The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  ‘Does he now,’ Mr. Taper replied, eyebrows bouncing. ‘That’s like this chap I used to work with—’

  A thin lady with a long nose pushed her way between Mr. Parsley and Mr. Taper. ‘Work you say?’ she exclaimed. ‘I used to be the manageress of the big firm in Grinding. I was very important. I held a lot of responsibility. And I would still be there if it wasn’t for my elbows. Dr. Snippet tells me I have particularly fine elbows though somewhat sensitive. I am sure they all missed me when I had to leave there; the big firm in Grinding, I mean. Still, life is cruel.’ Elsie Snicker lifted a finger and coughed delicately.

  Mr. Parsley slipped away. ‘What firm was this?’ asked Mr. Taper.

  ‘I said, didn’t I? The big firm. The big firm in Grinding.’ Her possibly refined elbows were flaunted with an untranslatable gesture.

  ‘Oh, the big firm,’ Mr. Taper echoed. ‘You mean the textile firm. A huge place. My brother’s friend’s mother-in-law used to work there. Perhaps you knew her.’ He took a sip of wine and brushed back his sculpted black hair – clumped with a homemade hair cream – behind his sagging ears.

  ‘The textile firm? I would not work there. Only the lower classes work there.’ She gave a cough again and upon seeing that Mr. Brittle had stepped over and stood beside her she frowned and walked away, as though on stilts, with a sour look upon her.

  ‘What has she been telling you?’ said Mr. Brittle with a knowing grin. ‘That she used to be a trapeze artist in the circus? Or the one about her rich uncle who’s about to pop off and leave her a fortune?’

  Mr. Taper winked at Mrs. Musty the vicar’s wife and she waved in reply from across the room. ‘She was a manageress of the big firm in Grinding,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, that is a new one,’ replied Mr. Brittle.

  All conversations were curtailed then as Theodore’s bellowing voice filled the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen – that’s it, settle down. I am most pleased that you could all come here, collected tonight; a post-seasonal treat as it were. It’s also a type of celebration for I am pleased to be on happier terms with the son – of my dearly departed – and daughter-in-law. We did have what you might call a misunderstanding,’ his eyes twinkled wickedly as he fingered an arm lining of his tweed jacket, ‘and I don’t mind telling you it had got quite out of hand. Still, that is all in the past. Here’s to you,’ he announced to William and Eleanor, and he raised his glass in a gesture of a toast. ‘The two finest people you could ever wish to meet.’

  He hiccoughed and tossed the remainder of the liquid from his glass down his throat; and after, wiped his wettened moustache. The majority of those congregated followed suit while others sipped coyly or did not drink at all but nodded affectionately towards the couple.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ someone shouted.

  Stubb forced a smile and showed it to the gathering. He was standing beside the seated Eleanor who tried the expression but could not sustain the mask. Her countenance showed confused hatred as she blinked at her father-in-law.

  ‘I say, Theodore, what’s this all about? It is all very well toasting these two fine people but what is this misunderstanding of which you spoke?’ said the very tall Mr. String, the barrister’s clerk. He realized his protruding top teeth were showing too much and he covered them with his upper lip.

  ‘You mean to tell me, Archie, that you haven’t heard about it?’ Theodore answered in consternation, as though he thought it common knowledge.

  Stubb was jolted from his sleepiness. ‘The old fool is drunk,’ he whispered to Eleanor.

  ‘Yes, do tell us,’ chimed in Mrs. Musty. She liked to hear of anything with the vaguest hint of scandal.

  ‘There is nothing much to say,’ Theodore said. Stubb gave a sigh of relief. ‘But if you really want to hear.’

  ‘The idiot never gives up,’ whispered Stubb. ‘Look here, father,’ he said aloud. ‘I don’t think they want to know.’

  ‘But they do, my boy. Did you not hear them ask?’

  Someone in the room tittered. Stubb stood erect and faced Theodore as though ready to pull a gun from a holster on his hip. There was silence but for the crackling logs in the grate and the grumbling sky outside.

  Then Theodore submitted suddenly with a devilish grin upon his face. ‘I’ll tell you what, William. If I might – shall we say – give the wrong interpretation to the interesting story then you tell it.’

  Before Stubb could reply, inebriated hecklers encouraged him with flippant remarks. ‘Yes, tell it, Stubbo.’

  ‘Come on Will.’

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ added Mr. Parsley before placing a piece of cheap cheese on his tongue.

  As though to hinder any words that might stray from his mouth, Stubb tightly pressed his lips together. He felt his face glow. His father was becoming an embarrassment and Stubb’s distress was exacerbated by the expectant faces of the guests looking upon the proceedings as a party piece.

  Theodore’s wicked mood prompted him to speak again. ‘Alright William. I’ll make you. I will make you tell it.’ There were gasps and surprised glances within the assembly. The suggestion was insufferable and Stubb’s mouth unlocked.

  ‘What in hell’s name do you mean by that?’ Would Theodore actually use physical violence in front of the guests?

  ‘I mean I will hypnotize you.’ That’s all, thought Stubb then, his ridiculous game of swinging the watch. Although his father’s prized possession might have been instrumental in the ravishment of his wife, he still believed that – providing it was used on someone who was not unwell or with a strong mind – no harm or real change would come of it. ‘I will put you under my control,’ Theodore continued, ‘so you would have no alternative but to tell the whole, sorry story. I could even make you run up and down the stairs without your shirt, shouting “I’m a mongoose”.’

  The majority of guests burst into hearty laughter.

  ‘Well really,’ remarked Elsie Snicker.

  Mr. Taper passed a comment to Mr. Brittle that it was turning out to be a very entertaining party indeed. It was then that Theodore decided he had teased his son enough.

  ‘Alright old boy. The story can keep for another time.’

  Several people who had held their breaths breathed again and the vicar’s wife wrinkled her nose in disappointment.

  ‘Anyone for more?’ Theodore wiggled his glass between two fingers.

  Conversation was reborn and it buzzed about the room as everyone exchanged remarks and mingled or followed Theodore to replenish their glasses.

  A laughing Mr. String bounded up to him. ‘Oh, do let me have a go,’ he said with glee.

  ‘Have a go of what, my hat?’ answered Theodore. Mr. Brittle chuckled.

  ‘No, this hypnosis lark. You can have a go on me if you like.’

  After consideration, Theodore concluded that to “have a go” on Mr. String would prove a fruitless exercise. As well as being enthusiastic, one’s subject needed to be malleable, a particular type for post-hypnotic suggestion to have effect, and he felt that the lanky man before him would not be suitable. ‘Afraid not, String. Now, who wanted sherry?’

  ‘What about me then?’ suggested Mr. Taper. Any answer that might have been was lost as Mr. Brittle shouted, ‘Elsie, she would be good.’ The lady in question snorted and made the point that refined ladies did not indulge in party games.

  ‘None of you, forget it,’ Theodore said loudly but then he saw a man who seemed to be curling in on himself in a darkened corner of the room where light from one of the gas lamps did not reach. Mr. Badger, the farm hand, had not moved or spoken for most of the evening; and his host had quite forgotten he was there. Mr. Badger seemed transfixed by a framed painting of a hunting scene: an olive and tree-lined landscape, a stylized rampant horse with others rearing or heads turned to their mounts – red-jacketed noblemen, with cream jodhpurs and pitch black boots, blowing horns or pointing to their quarry, the fox skulking low and terrified as it made for cover.

 
; ‘Mr. Nuckle,’ Theodore called over, ‘would you come here?’

  ‘That would be Mr. Badger,’ the brilliant Mr. Peake remarked.

  Although Badger had been intent upon viewing the work of art, so far the proceedings had not missed him. Realizing the intention and not wishing to participate, he turned in his seat as though preparing to make a dash to the door. White curls of hair wobbled as he shook his head and he whispered in reply, ‘No thank you,’ and he removed his spectacles as if by not seeing his audience as clearly, they would not see him so well either. But before he could distract attention away from himself, his arm was taken and he was led unwillingly to the group who were planning the pastime.

  A plain wooden chair had been procured and it stood at one side of the room. Some guests lost interest or, not realizing what was happening, were busy chatting, forming an aural backdrop for the events to follow.

  ‘Sit down,’ Theodore snapped harshly to the timid man.

  ‘No, I…’ He was pushed onto the chair by eager spectators.

  ‘This really isn’t going to hurt you.’ Theodore placed a hand into his waistcoat pocket and extracted the pocket watch. Unattaching it from the buttonhole he held it by the long chain and showed it with an outstretched arm to those assembled. Most took a step forward, the engraved pattern upon the hinged lid attracting them. ‘No nearer,’ Theodore ordered.

  All seemed startled at his strength of voice, and the intrigued guests complied, looking sheepish, nonetheless awaiting the unknown spectacle with anticipation.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hypnosis

  LET US BEGIN,’ Theodore murmured to the quivering Mr. Badger whose wide, almost tearful, eyes watched every move.

  He spoke to the assembly again. ‘At no time should your sight stray from Badger or Nuckle, whoever we have here,’ he commanded. ‘Looking at the watch will only, let us say, spoil the experience.’ Now holding the chain by two fingers, he carefully opened the cover, making certain that no one, other than the farm hand, would see the magnificent interior of the watch. Theodore was preparing the words of his particular oration, an impressive mixture of circus patter and pseudo-science.

  It was totally unnecessary, as he knew. The skeleton watch with its fine movement, to be seen performing as if in a type of fascinating and compelling dream, more than enough to lull any mind into a warm state of satisfied numbness, preparing it for an easy acceptance of any suggestion given.

  He swung the watch before the man’s face but he would not look at it.

  ‘Come on, play the game,’ someone shouted.

  Without a conscious decision, Badger’s attention fell upon the swinging timepiece and a comforting, low monotone of a voice settled into his ears: ‘You have had a long tiring day, Badger,’ left, right, left, right, ‘stacking hay, through the day, stacking hay, through the day,’ left, right…

  A voice from the gaggle of guests: ‘I see, like counting sheep.’

  ‘Shut up now – so weary, extremely tired,’ left, right, left, ‘you feel relaxed, your muscles are gently settling into a luscious pasture, one after the other. The lids of your eyes are weighed down with gunshot,’ right, left, right, ‘so heavy, you want to sleep – to rest your eyelids,’ left, right, ‘you want so much to close your heavy eyelids…’ left, right, left, right, ‘you hear my voice, only my voice of authority and understanding, only my voice…’ left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

  The watch as a pendulum swinging, the murmuring stream of words soothing and running over Mr. Badger, oozing over the man’s consciousness turning to treacle. Already swamped by the tiniest of cogs moving in regular and fascinating ordered patterns, and jewels of the highest distinction, seeming to pulse with a lustred glow. And even as Badger’s eyes left the swinging pocket watch, cogs still remained, as if his brain might be composed of clockwork and he had authority over his sight to look inward upon it. One by one the guests had ceased to talk until the only sound was Theodore’s soft, ponderous words recited to the man who sat with a straight back, hands on knees, his mouth gaping open, and his eyelids finally shut.

  ‘There,’ voiced Theodore. Someone began to clap but a ‘ssshh’ curtailed that.

  ‘I am not sure this is right, you know,’ Reverend Musty commented but his usual stentorian pulpit tones had inexplicably left him and his voice had trailed off into silence. A log spat in the grate. There was a chink of glass and a stifled cough.

  ‘You are in the deepest of sublime trances, Badger, and you hear only my voice. My important voice which has become your voice, your beloved grandfather of the voice, whom you trust implicitly and rely upon. Do you understand?’

  A slow, breathy reply issued from between the subject’s lips. ‘Yes, of course I understand.’

  ‘Good. Now, what should we do?’

  ‘Make him dance; a sort of happy, funny dance?’

  ‘Let him climb onto the roof and roar like a lion.’

  ‘Quiet everybody. Badger, when I snap my fingers, your eyes will open and you will be a parrot. It will be as if you have always been a parrot, a large, red plumed parrot in a jungle of wild and damp growth, and you will be calling a lost mate. Your partner has been missing for many a year; you must attract her, with your colourful feathers.’ Theodore paused and then clicked his fingers. Instantly Badger’s eyelids sprung open, bright eyes wide and staring, his white curly-haired head twitching comically from side to side. He clambered onto the chair and sat on his haunches, preening the feathers which only he could see, producing an extraordinary noise from the pit of his chest; a squawking, howling row that covered the laughter of the delighted guests. But then over the cacophony Theodore’s voice bellowed, ‘when I snap my fingers again Badger, you will be as you were.’

  With the click, the farm hand had retaken his seat in the proper manner and closed his eyes once more.

  ‘Let us have something a little less noisy,’ Mr. Brittle suggested.

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Theodore. ‘I will implant another thought into his half-pint mind and awaken him then. Badger, can you hear my voice, which is your grandfather’s voice?’ With an affirmative answer, Theodore pronounced, ‘I am going to awaken you shortly. When I click my fingers once, you will not remember anything of what has happened.’ Theodore had plans for embarrassing Mr. Nuckle in the future, use him for his own amusement when he felt the want, and so he added: ‘But if I click my fingers twice, you will become … a talking bird, the parrot who knows much language.’ The unimaginative Theodore was running out of ideas. ‘You will have an irresistible urge to… to… play out your innermost desires with no conscience.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ someone queried.

  ‘Obscene urges?’ somebody else asked.

  ‘Haha, who will know? Now I really can’t think of anything else at the moment. Perhaps he will dash to the nearest jungle and begin a life of novel freedom of speech to convince some lost birdy mate. Who knows? An element of surprise. Besides, I’m getting bored with this and quite thirsty,’ and with that said, without thinking of the consequences, Theodore clicked his fingers twice.

  Badger’s eyes opened wider than ever and they were instantly attentive. To the immense disappointment of those gathered he flicked and twitched his head nervously about him, thanked Theodore for not hypnotizing him after all – albeit in a peculiar high and strangled type of voice – and then resumed his position in the corner of the room.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Perpetration

  THE FOCAL POINT of the evening bowed his bubbles of hair and fixed his attention upon a pastel whorl on the carpet, gentle clucking sounds emitting from him until those about lost interest and dispersed to islands of chatting guests. Theodore, still unable to find his butler, was once more pouring drinks from a bottle taken from a large oak cabinet.

  You haven’t done it yet,’ Eleanor whispered urgently. ‘What are you waiting for, my king? You have had all afternoon.’

  Stubb put his arm around her shou
lder and crouched to speak into her ear. ‘I’ve told you not to worry. I haven’t had the opportunity today, Pump was floating about. The one time I want him in the cellar and he doesn’t stay there. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time. Theodore gives guests the cheap stuff. He wouldn’t waste his decent port and whisky on this crowd. He’ll have his favourite drink when they’ve all gone.’

  ‘Now,’ demanded Eleanor. ‘Now is the time. See for yourself, the cockroach is too busy chatting to impress the vapours, and moving his segments. He won’t worry about you.’

  Stubb studied Theodore who was engaged upon pulling the brown belt of his trousers tighter about his large belly while talking to Elsie Snicker.

  He stood. About to make his way to the study, he was abruptly stopped by a peculiar occurrence.

  The chair, which had been placed for the entertainment fifteen minutes before, had been put back into the centre of the room and Badger, his face lit with a strange light, stood upon its seat. Wildly gesticulating, his arms flailing about him, he began to sing in a cracked voice: ‘When I was a birdy sailor, A sailor I would be, sailing across the heaving oceans, sailing across the warmest seas, Until one day I found my true love, bererrrk…’

  ‘Hooray!’ they shouted. ‘Bravo!’ Theodore’s back was patted and he was congratulated on the accomplishment. A desire to entertain and express his parroty love in song was being fulfilled for the meek Mr. Badger.

  Stubb felt a nudge to his arm. With a quick nod to his wife he strolled across the drawing room, passing behind his father, and throwing light remarks to groups of guests who stood holding their drinks and encouraging the exuberant farm hand.

  ‘William, my dear boy,’ said Reverend Musty.

  ‘Good evening to you, vicar. Sorry I can’t stop. I have an errand to run.’

  ‘I believe that you have yet to meet my niece, Isabel. Isabel, this is Mr. Stubb.’ He raised his voice against the clamorous chanting and laughing behind him. ‘Say hello to Mr. Stubb.’ The plait-haired girl remained silent.