by Park, J. R.
Punch
J. R. Park
Other books by J. R. Park:
TERROR BYTE
UPON WAKING
Further books by the Sinister Horror Company:
BURNING HOUSE – Daniel Marc Chant
CLASS THREE – Duncan P. Bradshaw
MALDICION - Daniel Marc Chant
Visit JRPark.co.uk and SinisterHorrorCompany.com for further information on these and other coming titles.
J. R. Park
Punch
Second edition
First Published in 2014
This edition 2015
Copyright © 2014 J. R. Park
The right of J. R. Park to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover artwork by Laura Coats
lacoats.webs.com
www.facebook.com/lacoatsart
www.etsy.com/uk/shop/LACoatsART
Back cover photography by Stuart Park
likebreathing.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9932793-2-4
JRPark.co.uk
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Stuart Park and Daryl Mazelin for reading through my early drafts and providing me with the helpful and welcome feedback.
Thank you to Michelle Cook whose love of children’s TV inspired the spark that started this tale and gave me a way in to horror fiction.
I’d also like to thank Hannah Filer for the enormous help in smoothing out the story whilst I was writing it as a film script a few years earlier.
For Hannah, because every time I write a book I hope one day you’ll read it.
Neon signs selling candyfloss flickered their nauseating and tasteless glow against the darkening background of a building storm. Although it was mid afternoon the clouds had strangled the daylight from the sky and long shadows plunged boarded up, abandoned shops into a threatening darkness. Even those buildings that remained open for business looked like dying carcasses of beasts from a more successful age. The paintwork had blistered and peeled from their frames, exposed as they were to the harsh winters of this coastal town. Crude graffiti tattooed the promenade, a reminder to the lack of money and care with which the town had been looked after.
It had been a wet and windy winter and February showed no sign of getting any better. What little trade the summer holiday season had brought seemed like a distant memory to the inhabitants of Stanswick Sands as they tried to remain positive through these desperately grim times. They held on to hope that the outdated amusements and beautiful coastline could attract more visitors when the sun finally shone again.
Stanswick Sands. The Best in British Seaside.
The sign stood at the border of the town like the fossilised remains from a bygone era slowly dragged to extinction by cheap airlines, expensive fuel prices and economic recessions. It rattled and shook in the wind but the faded painting of the happy family on the beach with their 1950’s grins continued to smile absurdly through the adversity.
A coach drove along a winding road passing the sign, its exterior was equally as grubby and unclean. It had set off on its travels in a far cleaner condition, but the four hour journey had seen it battle through some horrendous storms and water logged roads. It had not escaped the journey without some grimy mementos of its clashes with nature.
The coach had started full from the city but as it drew to its final destination the number of passengers dwindled to only a handful. Martin Powell had been on the coach for the full four hours and had been very nervous when he first climbed the stairs of the vehicle to take his seat. He looked ill at ease and out of place with the world around him. His brown suit looked dated and worn. It was at least two sizes too big and hung off his sleight, fifty year old frame like bed sheets draped over a chair. His hair was grey and thinning, it was neatly cut and styled although the comb-over did not hide the approaching baldness.
As the coach journey continued he had begun to relax and a smile began to appear on his face when they passed the sign. Stanswick Sands was fast turning from a memory to a welcome actuality.
As Martin’s mood lightened he began to strike up a conversation with a woman named Grete and her seven year old son Kaspar. Despite the talking around him Kaspar had almost his full concentration focused on a handheld games console he was eagerly playing.
‘Here we come now,’ said Martin excitedly as they began to approach the promenade. He looked out the window of the coach with child-like eyes. ‘It’s such a lovely place. I couldn’t think of anywhere else I would rather be. Look there’s the beach and there’s the pier,’ he exclaimed, pointing them out as they came into view. ‘Can you see it?’
Martin directed his question to Kaspar who looked up briefly, gave an unimpressed, ‘Oh yeah’, then went back to his computer game.
‘Don’t be so rude Kaspar!’ his mother Grete spoke with an accent that Martin placed as somewhere from Eastern Europe or possibly Russia. He had not been the most traveled man in his fifty years.
‘Kids today hey?’ Martin joked. ‘I can’t believe it’s been ten years since I saw the place. Oh look the Maze of Mirrors is still here. I can’t believe it’s still standing!’
He pointed to a single storey wooden building that seemed to shake slightly from the influence of the coastal wind. The entrance was painted in faded red and yellow stripes and framed in a row of red light bulbs that flashed in a random sequence, revealing a number of them to no longer be working. Above the doorway a sign proclaimed in letters that ended in tails like lightning bolts: The World Famous Maze Of Mirrors.
Ignoring Kaspar’s indifference to his previous comment Martin turned to speak to the boy again, ‘That used to be such a popular attraction with all the youngsters. Maybe you’ll give it a go whilst you’re here, it’s much more fun than your computers.’
Kaspar did not even look up this time but screwed his face in mild irritation and continued with his game.
‘I loved the Maze of Mirrors,’ Martin continued, ‘I could practically do the thing blind folded.’ Sensing he had lost his young audience Martin turned to Grete. ‘You are going to have such a lovely time here on holiday, but if you need a guide, someone to show you and little Kaspar around I’d be happy to oblige.’
‘Thanks, that would be great,’ Grete replied with a sincere smile.
‘That’s my address,’ Martin jotted his address down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. ‘Call round anytime. If not, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other. It isn’t a very big town. And even lovelier for it.’
The coach pulled in on the high street and its doors opened.
‘This is my stop,’ Martin said as he stood up placing a brown trilby on his head, ‘yours will be the next one. Good day Grete. Good day little Kaspar.’
Like an old fashioned gent he tipped his hat to them as he gave his farewells and stepped off the coach.
He could immediately taste the salty air on his lips as the wind blew against his face. Looking around in wonder he stared past the view of urban decay, finding deeper beauty in the long sought familiarity that these simple sights brought him. His smile grew to a beam as he took a large, lungful of sea air through his nostrils, relishing in every sensation his surroundings presented. At first he didn’t even mind the rain, but the storm became too great
to ignore. Martin hunched his shoulders protecting his neck from the drips that ran down his hat and made his way into a small café facing the sea front.
The Minstrel café was brightly lit and it took a moment for Martin’s eyes to adjust. When they did he saw a well-kept and clean establishment. It was sparsely populated with elderly customers washing delicately crafted cakes down with cups of tea. They quietly gossiped amongst themselves and took no notice of Martin as he made his way to the counter.
Behind the counter stood a nineteen year old girl, her brown, curly hair ended in ringlets as it rested softly on the shoulders of her pink, diner uniform. Her mouth masticated very deliberately on some chewing gum as she looked out the window onto the view of the sea crashing against the beach. The meditation of the waves brought about dreams and fantasies that stimulated her far more than her job.
Her eyes focused on Martin as he approached, bringing her out of the momentary revery with a practiced but sincere smile.
‘Morning,’ she spoke with a local accent, ‘what can I get you?’
‘Good morning,’ Martin returned the smile. ‘A cup of tea would be pleasant to warm my damp frame.’ He comically padded the damp arms of his suit.
‘Ha, nice,’ she was appreciative of the humour from the stranger, most of her customers during the daytime were just so damn straight. ‘It’s horrible out there isn’t it? I hope it clears up in time for the carnival.’
‘Oh, is it carnival time?’ enquired Martin with interest.
‘Yeah, in a couple of days,’ the waitress spoke through the chews of her gum, ‘it’s the seventieth anniversary this year. The council are pulling out all the stops. It’s going to be a big one.’
She handed Martin a flyer with a child’s drawing of clowns and fireworks. He took the piece of paper and smiled at the sight of the amateur but impassioned drawing.
The waitress stopped chewing and narrowed her eyes, ‘Are you from the telly?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Martin said, a little taken aback.
‘Shame. You look familiar,’ she began to pour the hot water into the cup. ‘You must have one of those faces. A familiar one I mean. Milk? Sugar?’
‘Uh, Milk. No sugar thanks,’ he answered.
‘Sweet enough hey?’ she joked before turning back to the topic of the carnival. ‘Floats, fireworks, marching bands, the lot. Everyone is going in fancy dress. Shame it may be a wash out.’ She gazed out of the window for a moment with a glum look whilst stirring the milk into his tea. Her eyes looked lost once more as they searched for those fantasies hidden between the waves. As quickly as she faded out she snapped back to the real world with a slight shake of the head and a wry smile. ‘Still, always a good turnout. One pound fifty please.’
Martin reached into his wallet and handed her a twenty pound note, apologising for not having any smaller change as he did so.
‘Wow,’ the waitress exclaimed as she studied the note in her hand, ‘where did you get this from? Have you been raiding the savings under the mattress?’
‘Sorry?’ Martin asked, confused by her reaction.
‘This twenty,’ she held it up between their eye line, ‘it’s discontinued. Has been for some time.’
She handed the now defunct note back to him whilst he gave a small chuckle.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve been away for a while. The only other thing I have is a bank card,’ Martin said tapping his pockets in a symbolic gesture to show they were empty.
‘Not to worry, pay on the card when you’re done,’ the waitress spoke reassuringly, ‘in case you want anything else.’
Martin gave his thanks and, taking his tea, made his way to an empty table with a splendid view through the large windows of the storm-battered beach and withering pier.
The old man in the brown suit sipped his tea and watched the waves crashing against the sandy shoreline. His eyes ran along the pier and its all too familiar surroundings, tracing the pathways he had walked many times over as a younger man. He had seen this beach through many seasons during the years and his mind cast back to the glorious, and seemingly endless summers. The overwhelming memories forced him to close his eyes and as he reminisced he could almost feel the pleasing glow of the sun warming the back of his neck.
Martin was ten, maybe fifteen years younger as the sun beat down on the striped tent he squatted in, wearing a plain white t-shirt to keep cool, but still keeping his trademark trilby on. He could hear the children excitedly chatting outside as they sat down with their parents in front of the tent awaiting the Punch and Judy show. Lined up beside him were his cast of hand operated stars; the crocodile, the hangman, Toby the dog, the Devil, Judy. His right hand was inserted into the puppet of the main attraction, the star of the show. With its bright red cheeks, its wide smile, its hooked nose and long chin that almost met in the middle there was no mistaking Mr Punch.
He lifted the puppet out of the booth window and into the view of his audience who screamed in delight when they saw the show starting. As the show began Mr Punch had a baby in his arms.
‘Go to sleep little baby,’ Mr Punch was voiced by Martin aided by a small device he placed in the roof of his mouth known as a swazzle. Through the swazzle he produced the manic and recognizable, buzz like sound.
‘Waa waa,’ the baby cried.
‘Go to sleep little baby,’ but the baby continued to wail despite the commands from a frustrated Mr Punch. ‘Oh baby please be quiet.’
‘Waa. Waa. Waa.’
Mr Punch ducked down behind the curtain and reappeared with a large wooden bat.
‘Hush baby,’ he cooed before suddenly hitting the child, wildly, with his bat. ‘Smack the baby, smack the baby,’ he half sang with each strike before calling out his catchphrase, ‘that’s the way to do it!’
‘Mr Punch, what are you doing with the baby?’ Judy’s voice called from offstage.
‘Nothing!’ cried Mr Punch as he turned to the wailing infant in panic. ‘Shhh, shhh’.
It refused to be quiet, and in desperation Mr Punch sat on the baby, trying to muffle the noise and hide his guilt.
Judy appeared, controlled by Martin. ‘Where’s the baby?’ she asked as she turned to the enthralled audience. ‘What’s he done with the baby, boys and girls?’
The children giggled and shouted back to her. ‘He’s sat on him!’ they cried.
‘He’s what?’ she asked.
‘He’s sat on him!’ they all shouted louder, pointing at Mr Punch and shrieking with laughter.
‘Sat on him!’ Judy slowly turned to stare at Mr Punch, holding her hands to her face she shook her head in disbelief, ‘Oh Mr Punch! How could you?’
Stealing the bat from her husband, Judy began to strike him round the head. The scene of slapstick absurdity brought hysterical laughter from the children.
Extracting his revenge Mr Punch wrestled the bat from her and began to hit his wife with the cry, ‘That’s the way to do!’
‘Ow, ow, ow,’ cried Judy turning to the audience as she received the comical blows. ‘Children, I think you should call the police.’
‘POLICE!!’ whooped the children in delight.
‘Call again,’ said Judy still suffering blows from Mr Punch’s bat, ‘they didn’t hear!’
‘POLICE!!!!’ the children shouted even louder at the striped tent and its scene of mayhem.
Martin rested the Judy puppet over the side of the tent giving the appearance that she had laid down. Taking the Mr Punch puppet out of view he replaced him with the Constable.
‘Hello boys and girls,’ were the Constable’s opening lines, ‘what’s been going on here? Who’s done this to Judy?’
Whipped up into a joy of cacophonous call and response the audience screamed back at the police puppet, ‘Mr Punch!’
‘Who?’ the Constable asked, playing stupid.
‘MR PUNCH!’ the audience shouted, raising their volume.
‘Mr Who?’ the Constable jokingly demanded.
‘MR PUNCH
!!!’ even the parents joined in this time, egged on by the hard of hearing policeman.
‘Mr Punch!’ the Constable exclaimed as if this was the first time he’d heard it. ‘Right then, if you see him let me know.’
On cue Mr Punch appeared behind him.
‘He’s behind you!’ the delighted audience hollered.
No sooner had the Constable turned around than Mr Punch had disappeared, ducked down out of view.
‘Where?’ the confused Constable turned back to the audience. Upon doing so Mr Punch appeared again.
‘He’s behind you!’ the audience called out, pointing in the direction of the mischievous puppet.
But again Mr Punch disappeared the moment our dim witted Constable turned to face him.
‘What?’ the Constable asked. ‘Where?’
‘He’s behind you!’ the audience shouted even louder as Mr Punch appeared once more.
This time the Constable turned to catch him. Not to be outsmarted Mr Punch took his bat and began to beat the Constable. The audience laughed and they all joined in with the catchphrase as he shouted with vigour through his swazzle affected voice, ‘That’s the way to do it!’
Once the show had finished Martin emerged from the tent and stood by its side, collecting the money from the parents. Mildred Avery and her children were regulars to Martin’s seaside matinees.
‘Thank you Martin,’ she said as she happily handed over her money whilst her daughter stood by her side, ‘the kids love it.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, ‘it’s a pleasure to do. And watch out for the crocodile!’
He brought a hand from behind his back to reveal a crocodile puppet that snapped its jaws as he chased Mildred’s daughter until she took solace behind her laughing mother.
‘I have the best job in the world,’ he continued once he’d stopped his chase. ‘Just as well really, I wouldn’t know what else I’d do.’
