by David Smith
***
And the monkey’s paw? It had been lost amidst the scurrying rats and panic stricken players and now lay hidden at the side of the stage ‘neath the folded drape of a dark curtain. It waited there for someone to pick it up and to wish that they never done so.
The Gnome of Doom
Karen Tucker
Ugh! There it is again.
That horrid gnome always makes me jump. It appears, seemingly out of nowhere, like the sudden and unwelcome presence of a spider.
‘Hah! Got you again, Rebecca! You really don’t like him, do you?’
Spooked as I am by the thing, I’m not in the mood to be gracious. They keep doing this to me. My colleagues know I hate it – the weird concrete gnome with the nose ring and the evil smirk – so they keep hiding it where I’ll find it unexpectedly. It seems to give them some perverse kind of pleasure that I don’t understand.
‘No, I really don’t like it,’ I reply, with some asperity. ‘And I really wish you people would understand how much I don’t like it, and stop pestering me with it.’
‘Oh, Rebecca, don’t be such a grump!’
‘Diane, you really don’t understand, do you? How would you like it if I kept putting spiders in odd places for you to find?’
She shudders – much like I do whenever I find the thing.
‘Exactly! That’s precisely how I feel about that awful statue.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realise.’
‘Well, you do now. Please stop it.’
‘OK. Sorry.’ She picks it up and walks away, cuddling it. As she disappears round the corner of the filing cabinets, she gives me a strange look, as if to say, what kind of weirdo has a problem with this cute little gnome?
Well, this kind of weirdo, that’s who. I can’t explain it. But from the moment Greg walked in with the thing, having rescued it from a skip somewhere, I’ve had a real, deep-seated aversion to it.
‘But it’s smiling at you!’ he said, when I told him.
‘Yes, but not all smiles are nice ones!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with his smile.’
‘To you, maybe. To me, it looks like the smile on the face of a crocodile.’
‘You’ll get used to him,’ he promised.
Well, he was wrong. I even see the thing in my dreams, just occasionally. OK, nightmares. It’s always coming straight for me, the rounded tip of its gnomish hat pointed at my head, but somehow I can still see that evil smile. It’s out to get me, I just know it is.
You must think I’m some kind of paranoid head-case. Believe me, I’m actually a perfectly normal person. Well, as much as anyone is. We’re all someone different under the façade, aren’t we? I come across as being calm, unflappable, the perfect colleague, mostly happy in my work. And I am, at one level. But underneath, I worry about things I can’t change. Like how much work there is to be done, and how I’m ever going to get through it and still do my best for my clients.
And be a mother, a wife, a grandmother, who goes to every football game and coaches the swimming team, and washes the kit, and babysits on a Saturday night, even though she’s exhausted from running up and down the pitch and shouting encouragement all afternoon.
It’s not easy being me. But then, I imagine we all have our burdens to bear. But enough of the self-pity. I have work to do.
***
Several hours later, I’m sitting at my desk, typing up a report, when some instinct makes me look up.
Ugh! There it is again. It makes me jump every time. It’s just off to my left, on the desk opposite. Sitting grinning that evil grin at me over the top of an A4 piece of paper that’s been propped up against it. Only its face, from the mouth up, is visible, like it’s being coy with me.
How the hell did it get there? I’d swear no-one’s been to that desk for at least ten minutes. And it certainly wasn’t there when I sat down. Does the thing move by itself? No, come on, Rebecca. Now you really are being paranoid! I eye it cautiously, though, for another moment, before settling back to my report. Unsurprisingly, it’s still there when I’ve finished.
Then Greg comes in with the Friday fish and chips, and we all adjourn to a meeting room. There’s laughter and banter, and we all catch up with each other’s lives.
‘How’s your mother doing, Becky?’
‘Oh, she’s out of hospital now, thanks, Anna. I still need to go and see her every day or two, to do her shopping and cleaning, but she’ll be up and about again soon. Thanks for asking.’
I vaguely wonder whether my worry about my mother is making me more jumpy than usual. I mean, I’ve never liked that gnome, but my dislike of it seems to have cranked up a notch recently. Perhaps it’s that I’m more tired than usual, from having to add in trips to the hospital, and now Mum’s house, to an already fairly punishing weekly schedule?
Yes, that’s probably it.
Ten minutes later, I glance at the clock, and reluctantly get up to leave.
‘I’ve got to go see a client. I’ll see you guys later.’
‘Right-oh. See you later!’
‘Take care.’
‘Bye!’
I leave the room to a chorus of farewells, feeling a little surge of happiness swell up inside. They’re good people, really. They just don’t understand how I feel.
***
How did it get up there? I’m crossing the car park on my way back into the office, when I glance up. There, sitting on the balustrade around the flat roof, is that dreadful gnome.
Honestly, the lengths some people will go to! It’s been raining most of the day, so they probably got wet putting it out there.
I shrug, and carry on walking. But as I pass under the eaves, I hear a small sound, like the shifting of a plate. I look up.
There, straight out of my nightmares, is the gnome, falling in slow motion, the rounded tip of its gnomish hat pointed at my head. And yes, I can still see that evil smile.
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