The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  As Alastair produced the pocket watch from his jacket and held it high by the string, she almost collapsed to the floor. ‘The watch,’ she shrieked, ‘the hypnotizing watch! Where did you get it? What are you doing with it – what are you doing?’

  Both at the same time, Alastair saw the watch, huge and shining, and Abergail minute, flung into the distance. Then the world proportioned itself once more. Miss Dripping stood wailing and swaying. ‘Abergail, please get in to the living room,’ she pleaded through tears, and then, ‘Alastair, what are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘I think you’re mad,’ Alastair replied. He backed to the door of the shop, leaving Florence Dripping and his half-sister swaying as though on a boat; wrenched open the door and ran out onto the cobblestones. The wind ran to him and ruffled his hair and instantly cooled his brow.

  He heard Florence cry out, distraught; weakly: ‘Alastair, wait! You have forgotten your bullseyes. I mean, I must talk with you.’

  Dazed from striking his head on the wooden sleeper, Pump surfaced, sodden hair about a veil of horror covering his face. His arms scythed wildly and flayed the water. ‘I can’t swim,’ was his plaintive cry. ‘Help me mate, I can’t swim.’

  Gristle was struck with indecision and he stood moaning and pulling at his jumper. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Get me out,’ Pump shouted but then his words were lost as he sank below the rippling dark surface again.

  Gristle’s features moulded into a mournful expression and he moaned; twisting his neck, he cast his sight to the right and left over the weedy scrubland in the hope of seeing somebody.

  He gasped. There was someone. A man: he was waving. ‘Over here, quickly, we’re here,’ yelled Gristle so loudly that it made his throat sore. The figure in the distance still waved. Gristle looked down into the canal. Pump had surfaced again, hair still plastered across his contorted face, and Gristle stuttered, ‘Don’t worry m-mate, I’ll get h-help I will.’

  A thought clicked into his slow mind and it felt to him like utter inspiration. ‘Hold onto that piece of wood,’ he shouted. Pump had his eyes closed. ‘There – next to you,’ he bellowed as he poked holes in the air with a finger.

  Pump couldn’t hear him. He slipped into the cold, murky darkness and tried to scream but felt instead the filthy liquid sucked into him and he tried to breathe through heavy water-filled lungs. He almost smiled at the weightlessness and coolness of his body suspended in time and space: living under water for an eternity that was a handful of seconds, breathing the muddy blackness until he knew no more. The canal had devoured him.

  The waving man had gone. Gristle was convinced that his friend would hold on until rescue was brought. He ran shouting and screaming across the windswept scrubland, weeds trying to trip him and thistles whipping his plump body.

  Alastair was confused and elated at the same moment. Confused because of Miss Dripping’s strange behaviour and elated at meeting the girl. He mouthed her name. He said it out loud. He dismissed all thoughts of the woman with the twisted face. His depression had been lifted: Pump; the mad woman; his father; none of these mattered. He had met a true friend of the soul. His mind seemed as clear as the stream where he used to catch minnows.

  Upon reaching the clock tower on the green he saluted it and ran into Stutter Lane. He pranced over the stone bridge that arched the brook, skipping and laughing until he had reached School Lane. Breathless but exhilarated, he whooped with joy at the sight of the humble school which waited patiently to be filled with life again once the weekend was over.

  Shafts of light played through the trees and dappled the cobblestones upon which Alastair stood panting for breath. The whiteness spotted the flint wall that braced itself against advancing poplars. Crows cawed to their companions, or squabbled noisily as they flew from their scruffy nests perched precariously amongst the top branches.

  Alastair turned to face the village green but bushes and trees obscured any sight of Florence Dripping’s confectionery shop; but still he waved to his vision.

  There was someone returning his wave. A figure stood on the bridge; immobile, save an arm which slowly described an arc. In an attempt to identify the person, Alastair strained his head forward. Could it be Abergail who was acknowledging him?

  The figure had come closer and Alastair realized that it was a man who walked casually towards him. There was an annoying insect-like buzzing in the shells of his ears. A starling flew by. The man was waving now with more agitation. It seemed that the nearer he came, the louder the buzzing and humming of tiny wings became. The idea of responding to the stranger appealed to Alastair. As he raised an arm in readiness to wave, all of the crows took to the air as one with a raucous noise and they flew in circles. The sudden evacuation from the trees caused twigs and dirt to topple from the branches, showering Alastair beneath. He rubbed the dust from his eyes and from his shoulders, before looking to the sky, and wondered what could have startled the crows into flight. Blinded for no longer than a few seconds, with an equally short time looking away from the lane, he looked back there. The waving man had gone.

  There was the sound of chuckling behind him, low but distinct. He wheeled around; still the sound trailed from his back. He looked nervously about, trying to locate the source of the subdued laughter.

  He moved one way, then another; even spinning on his heels like a dancer, but it was useless. It was as though the sounds of mirth were attached to his back by an invisible rod, for every way he turned, the sound was always behind him.

  Then, distinctly, inside his head…

  The buzzing and the laughter, the laughter and the buzzing; Alastair cried out and held his ears tightly. Slowly, the maddening noise of a million flies with their vibrating wings receded, and it felt to him like the ending of toothache; but still the drowsy chuckling went on within…

  And then returned to outside of him. Alastair realized where the source of merriment came from. He listened to himself laughing.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Pistol

  ‘AND WHERE THE blazes have you been?’ shouted William Stubb, a spot of saliva ejected from the corner of his morose mouth. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you, everywhere.’ He threw his free arm wildly about him, his other hand occupied with his beer. He knocked himself off-balance and staggered backwards for a few paces. ‘You blinking pup,’ he bellowed, bringing the empty bottle high into the air. It fell onto the carpet behind him. ‘Look what you nearly made me do, you good for nothing… think you can skimper off and get away scotchfree? Far from it.’ Alastair shivered and sat meekly on the settee, blinking at his ravings.

  Stubb belched while lurching and reeling in a circle, and reached across to the small cupboard of a sideboard and produced a jug of ale. He pulled out its cork stopper. ‘Where’ve you been, you whelp, do you hear me? That quack of a doctor told you to rest, not go gallivanting around. Do you want another breakup?’ He screwed a finger into a ruddy cheek. He gulped greedily from his jug, the skin about his neck rising and falling with each mouthful.

  Alastair found that his lip had begun to twitch again and the memory of his new friend Abergail was becoming unreal. He felt panic rise. He whispered urgently to himself, ‘Please be real.’

  ‘Stop mumbling when I’m speaking,’ responded Stubb, his words slurring. Then he stood motionless for a moment as a thought took root in his drunken mind. ‘The stick,’ he shouted gleefully. He smirked, proud of himself. ‘What you need is a good beating, boy.’ His doped thought: A good hiding, so you’ll forget Queenie, I’ll forget Eleanor.

  Alastair cringed, terror taking hold of him. ‘No please don’t,’ he shrieked imploringly. Stubb’s face creased in amusement while the boy whimpered; then suddenly he seemed to lose interest. ‘Clear off. Go and get the dishes out of the way before I thrash your hide. There’s three days’ worth there.’ He was pleased with himself for being so merciful and he slumped into the armchair, his head lolling from side to side. His belly quiv
ered from a giggle that erupted from the pit of his beer-bloated stomach. Tossing more liquid into the back of his throat, he let the jug drop from his deadened fingers, his arms swinging apishly over the sides of the chair and his head sunk into his chest. He fell into an alcoholic stupor.

  Alastair ran through to the kitchen, relieved at the reprieve. He glanced abstractedly at the dirty plates with the grimy cups and cutlery that sat precariously piled in the sink. Upon hearing his father’s snores he relaxed and decided that the washing up was a mountain he was not prepared to climb yet.

  As all he saw were the grease-spotted walls, animosity swarmed freely through him. His father had destroyed his elation; he was the cause of the return of confusion and depression. Accompanying that was a tenseness returning; it was a gnawing, a power that he dare not fight against. He would have to release the energy that clawed him before it turned inward to destroy.

  His arm flinched: his hand darted to the pistol that lay inconspicuously amongst more dinner plates and cups on the table. He took the weapon from its holster. The shining object lay flat on his palm and he stared in wide-eyed astonishment. Soaring over his woolly thoughts, a signal, subtle and without source, was given: the time had come. He let his fingers engulf the metal handle with his mouth set firm.

  A chaffinch landed on the window ledge and began to tap at crumbs. Finished with its hasty snack it prepared to preen itself but startled by a sound that came from the kitchen, it leapt up and flew over the garden fence – Alastair’s face crumpled and he caught his breath when he accidentally kicked a small coal bucket. It was sent clattering across the floor and it tottered on its base before coming to rest by the stove.

  He turned to rock. Upon hearing the steady snores from the front room he breathed again and walked to the kitchen door. The gnawing sensation was growing in intensity. He ignored the high pitched buzz in his ears. ‘Quickly, quickly, quickly,’ a voice in his head urged. Alastair looked down to the metal in his hand. The pistol was sweating, he was certain. He slid into the hall, gripping the weapon tighter. He listened again but a snore supplemented by a grunt dispelled any idle worry that he had awoken Stubb. The hostility had not let go its grip but sat firmly in the back of his brain, as did a distant voice, both forces willing him on to his task. He afforded a smile and stepped boldly into the living room.

  Alastair tried to ignore the faded and torn wallpaper; the settee partially hidden from view behind the door; the patchy carpet scattered with newspapers, and a huddle of beer bottles and jugs, some covered by the drab curtains; boxes of cigars and cigarettes on the sideboard: he tried to ignore these, but all seemed too real; surreal. The recognized buzzing became insistent. He watched the rise and fall of Stubb’s belly in time with clamorous snoring, his cheeks flushed and nose twitching. Alastair was reassured by the weapon in his hand.

  The voice became closer and demanding: ‘Now… now…’ and he banished all thought when lifting up the pistol, the handle in both hands, pointing the barrel towards Stubb’s open mouth. Alastair’s body trembled; he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger. The concentrated juvenile contempt which had been pounding through him was ejected from the gun in one climactic moment. The pistol spat flame and jumped in a spasm in his hands.

  The pistol tutted. Stubb groaned and Alastair felt faint.

  He saw his father, crimson fluid pumping and spurting from a gurgling throat, weird blasting notes of anguish crawling from his blood-smeared mouth, wide and agonized. His whole body was jerking in an ugly fashion, like an ungainly marionette, until finally his thrashing form became still as his whorled eyes lost their sight.

  The vision which Alastair beheld splintered into a myriad of pieces before him, to reveal Stubb sprawled in his armchair, snuffling and snoring.

  Alastair let go of the pistol, an item taken years before by Stubb from Theodore’s trunk in the box room. It bounced once and lay dead on the carpet. The granular buzzing within became mocking laughter: somebody in his head thought it most amusing. He ran trembling fingers through his mop of hair and willed his legs to move.

  He scampered through to the hall and up the plain stairs to his bedroom, where he would try to heal his ruptured mind.

  And a lazy, taunting voice whispered, ‘Not yet, my son; not yet.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Discovery

  ABERGAIL STEPPED OUT through the door entrance of the confectionery shop. She scanned the village green, and shivered with excitement and fright, her thoughts pitching and keeling in a storm of confusion. She reminded herself that perhaps dangers beyond were as great as her mother had warned but then remembering the boy who lived freely outside without worry or care gave her courage.

  She stood as though in a trance with her head thrown back and her hands held to her heaving breast. Everything looked and felt so different without windows between her and the unknown world. So many times had she sat in her chair and watched the slow changes of the seasons. She had no memory of wind playing through her hair or the summer sun on her back or rain splashing her face.

  The wind buffeted about her. She breathed rapidly. It was as though she was to be reborn. A ripple of warmth scurried up her spine. With a sharp inward breathe, she stepped out onto the cobblestones. She walked stiffly to the edge of the green and waved her arms; and like a delicate sea plant, her fingers wavered. The new sphere of discovery stretched on and on – her new, soon to be cherished, domain.

  The ecstacy evaporated. ‘Abergail!’ Miss Dripping screamed. ‘Come in, please come here, now. Quickly, before anyone sees you,’ she wailed. She stood by the door clutching at her dress.

  ‘Leave me alone, go away. I never want to see you again,’ shouted Abergail defiantly. Her head whipped around as though she were trying to find a place to hide. Florence ran over to her daughter, who flung her fists at her and pulled at her hair but her mother would not let go as she tearfully dragged the struggling Abergail inside, then slammed the oak door shut.

  They sat in the poky living room. ‘Never leave this house ever again, you silly, stupid girl. After all that I have told you, warned you about.’ Florence began to sob and clutched a handkerchief to her mouth. ‘Now, get up to your room,’ she ordered, with her distorted face supporting the command. She explained, ‘I love you too much for you to go out in broad daylight like that.’ She continued with her original understanding of the virgin birth. ‘You have no earthly father; people cannot understand; you would be hounded, chased or worse. Promise you will never go out again. You have no reason to. I open the windows for you, we play cards, I teach you from books.’ Her bottom lip quivered. Abergail cast a rebellious look. Florence Dripping howled, ‘Promise me, please.’

  Abergail left without a word and went upstairs. Her mother felt the curves of her paralyzed features with a shaking hand.

  The inclination for a stronger surveillance of her daughter’s whereabouts was renewed but still Abergail slipped out to her new province. Each time her confidence grew which allowed her to walk further from the confectionery shop. Her visits were best conducted during the early evening when her mother slept.

  The season changed. It became winter and a white sheet was dragged across the village. A small battalion of lopsided snowmen stood haphazardly to attention on the green, as though awaiting inspection. Snowball fights were the order of the afternoon for the children. A biting chill of a day. It was on such a late afternoon when Miss Dripping took a nap, having had a busy morning checking her stocks.

  Abergail stood in the middle of the village green, now without colour. The whiteness stretched around her; she was the orb, the centre, the ruler of the purity about her. She bent and picked up snow. She licked it and crystals made the tip of her tongue cold. She did not see Nuckle nor his squashed nose pressed to the tea shop window like a mollusc stuck on glass.

  ‘What are you looking at? You’ve been at that window for the past ten minutes.’ Stalk strode over to Nuckle, pushing wooden chairs aside as he went.

>   ‘Beautiful,’ Nuckle said simply. His jaw hung slack as he stared at the young female who stood like an apparition in the middle of the green. The wind moulded her dress to her lithe body, every contour graceful and distinct.

  ‘Here, don’t you look like that, you.’

  Nuckle had been biting his lip and when it retracted from behind his crooked teeth it showed white marks. He breathed rapidly, emitting a squeak with every exhalation.

  ‘She’s not for your eyes. Who is she anyway? Come away, I want my tea.’ Stalk heaved a sigh and turned to trace his steps back to the counter, hoping to promote the same action in Nuckle, but the tea shop proprietor did not move. ‘She’s not worth looking at. Come away, before anyone sees you gloating,’ Stalk said worriedly.

  Nuckle’s large eyes moistened. ‘Beautiful, exquisite, alive,’ he breathed. ‘Perfection.’

  Abergail waved her fingers, feeling and caressing the air. She longed to see more, to see the lanes and streets which lay beyond the green, to explore the whole village, perhaps even to meet again the boy called Alastair.

  ‘I quite love her,’ stated Nuckle in the same tone that he would use to ask for a pound of potatoes. ‘I think she is the most attractive creature on this earth,’ he continued melodramatically.

  Stalk curled his lip in distaste. ‘It’s all those smutty magazines you’ve been reading, you,’ was all he could think of in reply.

  CHAPTER 40

  Molestation