Mr Mumbles

by Barry Hutchison

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Let me see now,’ she replied. ‘What should you do? What should you do? Oh, I know. How about get me out?’

  ‘Right, yeah. Course,’ I nodded. I thought for a few seconds, trying to ignore the freezing rivulets of rain which were trickling down my back and forming a pool at the base of my spine. It was no use. I came up blank. ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, throw me a rope or something!’

  ‘I haven’t got a rope.’

  ‘Well get one!’

  ‘Isn’t there anything down there?’ I asked. ‘A ladder or something?’

  ‘As convenient as that would be,’ she snapped, ‘no. And before you ask, the door’s locked, too.’

  ‘Any—’

  ‘No. No windows, either.’

  ‘Oh,’ I muttered, defeated. ‘Where will I find a rope?’

  ‘Ropes ‘R’ Us? How the hell am I supposed to…Wait!’ she cried. ‘The garden. There was a washing line, wasn’t there?’

  ‘There was!’ I yelped. She was right! A long length of rope had been strung between two metal poles in the garden. It was just what we needed. ‘I’ll go get it.’

  Not thinking, I leapt to my feet. Like a wounded animal, the roof gave a desperate, deafening screech. The world lurched sideways. Something solid rose up and slammed hard against my shoulder, then did the same to my legs. I lay there, motionless, trying to blink away the shapes which danced and swam before my eyes.

  ‘So,’ sighed Ameena from somewhere beside me, ‘did you get it, then?’

  Something – either me or the metal I was lying on—groaned as I stood up. Now that my vision was clearing, I could see…nothing at all.

  The inside of the garage was just as dark as it had looked from up above. Even darker, if that was possible. It smelled faintly of petrol and chemicals, but the rain pouring in through the hole overhead would soon take care of that.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I ventured. ‘Have you got a plan?’

  ‘I did have,’ replied Ameena, curtly. ‘But it fell through.’

  Stumbling through the gloom, I reached for the nearest wall. It was closer than I thought, and I smacked into it almost at once. It gave a low rumble, like distant thunder.

  ‘That’s the door,’ said Ameena, her voice short and cold. ‘And before you ask, yes, it’s locked. The metal’s quite thin, but not thin enough to break through.’

  ‘You sure?’ I asked. Determined to make up for not getting the rope, I kicked the door as hard as I could. It rang out like a church bell on Sunday morning, but otherwise didn’t budge.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure!’ Ameena hissed. ‘And unless you want to draw your friend’s attention to the fact that we’re trapped in here like rats, don’t do that again!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, feeling stupid. Again. It was becoming a habit.

  ‘Just sit somewhere, will you?’ she sighed. ‘Just…just sit down and don’t move while I try to figure this out.’

  ‘Wait, that’s it!’ I said.

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘We just sit here! We just sit right here and wait until someone comes looking for us!’ I felt the hairs on my arm prickle with excitement. This was a good plan – a plan which didn’t involve any more running, or any more encounters with Mr Mumbles. The perfect plan! ‘My mum’ll be home soon, and when she sees the house and realises I’m gone she’ll call the police, and then they’ll come find us!’

  Ameena wasn’t responding as enthusiastically to this idea as I’d expected her to. ‘Don’t you see?’ I pressed. ‘We can just stick it out here until we’re rescued.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ she whispered. ‘Apart from one teensy problem.’ Overhead, what remained of the roof gave an ominous creak. I looked up. Less than a metre above me, the silhouette of a man in a hat hung over the edge of the hole.

  Ameena pointed at Mr Mumbles. ‘Him.’

  Chapter Seven

  THE BEST FORM OF DEFENCE

  This time, he didn’t even give me a chance to start panicking. Without a sound, he dropped down through the hole, arms outstretched, reaching for me. I half leapt, half stumbled aside, until my back was pressed up against the rear wall. The night surrounded me like a thick, black curtain, swallowing everything up, making it impossible to see. Where was he? Where was he?

  Off to my left, Ameena cried out in shock. Instinctively, I turned in the direction of the sound, but it was no use. My visual range didn’t even reach the end of my nose, let alone the other end of the garage.

  She screamed in panic, but it was soft and muffled and indistinct, as if she was shouting from inside a cloud. With a start, I realised her mouth was covered. Mr Mumbles was smothering the life right out of her!

  I flew at the sound, wildly flailing my arms around like windmills and screaming for him to leave her alone. After just a few steps, my fists found their target. I heard him spin to face me, and I quickly let fly with another few punches. Most of them missed, and the ones which didn’t probably hurt me more than they hurt him. I kept swinging anyway.

  I was still windmilling when he hit me in the chest. The blow struck like a sledgehammer. I didn’t feel any pain at first, just the sensation of no longer being on my feet. Most of the air in my lungs exited in one sharp, sudden breath. What little was left was quickly knocked out when my back thudded against the garage wall.

  My knees buckled, and I dropped to the floor, gasping for breath. The smell of petrol swirled up my nostrils and caught in my throat. Tiny pinpricks of light sparkled like fireflies wherever I looked. Somewhere – I couldn’t even guess where – my imaginary friend let out a low, throaty laugh.

  ‘Kyle!’ Ameena yelped. ‘Are you OK?’

  I gave my head a shake, trying to clear the cobwebs away. A knot of pain throbbed between my eyes. Oxygen was gradually flowing back into my lungs, but my chest had begun to ache where Mr Mumbles had hit me.

  ‘Define “OK”.’

  With a rustle of clothing, Mr Mumbles lunged at me. Still on my knees, I rolled sideways, and felt the wind move as he passed just above my head. Close. Too close.

  The darkness made it impossible to know where to run. There could have been another door, or even something to fight him with, but we’d never know. We’d never find out. If only there was some sort of—

  A foot splashed into a puddle at my side, and I rolled again, hoping there were no walls waiting in the direction I dived. Near the spot I’d just been, I heard a mumble of frustration. At a guess I reckoned Ameena must be somewhere to my right, keeping quiet so as not to give her whereabouts away.

  Maybe we could both rush him. He was strong, but the two of us might be able to overpower him if we worked together. Of course, to do that we’d have to be able to see him, and for that we would need—

  A squeal burst from my lips as a hand caught me by the back of the neck and forced me to the ground. There was a brief flash of pain across my jaw, before the lower half of my face went cold and numb.

  Icy, dirty rainwater swirled up my nose. Frantically, I blew down both nostrils, trying to keep the puddle out of my airways, until there was no air left to blow with. Automatically, my body breathed back in, and I immediately tasted filth and grime at the back of my throat.

  Coughing, spluttering, I pushed back against the hand which held me, but he was too heavy, too powerful. I thrashed wildly, more terrified of the water beneath me than of the monster above.

  The puddle could only have been a few centimetres deep, but that didn’t matter. The water still made my pulse race and my head spin and a bubble of fear form far back in my throat.

  It couldn’t end like this. Not drowning, please! Please. Anything but drowning!

  Somewhere, miles off in the distance, I could hear Ameena calling my name. Why wasn’t she helping me? Why wasn’t she stopping him? Couldn’t she see what he was doing?

  Of course she couldn’t see. She couldn’t see anything. None of us could see anything. I w
as drowning, and she was just a few feet away, and she couldn’t see. Why wasn’t there a light? Why couldn’t there just be one—

  With an electrical crackle, a bare bulb burst into life on the closest wall. I felt the hand on my neck relax just a fraction, and heard a low mumble of surprise, before Ameena launched herself at the man on my back.

  Mr Mumbles caught her by the arm and swung her behind him. With a clank of metal, Ameena staggered into a mound of debris from the fallen roof. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her head hit the crumpled iron, hard. She whimpered once, then slumped down on to the flooded floor.

  Finding strength I didn’t know I had, I twisted, knocking Mr Mumbles off balance. He toppled sideways, and I helped him on his way with a kick to the ribs.

  We both made it to our feet at the same time. Eyes locked, we stood there in the garage, the rain matting my hair and curving the brim of his hat. The light bulb buzzed on the wall, hissing quietly whenever a raindrop touched the glass. I still hadn’t quite figured out where it had come from, but I wasn’t about to question it. I’d needed a light, and I’d been lucky enough to get one. Now if only I could find some kind of weapon, I might stand a chance.

  Almost immediately, my toe brushed against something solid on the floor. I let my eyes flick down, losing sight of Mr Mumbles for only a fraction of a second. An axe. There was a large, double-handled axe at my feet. Another coincidence? Maybe my luck was changing.

  When I met Mr Mumbles’ gaze again, I saw something there I hadn’t seen before. Something raw and primal. Was it fear? Probably not, but I could have sworn it was something close.

  Like a sprinter off the starting blocks, he made his move. I bent double and my hands found the axe handle. It was heavy – heavy enough to do some serious damage. The silver blade glinted in the light. I gripped the smooth wood tightly. The axe felt deadly in my hands. It felt unstoppable.

  It didn’t stay in my hands for long. Even before I’d straightened up, Mr Mumbles wrenched it from my grip. He stood and examined it for a few moments, weighing it in his hands, studying the polished metal head, as if it were some weird, alien artefact.

  Backing away, I quickly scanned the garage for something else to use against him. There was nothing. Aside from the bits of broken roof, which would be too heavy to lift, there was nothing in the garage but me, Ameena and Mr Mumbles.

  And the axe in Mr Mumbles’ hands.

  The blade gave a low whistle as Mr Mumbles ran at me, swinging the weapon in a wide, sweeping arc. I dropped down on to my knees, as – with a whum – the axe cut through the air just a few millimetres above my head. A crop of neatly sliced stray hair drifted down from the top of my head.

  My left knee had landed on a small scrap of the metal roof. It was barely a foot square and it was rusted badly, but it was the only thing which might be able to protect me.

  I grabbed for the piece of iron and looked up in time to see Mr Mumbles bring the axe back around. The blade passed behind him, then curved up and over his hat. I blinked, unable to move, transfixed by the graceful movement of the axe, as it swung down, down, down towards my face.

  A split second before I was split in half, the floodgates opened and reality came rushing in. I was about to die – this was no time to admire his axe-work. Recoiling, I shut my eyes tight and held up the broken section of roof for protection. It felt like a pointless gesture, but there was nothing else I could do.

  The axe hit my forearm with a dull clang. Cautiously, I opened one eye. I couldn’t quite believe what I saw.

  I was no longer holding a rusted piece of scrap iron. Instead, my hands clutched a round, polished metal shield. It glinted in the glow of the bare bulb, and I could havesworn when the light reflected off the thing it actually went ting.

  I stared at it, barely even noticing Mr Mumbles, who was also gazing at the sculpted sheet of metal that had saved me from his attack. Neither of us, it seemed, knew quite how to react.

  He made his mind up before I did. With a screech, he drew back the axe and brought it down hard on the shield. The impact made my whole skeleton vibrate. I slipped my arm into the leather straps on the inside of the shield, just as he slammed down hard with another violent strike. A sharp pain shot along the length of my arm. Even with the shield protecting me, the axe was doing damage. If this didn’t stop soon, it could break my arm in two.

  ‘L-leave him alone.’

  Both my imaginary friend and I turned at the same time to see Ameena getting shakily to her feet. A thick splodge of treacle-like blood clung to her hair just above her left ear, and her eyes were almost rolling backwards into her head. Despite all that, she was still trying to save me. Me. No one had ever even stuck up for me in school before, so this total stranger was going well beyond the call of duty.

  For a second I felt a strange kind of happiness, but the now familiar feeling of utter, absolute terror soon came rushing back. Mr Mumbles had turned his back on me, and was advancing on Ameena. She staggered and slipped back down to the floor, her legs not yet strong enough to support her. I saw him raise the axe. I saw her close her eyes.

  Something began to tingle at the base of my neck.

  ‘GET…AWAY…FROM…HER!’ I roared, my legs launching me forwards like springs. Mr Mumbles turned, the axe still raised above his head. I swung at him with the shield before he could bring the blade down. As the metal connected with his jaw, something like an electric shock coursed across the surface of my skull. For a split second, a bright flash filled my vision. When it cleared, Mr Mumbles was hurtling backwards, a barely recognisable blur of speed.

  The metal door bent with a boom and a creak, as the monster crashed through it, tearing it free of the wall. The warped aluminium skidded and skittered along the wet driveway, before coming to rest on the road, ten or fifteen metres away. Somewhere inside the wreckage, my imaginary friend lay deathly still.

  ‘Wow, whoever that dude is, he really doesn’t like you,’ said Ameena. I felt her hand slip into mine and braced my arm against her weight as she hauled herself up. She looked out of the garage, seeing the buckled remains of the door for the first time. ‘Whoa,’ she gasped. ‘How did you do that?’

  I stared into the empty street. Flashing lights of red and green spilled their Christmassy glow across the tarmac. Behind us, the bare light bulb went out with a fizzle and a pop. ‘I don’t know,’ I managed, eventually. ‘It just sort of…happened.’

  ‘But it was…I mean, you…it’s not…’ Ameena’s eyes seemed to be focusing properly now, and were open wide with shock. I knew she had a question in there somewhere that was trying to get out, but I didn’t have any way to explain what I’d just done.

  ‘It must’ve been a lucky punch or something,’ I said. ‘Come on, now that he’s down we can go get the police. They can take care of him.’ I chewed my lip. Could the police take care of him? Even if there was an officer on duty, would he be equipped to deal with homicidal imaginary men? I doubted it was something the local constabulary had ever had to worry about before.

  ‘The police, are you crazy?’ Ameena scoffed. All drowsiness seemed to have left her now, and – aside from the splodge of blood in her hair – she was back to her swaggering self. ‘You just knocked the guy clean through a metal door. With one punch!’

  I shrugged, trying my best to play it cool, despite the fact I was trembling from head to toe. ‘So?’

  ‘So when he wakes up he’s going to be angry. He’s going to be bloody furious.’

  I glanced again at the twisted metal of the door. Did something move in there? Surely not. Not already.

  ‘He’ll come for you, kiddo,’ Ameena warned. ‘And when he does I don’t think any police force on Earth is going to be able to stop him.’

  Chapter Eight

  MOVING THE DONKEY

  There are two churches in our village. One of them is small and white and looks just like a normal house, except with a rainbow painted right across one side. The other is a big, old-fashion
ed spooky place, with a graveyard at the back, and a spire that looks like it might topple over at any minute. One of them is called Saint Mary’s and the other is The Church of the Friendship Fellowship. No prizes for guessing which is which.

  Unfortunately, the creepy one with the graveyard was closest to the garage, and Ameena decided it would be a good idea to go hide there in case Mr Mumbles came after us again.

  ‘Why a church?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it’s close,’ she replied. ‘And because there’s not a whole lot else open right now.’

  I didn’t argue. I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that people used to hide out in churches for safety and protection. Right now the idea of being protected sounded pretty good.

  The heavy wooden doors creaked loudly as we pushed them open. I should have expected it. Just once tonight, I’d have liked something to not sound all ominous and evil. What was it with people? Didn’t anyone oil their hinges any more?

  The big doors led into a low-roofed room, and a second, smaller doorway. Blue paint flaked from the walls, peeling off in large, jaggy strips, exposing the bare plaster beneath. The place smelled exactly like the attic at home, and for a moment the stench of damp triggered the first stirrings of panic, before I was able to swallow it back down.

  I’d never been in a church before – Mum didn’t believe in ‘any of that nonsense’ – but from everything I’d heard about them, I was expecting something a bit more grand and impressive. This was just like a corridor – a narrow space with a tatty rug on the floor and a cork-board on one side with some boring-looking notices pinned to it.

  ‘It’s like a shed or something,’ I muttered.

  Then Ameena stepped past me and pulled open the second set of doors.

  At once, I realised my mistake. A long aisle of polished wood shone all the way from the entrance to an imposing statue of a giant Jesus on the cross. Around the hall, the walls curved up and up, until they became the thick, oak beams of a vast, ornate ceiling.

  From the ceiling hung two huge chandeliers, which looked like they’d been made to hold candles, but which were now rigged up with dozens of little light bulbs. Their soft white glow cast a strange, almost magical sheen over the rows and rows of wooden pews.