Close Encounters of the Strange Kind

by Michael Kerr

  “This had better be good,” Figwort said. “What exactly is this important mission?”

  “It’s a walk in the park, Uncle. There’s this little boy in Brighton, who―”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Figwort shouted. “You know I have a phobia over kids. And Brighton is a no-go area. The sea air is corrosive, it’ll rot my wings.”

  “For nature’s sake, Figwort, all I ever hear from you is excuses, excuses, and more excuses.”

  “They are not excuses. They are valid reasons. I’m not suited to undertake any jobs involving humans under the age of thirty. Kids are unpredictable little horrors. I’m getting too long in the wing to cope with their tantrums and immature problems.”

  “Let’s just cut to the chase, Figwort,” King Ambrose said with a hard edge to his voice now as he began to get really annoyed by his uncle’s attitude. “This is not a debate or a request, it’s a direct order. If you refuse to comply, well, you…you’ll be sorry.”

  “Well, that’s rich,” Figwort said, fisting his hands on his hips, with his white-bearded chin jutting out in defiance. “What if I do refuse? What will you do, clip my wings and ground me? Banish me? Turn me into a garden gnome?”

  King Ambrose started to go a bright yellow in the face, which was always a bad sign. Figwort realised that he’d pushed his nephew too far, and had the sense to know when to quit. “All right,” he said, resigned to his fate. “You win. What’s the big deal with the kid? What do you want me to do?”

  “That’s more like it,” Ambrose said, the yellow rage now fading; just a tinge left at the tips of his pointy ears and the very end of his narrow, hooked nose. “The subject is a six-year-old boy called Michael Parker. His mother ceased to be three months ago from one of those incurable diseases that humans are prone to die of. It’s all in this dossier,” he continued, reaching down to retrieve an official looking bark-bound binder from the top of a mushroom that had seen better days and was beginning to rot and smell mouldy. “The mission, Figwort, is to cheer him up. He’s in an almost catatonic state of depression, and is finding it impossible to come to terms with the loss.”

  “That’s heavy shi…er, pigeon poop,” Figwort said, shaking his head and scratching his chin through his beard as he considered the situation. “What exactly do you suppose I can do? I’m no shrink.”

  “You know the drill,” Ambrose said, handing Figwort the file. “Tell him that you are a guardian angel-fairy and that his mummy is safe and well in heaven, and that she still loves him and is watching over him…the usual pitch. Impress him with a little magic, and stay with him till he lightens up. It should be a cinch. You’ll probably be back in the forest before the weekend.”

  Behind the cantankerous exterior that he projected to one and all, Figwort was an old pro who had forgotten more than most fairies had ever learned. He had been in semi-retirement for over fifty years, but if the truth were known, despite his remonstrations, he still got a buzz out of being called upon to help out; it boosted his flagging self-esteem.

  Weighing in at just a few grams, Figwort was still a formidable fairy. He was a little overweight, due to an appetite for roasted chestnuts and blackberry wine that was legend. He was also a little hard of hearing, and his long pointed ears showed signs of drooping, but his eyes were still a sparkling black, and as sharp as when he had been a mere century old. He wore a drab olive and brown belted tunic over matching tights, and a shapeless daffodil-yellow hat and moss-lined boots. It was his wings that were his most astounding attribute, though, diminishing his otherwise dishevelled appearance. They were large and full, with a unique abstract design of rose madder and violet hues. Had it not been for the magical force field that all fairies generate, then he would no doubt have been snapped up by a hungry bird centuries ago; birds being rather dumb creatures that could not differentiate between a fairy on the wing and a butterfly.

  Figwort covered the thirty miles between the forest and Brighton in less than ten seconds…now that’s magic!

  Michael Parker was sitting at the rustic picnic table in the back garden. He was still in a dark place; a cold world of grief, unable to accept his mother’s death. His only previous encounter with that inert state of nonexistence had been the demise of a pet goldfish. His daddy had told him that mummy had gone to heaven, but that was a concept too arcane for him to grasp. He needed her there, with him.

  “Hello there, Mikey,” came a faint voice, carried on the breeze.

  Michael’s head jerked round, but he could see no one. He was alone, or so he thought. As he drifted back into a state of melancholy, the voice spoke again, louder.

  “Crikey, Mikey, you’re looking as glum as a wrinkled-up plum, son.”

  “Who’s there?” Michael said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the shed, Mikey,” came the reply. “Come see.”

  Michael got up and approached the small garden shed. Its grimy windows were laced with spiders’ webs and he was apprehensive, but fired by catlike curiosity. He stood outside, his small hand frozen on the doorknob, unable to turn it as his stomach writhed with cold worms of fear.

  “So what are you waiting for? Come on in, Mikey, I won’t bite you.”

  The wooden knob turned under Michael’s hand, and the door swung open with a tormented screech of its rusted hinges, causing Michael to leap back in surprise. He took deep breaths and moved forward again to stand at the threshold of the dark, uninviting doorway, to scrunch up his eyelids and peer into the pools of shadow that cloaked the interior of the shed in tar-black gloom.

  “Don’t just stand there like a rooted tree. Come in and meet me,” the voice urged.

  “W…Where are you?” Michael stammered, unconsciously taking several small steps into the ill-lit structure.

  “I’m sitting on the edge of the bench, son. Are you blind?”

  “Wow!” Michael exclaimed as his eyes settled on a diminutive, pixie-like winged figure that was sitting with its back up against a cracked terracotta plant pot. “What are you?”

  “Don’t shout so loud, Mikey,” Figwort said. “Just think to me and I’ll hear your thoughts. My name is Figwort, and I’m a fairy…well, more of an angel to be honest,” he lied. “A fairy angel.”

  During the days that followed, Figwort befriended the boy, and magically wove a spell of peace and acceptance in Michael’s troubled mind; a spell more powerful than antidepressants or any other medication. And at night, as the youngster slept, he projected an image of Michael’s mother into his dreams, to console the boy and give him the strength to embrace life and move on.

  “Will you stay forever, Figwort?” Michael asked the old fairy after four days had passed.

  “No, Mikey, that’s not possible,” Figwort said as he mentally imbued a state that mimicked life into Michael’s Teddy bear, to make it stand up, lumber across the floor and climb into the box that held all the boy’s other toys. “But if you promise to look after your daddy, and always strive…that means try, to be a kind, honest and good person, then I will return every year and stay for a day. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds great,” Michael said with his mind, not words, as he reached out with the tip of his little finger to shake Figwort’s hand to seal the deal.

  Back at the oak palace, Figwort made a big deal exaggerating how, under trying, dangerous conditions, above and beyond the call of duty, he had accomplished his mission. He told Ambrose of how at no little risk to both life and limb, he had chilled the kid out and helped him get his head back together.

  “Nice one, Uncle,” the king said. “I knew you could handle it.”

  “Well, just cut me some slack, now,” Figwort said. “Give me a few years to recover before you send me out among humans again. I’m no spring fairy. I’m getting far too old for that sort of caper.”

  Unbeknown to Ambrose or any of the other fairies, Figwort kept his promise to Michael and visited him every year.

  Seventy summers surreptitiously slipped by, an
d the little boy, now an old man, passed quietly away; his friend – unseen to all but him – by his side.

  Throughout Michael’s life he had been given strength, guidance and encouragement, when needed, from his secret and most special pal. His time on earth had been enriched, but was now over.

  Figwort became concerned. Michael’s youngest grandson, Peter, was not coping very well with his grandfather’s death.

  “Here we go again,” Figwort muttered, flying through the little boy’s bedroom window. “Hey, Petey,” he said, alighting on top of a clock on a bedside cabinet. “Why are you looking so glum, son?”

  7

  A LABOUR OF LOVE

  Whitechapel, London ~ November 1888.

  He is dressed in black, with top hat, and walks stiffly, erect, and with no destination in mind. He is hunting.

  Save for the muted howl of a lone dog bemoaning its chained and wretched existence in some backyard, there is only the sound of a hissing gaslight fracturing the thick silence of a fog-bound night. The light dimly brightens the cobbled street below it. He stops within the dull-yellow glow, reaches into his frockcoat and withdraws a small silver case; flat and heavy. A gloved thumb depresses a stud, and the lid springs back to disclose a cache of hand-rolled cigarettes, one of which he withdraws to place between thin lips. A struck match flares, and a fleeting glimpse of features is revealed. The face is lean and mean, with parchment skin drawn tight over its chiselled planes, and a beak-like hook nose that separates the deep-set eyes of liquid pitch, which stare emotionless and unblinking. The lurking figure inhales a deep draft of smoke, holds it warm in his lungs, and then releases it slowly into the chill night air. He absently flicks a strand of tobacco from his dimpled, lantern jaw, and waits.

  From the dense curtain of polluted, sulphurous fog, a distant sound escapes. Clip...Clip...Clip: the stifled noise of heels on flagstones, heralding the approach of another walker abroad in the midst of evening.

  The whore appears like a phantom from the murk, drifting towards him, as if a doorway had opened in the dense vapour to disgorge her; granting entry to his court. She slows as she spies the well dressed gent, giving him time to assess her wares. Her bodice is nearly fastened, breasts heaving, pushing up and out to exaggerate and tout her cleavage. And her gaudy makeup is smudged; painted ruby lips parted in a crooked smile to reveal rotting teeth, as she contemplates more profit for her purse.

  “I have a carriage,” he states, his cultured voice a soft, deep, roast almond baritone.

  She swaggers up, right hand on hip, fluttering her eyelashes in gruesome parody of coyness.

  “Well, bein’ as yer look like a gen’leman of substance, an ‘ave a carriage no less, an’ fine-cut West End clothes to boot...let’s see,” she said, pausing, catching her bottom lip between decaying teeth as she ponders over what charge to levy. “Two shillings I reckon, an’ not a penny less to ‘ave me raise these skirts on a perishin’ night like this.”

  “Let us agree to a crown and not haggle. I’m sure that you will entertain me well for so much recompense,” he said, producing a five shilling piece from his waistcoat and holding it up for her to inspect, before returning it to the safety of his pocket.

  Lizzy linked her arm through his, now eager to relieve him of his need and from his money with all due alacrity.

  “Lead the way, kind sir,” she said. “I’ll give yer a proper treat, I will. Anyfink yer fancy fer that crown. An’ if yer enjoy what yer get tonight, yer jus’ might want more on a regular basis.”

  They walked a few yards back along Tannery Row; the astringent odour of rawhide soaking in tannic acid leaving no doubt as to how the street had earned its title.

  “Down here,” he said, stepping into the dark maw of Lambert Alley.

  The hansom almost blended with the night; black on black, the snorting of a horse the only clue to its presence.

  With little room between cabriolet and wall, they stepped up to climb into the snug two-seater compartment. And as they did, Lizzy saw the glow from the driver’s clay pipe. He was sat up high at the rear of the cab, the reins from one hand snaking over the roof to the ebony beast in front. He tipped a finger to his cap, and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and what could have been a sly but fleeting smile.

  Lizzy Skinner was eighteen, though looked more than a decade older. She had worked the streets for several years, and could neither read nor write; her only education and expertise being a full practical schooling in carnal knowledge. Her father, God rot his wick, had seen to that, having bedded her regularly since she was ten. He had taken off to sea six years ago, never to return. Lizzy’s mother gave up laundry work and all honest toil at that time, finding that she could make more money and sweat less on her back than she had ever made standing up washing and ironing clothes and bedding. Many a night, Lizzy was kept awake by the grunting of her mother’s clients, with only a frayed and timeworn curtain dividing the one-room hovel to separate her from unsightly antics.

  Lizzy had taken up the oldest profession, and nursed her mother, and watched her waste away and die of consumption almost a year ago. Now, she saved every penny that she could, with a determination to eventually escape the East End and start afresh, perhaps in rural Essex, away from the city.

  Lifting up her skirts, the vestigial light illuminated Lizzy’s white and heavy thighs, which were unfettered by any undergarments.

  He made no sound at all. Not a murmur escaped his lips as he quickly took his pleasure. Finished, he sat back and adjusted his clothing, as Lizzy hastily covered her nether regions and waited.

  Withdrawing the gleaming crown, he proffered payment, holding it out to the smiling strumpet. She reached for the coin, and as her fingers grazed its edge, it fell to the cab’s floor. She followed it down, bending low in the cramped space, feeling for it blindly in the darkness. And as she found and grasped her bounty, the man knelt on her back, his knee forcing her face ever nearer to the musty, wooden floor. He gripped her long, raven tresses in his left hand, twisting the hair tightly in his closed fist.

  “What’s yer game?” Lizzy cried out, angry, and with seeds of fear beginning to germinate in her dull brain.

  He pulled her head back swift and hard, and inserted the point of a butcher’s knife into her neck, just below the left ear. She took a breath to loose off a scream, but before she could utter a sound he pulled the honed blade deeply across her taut throat, opening arteries and severing her windpipe, cutting with such force and ferocity that the cold steel nicked her vertebrae. Blood erupted in pulsing spurts as her almost decapitated head fell back to face the cab’s roof.

  Lizzy tasted the blood as it filled her mouth. Her bowels and bladder reneged, voiding themselves noisily as she looked up at a hitherto impossible angle. She heard a choking, gurgling wheezing sound escape her open throat, and saw bright motes of incandescent light dancing before her eyes like myriad stars on a black velvet backcloth of night sky. And not one by one, but in perfect harmony, they all winked out, and Lizzy crossed the lonely bridge from life into the hereafter.

  Jimmy Hudson had been drinking ale at the King’s Arms; a tavern on Bowley Street. Walking out, well wrapped against the brumous night, he paused to don his woollen mittens, before setting off at a quick pace, unable to see more than an arm’s length in front of him in air as thick as winter soup. By way of a shortcut he entered Lambert Alley, its narrow passage so choked with yellow smog that he had to feel his way along the damp brick wall. Halfway along, his foot connected with something, which spun away, clattering over the cobblestones and arousing his curiosity as to what it might be. He bent down low from the waist, (as only the young and supple can), his hands searching inch by inch in the area that he thought the object had come to rest.

  Jimmy was seventeen, apprenticed to a butcher and learning his trade well. He still lived with his parents, along with two siblings, both girls. Between them, the Hudson family earned a reasonable income, which enabled them to rent a house a fair
distance from the factories and tanning yards, to enjoy a good diet, and wear clothing that had not belonged to deceased family members, or been purchased third or fourth hand.

  Jimmy was a personable young man, honest as the day is long, and blessed with a carefree attitude to life, that had not yet been diminished by any fearsome blight.

  “Ouch!” he exclaimed, coming upon the object with his thumb, pulling back as if pricked by a rose thorn, or nipped by a rat, of which there was an overabundance. He reached out again, gingerly, and explored the shape of his find, to pick it up and hold it close enough to see. It was a knife. Not just any old knife; no common blade, but a butchers tool of fine Sheffield steel with a riveted walnut handle. Finder’s keepers, Jimmy thought, examining it in detail as he continued on his way. But after only four steps he tripped, to sprawl headlong over a large obstacle, spraining his wrist as he put his hand out to save his face from the cobbles.

  Scrambling off the soft heap, he knew instinctively that it was a human being. Heart pounding like a bailiff at the door, he knelt back down and lowered his face to the supine figure, and as if to aid his inspection, the fog swirled and thinned a jot, giving a clear sight of the previously hidden horror. It was a young woman. Her large blue eyes were glazed and set, staring up through him to infinity. Her throat hung wide open, a gaping, clotted gash. And if that were not gruesome enough, then there was more. Spellbound, Jimmy saw that her clothing had been cut away, laid open at the front, and that her breasts had been removed and her stomach rent open to spill her guts out onto the ground. Turning aside as though his looking were causing her further indignity, he vomited, retching until his stomach hurt and his eyes were streaming with tears. At last the spasms passed. He stood up, belching, spitting out sour bile and wiping the threads of spittle from his mouth with a coat sleeve.