“I am learning how to crochet, if you must know,” he replied, returning the book to where he had he had found it, the arm of the sofa.
“You are?”
His eyes rolling up to the heavens, Jimmy said, “I got bored waiting! I had to read something! What on earth have you been doing?”
“Supplies, I had to get some, too.”
“It was only the one item. How long can one item take?”
Shrugging, Eric said, “As long as it takes for it to be found, I suppose. I had no idea where it was.”
“Where is it, anyhow?” Jimmy asked.
Opening the door, pointing to the coat stand and his coat upon it, he said, “It’s there, in the pocket – do you want to see it?”
No, no, we have wasted enough time already. Let’s get out of here.”
“Bye mum,” said Eric, pulling the door closed behind him.
Making their way down the street, the two friends, buttoning their coats against the lazy cold wind, headed in the direction of the glue factory…
Nothing had changed at the industrial area, nothing except for the weather that was growing colder by the minute. The witch’s house was still gone despite Eric having wished it came back. Heaving a pensive sigh, he followed Jimmy through the weed-infested plot, to where they had reencountered the factory grounds, earlier. Gazing through the chain link fence, he wondered what Jimmy had planned, what deed he had concocted to save the unfortunate horses. Jimmy had only asked him to bring one item (he patted his coat pocket reassuringly, feeling it), leaving him quite ignorant at to what he was going to do. However, that was Jimmy’s way of doing things, and who was he to try to change him?
Lying on his stomach, eyeballing the factory yet hidden from view, safe from the gaze of any guard who might happen to look in their direction, Jimmy opened the duffle bag. Withdrawing the items, he counted, “One, two, three. Hand me the last one, Eric.” Delving a hand into his coat pocket, Eric fumbled about, trying to find it.
“Come on”! Jimmy badgered. “We haven’t got all day!”
Withdrawing his hand, Eric said, “Sorry, large pockets! Here you are, Jim,” he said, handing it to him.
“Thanks.” Inspecting the item – a prismatic viewer – Jimmy admired its quality of workmanship.
“You never did tell me why you brought such strange things.” Pointing at one of them, he asked, “Can I see that?”
“No, no you can’t!” Jimmy snapped. “These are delicate instruments; we can’t risk anything happening to them!”
Almost choking with laughter, Eric spluttered, “Delicate instruments? You can’t be serious?”
“I don’t see anything funny with it,” Jimmy replied in all seriousness.
Still chortling, Eric said, “How can a bolt cutter, an electric fan, a jar of pickled onions and a prismatic viewer by any stretch of the imagination be considered delicate instruments?”
“The prismatic viewer is!” Jimmy retorted defensively.
“I brought that, and well you know it.”
“Okay,” said Jimmy, backing down, “perhaps they can’t all be considered delicate instruments.”
“You said it.”
“Will you allow me to continue?”
“Sorry, go on.”
“Just because some of them might not be considered delicate instruments by some people does not mean they cannot be of any use to us.”
“Including the jar of pickled onions?” Eric asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Yes, even that!”
“But why pickled onions?”
“I, I don’t know...” Jimmy answered. “It’s, it’s like something told me to bring it – and the other things...” Moving on, picking up the bolt cutter, Jimmy said, “This is getting us nowhere. Come on, we must find the weakest link...”
The Glue Factory Grounds Invaded
“Come on, Jim,” said Eric, “spit it out. I want to know what you’re planning to do with those items, apart from looking for the weakest link, that is.”
“Items – what items?” said Jimmy.
“A bolt cutter, an electric fan, a jar of pickled onions and a prismatic viewer!” Eric replied,
his blood pressure rising.
“What about them?” Jimmy asked, evading the question.
Standing up, flapping his arms about as if he was a boy demented, Eric asked, “Am I missing something, here, or has the world gone completely bonkers?”
Ignoring his protests, handing him the bolt cutter, Jimmy said, “Here, hold this.”
Finally realising that his protests were at nothing, that Jimmy for some peculiar reason did not intend to divulge his modus operandi, Eric accepted the bolt cutter, as he watched his supposedly best friend inspecting the fence.
“I’d keep an eye out for guards, if I were you,” Jimmy warned. “You’re a prime target, standing up like that.”
Realising how foolish he had been, standing up and flapping his arms about like a lunatic, Eric dropped to the ground like a brick.
Lifting a finger, grinning, Jimmy said, “I think I’ve found the place, the weakest link. Hand me that cutter – and please remember to keep an eye out for guards!”
It was a tough fence, far tougher than the old, rickety one surrounding the coalmine, but Jimmy persisted, cutting, probing, and nipping slowly away at it until, little by little, link by link, the fence succumbed to his efforts, and an opening appeared. When he was satisfied that he had breached enough of the fence to offer them safe entry to the grounds surrounding the glue factory, he said, “Done it!”
“And not a guard to be seen – anywhere,” Eric added thankfully.
Lifting up the bottom of the fence, Jimmy said, “In you go Eric, I’ll follow you.”
Crouching low, on all fours, Eric crept through the opening, through to the sprawling grounds surrounding the factory. It was so different, in there. Despite being mere inches
Jimmy, The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous Page 10
