Elephants and Castles

by John Patrick

It was a warm day and Elvis had been doing the unthinkable. Whilst Morris and Monica were sitting in their small back garden, sipping tea and wine respectively, Elvis had sneaked upstairs to secretly play with Morris's vintage Hornby train set. Elvis wasn't quite sure how it had happened, maybe an electrical fault, maybe a jammed motor, but whatever the cause, the bottom line was that the Flying Scotsman became stuck in a paper-mache tunnel and caught fire. By the time Elvis had doused the flames with his lime cordial and extracted the train from the disaster site, the fake hill looked like an erupted volcano and the Flying Scotsman was clearly never to fly again. Elvis was distraught. It would have been better to have been found drunk in the bedroom smoking weed than this. His forlorn attempts at fixing the mess were cut short when Morris came back into the house and smelt smoke. The crime could not be hidden. After many tears, all from Morris, Elvis was grounded for a month, would never receive pocket money again and would spend every weekend trying to help Morris find a new Flying Scotsman at the awful model train fairs.

  Elvis went to the attic for a sulk. It was a dark and dingy place lit by a window at one end and an inadequate skylight in one side of the roof. It was divided into what had once been servants' living quarters by huge, crooked oak beams. Elvis sat under the eaves by the skylight and drew pictures in the thick dust on the floor. He picked up his crutch, banged it against the roof and watched the tiny particles swirl in the sunlight beneath the window. His crutch slipped from his grip and crashed to the floor. A small floorboard somersaulted into the air and landed a foot away, exposing a small hole. Elvis crawled forward to investigate. Hidden inside the space was a tiny wooden canon, a few lead balls and a cloth. Elvis reached in and pulled them out. The cloth was grubby and worn but Elvis could feel that it was wrapped around something heavy. The material crumbled away between his fingers and revealed a sparkling red stone. Elvis held the jewel aloft. It was like a fat, rose-coloured diamond; it seemed to suck in the sunlight from the window above and return it a thousand fold, emitting rays of crimson light that set the whole attic aglow. It slipped from Elvis's hand and plopped straight into his glass of cordial. Elvis plucked it out, wiped it on his trousers and swigged down the rest of his drink. What was it doing here? Was it valuable? It had to be, it was huge.

  A strange odour flooded Elvis's nostrils; sweet but pungent, it was somewhere between French cheese and old fish. There was a sound, a muffled cough from behind the beams. Elvis froze; wasn't he alone in attic? He peered into the gloom towards the source of the noise. There was no window or skylight at that end of the attic and all he could see was shadows. There was another soft cough followed by 'Shhh'. Elvis jumped to his feet and scrambled for the exit. Without stopping to look back, he slipped through the hatch and skidded back down the steep rickety wooden staircase. He hurried back onto the landing, slammed the door shut and paused to catch his breath. He was still clutching the red jewel. Elvis brushed away last the last remaining fragments of decayed cloth from the gem then pushed it deep into his pocket.

  The next few nights Elvis lay awake staring at the ceiling. The house always creaked and groaned, he had eventually become used to that, but this was different. It sounded like footsteps, coughs, sneezes, soft laughter, crying. Some nights it would go for hours and seemed to be talking to him, teasing him. Elvis would pull the duvet over his head and try and ignore it. He'd put on his iPod and drown out the sounds. But whenever he removed the head phones to check, the noises were still there.

  Eventually he decided that he would have to pluck up the courage and investigate. He made a plan. On Saturday morning whilst Morris was at his shop and his mother was sleeping off Friday night, he'd go back into the attic.

  Elvis was awoken on Saturday morning by the wind screaming around the house and rain lashing violently against his bedroom window. Monica had also been disturbed by the storm, and for once had ventured out early to the supermarket bemoaning her headache and lack of sleep.

  This was Elvis's chance. He gritted his teeth, clutched his torch and slowly made his way up the attic stairs until he reached the wooden hatch. He paused to listen before going any further. All he could hear was wind and rain. He climbed the last steps and began to ease open the heavy wooden cover. Something brushed against his leg.; Elvis jumped, the hatch slammed shut and Elvis scrambled at the wall to avoid slipping back down the staircase. He looked down; the white cat was weaving affectionately between his legs. Elvis bent down and picked him up. The cat rubbed against his chest and purred.

  'OK kitty,' whispered Elvis 'you check it out first.'

  He eased the hatch open a few inches and pushed the cat inside. It darted away and disappeared from sight. Elvis took a deep breath. 'Time to stop being so scared' he scolded himself. He threw the hatch back and poked his head through. With the heavy clouds outside, it was even more gloomy than usual. He switched on his torch and shone it into the shadows; there was nothing but the usual piles of dusty old junk. He crept up into the attic and stood on the edge of the stairs, scanning the room with his light. There was nobody to be seen, even the cat had vanished. Elvis walked slowly and quietly to the far end of the room. He checked for the missing floorboard where he'd found the hidden stone, but all of the boards were back in place. Probably Morris tidying, he thought. He worked his way around the attic, shining his light into every hidden nook and cranny, until finally he was satisfied that he was alone. It must have been wind that he'd heard, or his imagination, or mice, or... something. He turned off his torch and went back to where he'd found the little hiding hole. He lifted up the board but the space was empty. He looked around to see if he'd left the toy cannon and shot on the floor in his hurry to leave, but all he found were his own doodlings in the dust. But then that same pungent odour soured his nostrils. Elvis felt uneasy. Well, at least he'd done what he'd planned he thought, he'd checked the attic and it was empty. It was time to go back down. He climbed to his feet and headed for the exit.

  But in his way stood a toddler in a grimy grey pinafore dress, her face pale and her eyes red. Her exposed arms and legs were peppered in sores. She was clutching the white cat. Elvis dropped the torch; it broke on the floor. The girl began to cry.

  Monica's carrier bag split. Cans of baked beans and tomato soup rolled off the pavement and splashed into a puddle the size of a duck-pond. She swore under her breath and knelt down to fish them out. A bus stormed by and raised a small tidal wave; Monica was drenched. A group of boys standing in the bus shelter sniggered. Monica snatched the rest of her shopping and marched away, trying to look as composed as she could with her hair plastered to her head, a wet leaf stuck to her cheek and her shopping cradled in her arms. She cursed Morris for not fixing the wipers on their old Austin Allegro.

  Monica finally arrived home and dumped the shopping inside the front door. It could stay there until she'd had a hot bath and put on some dry clothes.

  'Elvis, are you there? Elvis, start running me a bath, sweetie.'

  There was no answer.

  She hung her wet coat on the edge of the kitchen door and called up the stairs again. 'Elvis. Elvis! What are you doing? God, why do I never get any help in this place?'

  Elvis hadn't heard her. He was still open-mouthed and statuesque, staring at the little girl.

  'Alice! Alice, come here.' The words were hissed from behind a pile of old boxes.

  Very slowly, Elvis crouched down and picked up his torch. The lens had shattered but when he slid the button forwards, the bulb still glowed. He aimed the feeble light towards the source of the voice. Standing alongside the boxes was Mary, her face pale, her skin mottled with sores, her dress torn and stained. Behind her peeked the anxious face of Samuel. Alice dropped the cat and ran to join her siblings.

  Elvis felt every muscle in his body go limp. A warm wet feeling ran down his leg and a puddle appeared at his feet. The torch fell from his hand and his weight slumped onto his wobbling crutch. The world went black.

  At first the voices were distant, dr
eam-like.

  ''E pissed 'imself! I ain't never seen no one 'is age piss 'imself before!'

  'Shut up Sam. 'E'll 'ear ya. 'E can't 'elp it. We probably scared him.'

  'What you reckon 'e done to 'is leg.'

  'Dunno. Prob'ly done it at work.'

  'Should we give 'im some potion?'

  'Yeh, 'cause that was so bloody good, wasn't it?'

  Samuel began to cough. 'I still don't feel right Mary.' He sat on a crate and rubbed at his swollen neck.

  Alice had found Elvis's iPod and was swinging around the headphones.

  Elvis's vision began to return. He saw the hazy outline of Mary knelt alongside him and her brother just behind.

  'Look Sam, 'e's wakin' up.'

  The faces and their sores became clearer. Elvis gasped. He sat up and began to push himself away towards the staircase.

  'What you doin'? Don't go! We need your 'elp.' pleaded Mary.

  But Elvis was shuffling quickly towards the hatch.

  'Where you goin'? Wait!' begged Samuel.

  Elvis was having none of it. As Samuel reached out to stop him, Elvis threw himself over the edge backwards and tumbled down the stairs until he crashed into the landing door.

  'Elvis! Elvis! What are you doing?' shouted Monica from the bath.

  'I... I slipped!' Elvis groaned. He was bruised and sore. He had blood coming from a cut in his right eyebrow. He looked up at the attic hatch. Samuel's pot-marked face appeared over the edge.

  'You alright mate?'

  Elvis dragged himself to his feet. He lurched through the door to the landing and slammed it shut. He staggered to his bedroom, sat on the edge of his bed and tried to work out what had just happened. He looked at himself in his mirror; his face was bloodied from a large split above his right eye. He looked down at his trousers, they were soaked. He needed to change before his mother found him. He stood up and reached for his draw. He felt dizzy and feint. He took the stone and hid it deep inside his underwear draw.

  The bedroom door opened and his mother's head appeared. 'Elvis, are you OK? Elvie? Oh my God Elvis! What have you done?'

  A couple of hours later, Monica and a bandaged-up Elvis were sitting with Doctor McKendrick. A young medical student by the name of Henry was sat alongside the doctor. Henry was in his fifth year of study. He spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent and bore a tiny yellow Leeds United badge on his blue tie, but his tall lean stature and ebony black skin gave clue to his Sudanese origins. Doctor McKendrick was quizzing him and Henry was struggling.

  'Look Henry, try and put it all together. He had a funny smell, saw strange things, blacked out, incontinent. What does all that sound like?'

  'I didn't see strange things, they were real!' protested Elvis. 'Mum, tell them!'

  'Shh Elvis. I went up there after to get your crutch. There was nothing there.' she hissed.

  'Mum!'

  'Psychosis?' suggested Henry 'Schizophrenia?'

  'No, no, no! Don't they teach you anything? It's epilepsy for heaven's sake! He's describing a fit.' The doctor shook his head. 'He had a head injury as a baby, yes? That'll be the cause.'

  'Oh.' said Henry, trying not to look surprised.

  'What?' said Monica. 'He hasn't got ...that.'

  'Has he ever had fits before?'

  'No, and...he hasn't had one now... has he?'

  'Mum, it was real. I saw them!'

  'Look Misses Klatzmann. It's not the end of the world. There are lots of good medicines out there that can probably stop this from happening again. We just need to organise a few tests to make sure. He'll be fine. Lots of children have seizures.'

  'But, I don't understand...' began Monica.

  'Don't worry. Just come back and see me as soon as these tests are done.' He smiled reassuringly as he thrust some forms into Monica's hand then turned to his computer. 'He'll be fine.' he repeated.

  Monica was stunned. This was yet another problem for her to worry about.

  Elvis felt no better. He pictured himself writhing on the ground at school in wet pants with the whole class stood around laughing.

  Monica joined the queue at the desk to book the next appointment. Henry approached her and put a hand on her shoulder. He was a good foot and a half taller than Monica.

  'Hey, don't worry, we can sort this.' he assured her.

  Monica backed away.

  'Do you know what to do if he has another seizure?'

  Monica shook her head.

  'OK, come with me.' He led them to a quiet corner of the waiting room and sat them down. He pulled out some photocopied first aid leaflets. 'Look, it's not hard. This is called the recovery position.' Henry ran through what do several times until he was satisfied that she'd grasped the idea. He explained how epilepsy can cause strange sights and smells before a seizure and how this whole thing could be traced back to the car crash.

  Doctor McKendrick appeared from his room. 'Henry. Where's Henry? There you are! Come see this man's rash. It's a corker! You tell me what it is.'

  Henry jumped to his feet. 'Take care little man.' he gave Elvis a firm shake of the hand 'Hey, think yourself lucky that I wasn't right!' he laughed. He held out a hand to Monica. She shook his fingertips. 'I'll see you both again soon, eh?' and he disappeared after the doctor.

  Twenty minutes later they were back on the bus. Monica watched Elvis closely for signs that he might be about to do it again. What if he did have another fit and she had forgotten what to do? What if nobody was there? What if he was in the bath? What if he died because she got it wrong? Endless scenarios ran through her head. And all this because she hadn't fastened him into the car properly all those years ago. She held back the tears.

  'Don't tell anyone.' grumbled Elvis.

  'What dear?' asked Monica coming out of her daydream.

  'I said don't tell a single person. I don't want anybody to know.'

  'OK sweetie.' promised Monica, 'I won't tell anyone, I promise. Except the school, they'll have to know.'

  'Not the school! Especially not the school!' shouted Elvis.

  Other passengers turned their heads.

  Elvis's cheeks went red. 'Do not tell the school!' he hissed then moved to another seat.

  Back home Monica was unsure what to do with her son. Doctor McKendrick had just said to keep an eye on him, but the first thing that Elvis had done when they arrived home was to go into his bedroom and lock the door.

  Monica stood outside his room. 'Well, at least shout me if you start seeing funny things or smelling cheese Elvie. Before you have another one of those turns and wet yourself.'

  Elvis gritted his teeth and said nothing. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It had all been so real. How could he have imagined all of that? But after Henry explained things, it started making sense. Elvis reached for his iPod and then remembered it was in the attic. He'd seen that little girl swinging it around. It had been so clear. And his phone? That must be up there too. Well, if it was all in his head he could just go back up and get them.

  Elvis peeped onto the landing. Monica had given up and gone back downstairs to listen to more of Dr Phil's advice. Elvis crept back up the attic staircase. The hatch was still open. Elvis peered in over the edge again. There was no smell now, no children, just his broken torch and his iPod lying in the middle of the floor near to a small wet patch. Elvis edged his way carefully inside. 'This is in my head' he kept saying to himself but his heart was pumping and his knees were shaky. He kept his focus firmly on the floor and avoided looking into the shadows. He knelt down and shoved his i-Pod into his pocket. He looked for his phone but it was nowhere to be seen.

  There was a scratching noise. A feeling of dread came over Elvis, his muscles felt limp again and he wanted to vomit. 'No, this is all in my head.'

  He grabbed the torch and slid forward the button. He had his eyes closed as he pointed it towards the source of the noise. He peeped reluctantly from one eye. There was a rat; a fat, black, long-tailed rat sitting on a be
am, his red eyes glinting back in the torch light. Elvis had never seen a rat in the house before and up until now would have been appalled. But on this occasion he smiled at the ugly rodent before it dashed away and disappeared under the eaves.

  Elvis headed back downstairs. So Henry was right. It had all been in his head, and all to do with that crash years earlier. Was it better to see ghosts or have fits? Elvis wasn't sure. He lay on his bed, put his ear plugs in and flicked through the music on his i-Pod. As usual, his curtains were drawn and his clothes were scattered across the floor. The only light inside the room came from the screen on Elvis's iPod, and a soft red glow emanating from his underwear draw.

  That evening, when Morris returned home from his television shop, Monica told him all about Elvis's seizure and how frightened she was about him having more, and about the tests he had to have, and the bus trip, and the medical student, and the recovery position and lots more. Morris continued to chew his food and pretended not to be reading his model railway magazine. Elvis came downstairs and joined them in the basement kitchen.

  'Sorry to hear you weren't well today Elvis.' said Morris through mashed potato and gravy, still looking at his magazine.

  Elvis forced a smile.

  'It might never happen again. Don't worry about it.' he added dismissively.

  'Don't worry about it! They said my brain's damaged, I pissed my pants and Mum's going to tell the school!' shouted Elvis. 'How can I not worry about it?'

  'You probably just had a turn,' continued Morris 'these things happen.'

  'But they were all so real.' replied Elvis.

  'Who was so real?' asked Morris, taking his eyes away from the used model train advertisements for the first time.

  'The kids in the attic, the smell, the sores. Everything.'

  'What kids? What sores? You didn't say anything about children Monica.' Morris put his knife and fork down. They had his full attention now. 'What did they look like?'

  'He just imagined them Morris, they weren't real!' scoffed Monica.

  'Shush Monica!' snapped Morris 'Elvis, what did they look like?'

  'Don't you shush me Morris Klatzmann! That's my son you're talking to!'

  'Yes, fine, I'm sorry Monica. Elvis, what did they look like?'

  Elvis was surprised by Morris's interest; after all, these children were just a creation of his damaged brain. Still, it was nice that someone seemed to be taking him seriously. Elvis carefully described what he'd seen, the ages, the clothes, the sores, the smells.

  Morris listened intently until Elvis had finished. Then he jumped up and grabbed his coat. 'I've got to go out. I might be late.'

  'But you've only just got in!' protested Monica 'We need to talk about this!'

  But Morris was gone.

  Over the next week or two, Elvis underwent his medical tests. He had a brain scan and blood samples. His head was wired up for an EEG, an electrical test to check the wiring in his brain, the technician explained. He hadn't been back up to the attic. He'd heard noises at night, but now he knew that there were rats up there he tried to satisfy himself with the logical explanation. He had to forget what he'd seen, no matter how vivid, and try and get back to normal. He still hadn't found his mobile 'phone. He felt sure it was in the attic somewhere and he would go back up very soon to get it. But not just yet.

  Chapter 6