by Park, J. R.
Sergeant Jack had taken pity on the distraught puppeteer. He had explained that this was a crime scene and there were proper procedures to follow, but Martin begged him to be let inside and try to retrieve some important mementos that he held dear. Confronted with such a heartfelt plea from such a tragic victim Jack acquiesced and allowed him one hour; there would be an officer on the door for his safety.
He opened the lid to the wooden box, the charcoal crumbling in his hands as he pulled it apart. Inside was a photo album. He groaned as he saw what he had feared, the fire had burnt the edges of the album and the heat had blistered the photographs on each page. Martin flicked through the pages and looked at images, washed of colour and barely recognisable. They were images of older times, happier times, before he went to prison. He stopped on one and studied it. He could make out his own smile and next to him in the photo there was a wave of auburn hair, but the rest was warped and burnt beyond recognition.
Tears trickled down his cheeks as he fingered the burnt lines of the picture.
They took my life, he thought, my happy life. They took my life and now they’ve taken my memories.
Through all the horrors he endured in prison he always knew they would come to an end. He knew he would be released and that he could start his life over. With every humiliation he suffered he would cast his mind back to his most happy memories, building a mental wall with which to protect himself. The thought of being able to get some of that life back when his sentence was complete fortified those barriers.
With a destroyed album in his hands he sat alone and in the darkness. His links to the past were gone, his hopes for the future in tatters. How much more abuse would he suffer? Could he escape the past if he moved? It only took one rumour, one newspaper story and it would all start up again. Was there any escape? As these thoughts looped in his brain he felt despair grip his very soul. His hope had vanished, his defences were down, his mental walls had crumbled.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
What was that? Martin thought.
Was he dreaming? The last time he heard that sound he’d been asleep, but this was no revery now. Where was it coming from? As he got to his feet he picked up the bat. He was pleased that, at least, had survived the fire.
‘You’re no rat,’ he called out, ‘who the hell is there?’
Inching toward the sound of laughter he found the source to be coming from behind the remains of the sofa. He crept round the mess of badly burnt furnishings to discover a blanket. It had caught the fire but mostly suffered smoke and water damage. Crumpled underneath a nest of tables it had acquired some protection and escaped the worst of the blaze. He turned his ear to the scrunched up rag; the laughing seemed to be coming from under the blanket! Slowly Martin reached out and with a swift tug pulled it to reveal what was hiding underneath.
Instantly the laughing ceased as the blanket came away revealing the Mr Punch costume. The grotesque mask had warped and bent in the heat of the fire making it look twisted and malformed. Its smile seemed to look more threatening and its eyes appeared to widen with a sinister gaze.
Martin’s look of shock upon viewing the survivor soon gave way to laughter. At first it was nothing more than a gentle chuckle of relief but the more he regarded the fire tainted figure in front of him the more he laughed. His mirth grew manic until it sounded like the noises heard in his dreams.
‘You haven’t left me,’ he bellowed between guffaws.
He took his bat and swung it round, smashing it against the remains of the sofa. Laughing as the wooden bat crashed down, it sent pieces of charcoal and ash scattering everywhere.
‘Stupid town,’ he cried.
He swung his bat again, striking against a shelf and pulling it from its fittings. He whooped with delight as it fell to the floor.
‘You took my life!’ he shouted.
Without looking he swung the bat around, almost turning himself three hundred and sixty degrees, so violent was the action. The bat landed squarely on his television, cracking the screen and knocking it to the floor.
As the destruction grew greater, his laugh grew more manic and his rants louder.
‘You took my lover!’ he shouted.
He swung at the coffee table, one of its legs giving out on the impact and collapsing to the floor.
‘My dignity!’
The bookcase fell forward from the next hit, slumping to the ground and spilling its contents.
‘My joy!’
Again and again Martin lashed out at the objects in the room. He didn’t even look to aim knowing that the bat would eventually come into contact with something and continue to satisfy his destructive desire. The clock, the dinner plates, the dining table, the corner lamp, the lights, all smashed to pieces as he swung and hit and destroyed.
‘It’s time I took some revenge,’ he paused, out of breath from his moment of mayhem.
In the debris that littered the floor Martin caught sight of his swazzle. Picking it up he placed it in his mouth and began to speak through the device. The fire had caused the small contraption some damage, making the sound it produced lower and rougher to the ear.
‘You’re going to get it,’ he spoke with the fire affected effect. ‘You are all going to get it. I’ll make them pay!’ He swung his bat again, ‘Make them pay! Make them pay!’
‘Hello? Mr Powell, are you okay?’
Police Constable Williams had been ordered to wait outside of number sixteen, give the man an hour then bring him to the station. It had only been a little over thirty minutes but the policeman had heard something going on inside the house. Had someone snuck in and decided to take their revenge personally, away from the mob? As much as he disliked Powell this was not going to happen on his watch.
‘Hello?’ he called out again to the silence of the house.
He walked into what was left of the sitting room. This is more than fire damage, thought Williams as he nervously stepped through the mess. Fragments of broken furniture and ornaments were strewn across the floor. He stumbled as he walked, his foot catching on the household rubble. The room was dark in the evening light with no electricity to illuminate the soot covered surroundings, making it difficult to see where he was placing his feet.
Suddenly he felt something hit him across the face. Something hard. The impact knocked him off his balance and sent him crashing to the floor. He felt blood trickle from his temple as the fresh wound throbbed. Laughter came from somewhere in the room but the darkness concealed his attacker.
Quickly PC Williams scrabbled to his feet and called out, ‘Who’s there?’
Again, from the darkness, the policeman was struck, this time to the stomach. He felt the air being forced out of his lungs as he dropped to his knees, desperate for breath. This time when he looked up, the twilight gave up his aggressor. Through the gloom a freakish face appeared only a few feet from his. Underneath a tall, elf-like hat appeared eyes, wild and frenzied. Its twisted nose came down in a hook and framed, with its long pointed chin, a wide, evil, fixed grin.
The figure held a large wooden bat with both hands and raised the weapon above its head.
‘Oh hell,’ muttered PC Williams.
‘Oh hell indeed,’ screamed Punch, his voice like sandpaper on a blackboard.
Punch brought the bat down hard on Williams’s cranium. The force caused his head to split open and knocked him onto his back. Blood gushed from the injury. He held his hand up to stop the next strike, but the bat caught his fingers and he heard them snap as they bent backwards. He howled in pain but was silenced with the next swing. It caught the side of his jaw, knocking three teeth to the floor in a pool of blood. His head slammed hard against the ground and his eyes rolled in their sockets. The crazed lunatic showed no mercy as, strike after strike, he battered the defenceless officer with relentless fury; laughing with each horrific crack of bone and spray of blood.
‘You’re going to get it,’ cried Punch. ‘You’re all going to get it. Mr Punch is going to
get them!’
As the crowd gathered in the town centre the pier remained quiet. All staff had finished for the day and now lined the high street, ready for the festivities that lay ahead. The arcade machines continued to flash and bleep their endless patterns, illuminating the dimly lit pier as the night drew in. Only an automated change converter stood by to assist any potential customers that might happen to wander this way, bored of the procession of floats and marching bands that were poised to make their way through the town centre.
Pete, Jordan and Paul sat outside on a pier bench, their vodka saturated bloodstreams protecting them from the coastal breeze.
‘So what’s the plan for later?’ Paul asked before taking a large drag on a spliff. ‘Are we heading down to the carnival tonight?’
‘Hell yeah,’ replied Jordan taking the spliff from his friend’s fingers.
‘But we haven’t got any costumes,’ Pete noted as he looked longingly at the red cherry glow of the herbal cigarette.
‘Do I look like I’m going to wear a fucking costume?’ Jordan pulled a face at this idea as he blew out a large puff of white smoke. ‘Fancy dress is for freaks and losers.’
‘Still, all the chicks will be out,’ Paul nudged Jordan and took back the spliff.
‘That’s for sure. I hear Pippa is going in burlesque. Hot!’ Pete toasted his thought with a swig of neat vodka, straight from the bottle.
‘Back off man,’ Jordan leant forward and swiped the bottle from his hands, ‘I got dibs on her.’
He gulped a mouthful of vodka. The alcohol burnt the back of his throat and made him cough. He pulled a disgusted face and spluttered, ‘That’s some nasty shit!’
‘Give me some,’ Paul demanded, desperate to keep his buzz going.
Their conversation was interrupted by an unusual sound. It sounded like something solid and hard being dragged along the ground. As the sound got louder and more distinct they knew something was getting closer.
‘What the fuck?’ Paul put the bottle to the ground and stood up, unsure of what he was looking at.
In the shadows they could see the silhouette of a person walking towards them. It held a long pole or rod whose end was being run along the ground producing the teeth clenching scraping noise as the figure drew closer. The flashes from the arcade machines shone through the windows of the amusement hut and danced on the features of the approaching stranger, offering glimpses of his appearance. But it was only when he got a few feet away from the three young man that they could clearly make him out.
‘Uggggh,’ said Pete, ‘that is ugly.’
The twisted features of the grotesque mask grinned with psychotic mania as Punch drew closer, all the while dragging his bat on the ground.
‘You know what you were saying about freaks and losers?’ Pete said to Jordan, keeping his eyes focused on the costumed man that approached.
‘Looks like we have a Class A one right here!’ Jordan said.
Punch stood in front of the gang of three, his presence made more eerie by his silence.
‘Are you lost?’ Pete asked, unsure what to do.
Punch continued to keep his silence. He regarded the men for a few moments before swiping his bat at the vodka by Paul’s feet. The bottle shattered into pieces whilst the vodka soaked into Paul’s shoes. The men were stunned momentarily at the sudden and unprovoked violence.
‘Oh I see,’ Jordan challenged, ‘you want to play do you? You want to-’
Before he could finish the sentence Punch swung the bat and hit the gang leader full in the face. He fell back against a wall, clutching his nose whilst blood poured from the gaps between his fingers. In quick succession three more blows were delivered. His nose disintegrated with a crimson explosion on the first strike. The second and third hit his skull so hard his eyes were pushed back into their sockets and the bat needed to be wiggled free from the huge split across his head. In less than a minute Jordan had been beaten to death.
Pete took a knife from his pocket and dived at the costumed murderer. Punch swung at him and knocked the man and his knife into the arcade room. Pete tried to keep his balance but stumbled and tripped onto a pinball machine, his face crashing down onto the glass top covering. Quickly Punch ran to where he lay, spread over the amusement machine, and battered him with his weapon. The ferocious poundings drove Pete’s beaten and misshapen head through the glass, as broken shards sliced his neck, severing arteries and spraying blood in every direction.
Paul ran inside to help his friend, but upon seeing his fate reconsidered and turned round to flee. Seeing Punch clock him he dived to the floor and hid within the aisles of arcade machines. Paul crawled on the floor to find safety as he heard the attackers bat scrape along ground.
‘Where are you?’ Punch taunted as he walked up and down the aisle. ‘Mr Punch is going to teach you some manners.’
Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock blade penknife. He opened up the six inch blade and locked it into position. The feel of the weapon in his hand brought him renewed courage as he crawled to the end of the aisle. The sound of the bat scraping on the ground was getting closer.
‘Mr Punch wants to see you,’ Punch called out.
The voice was close, Paul sensed the maniac was only a few feet away; just the other side of the machine he was using for cover. Taking a few deep breaths and gripping the knife tightly he pounced round the corner, rising to his feet to take on this murderous abomination. His bravery was unfounded however as the aisle was empty. Paul looked around in panic as Punch’s crazed voice floated around the room.
‘That’s right. Come find me.’
Where was the bastard, thought Paul as his eyes darted around the room.
The sound of the bat scraping on the floor seemed to come from everywhere. He ducked down and caught sight of the bright costumed tights the lunatic wore in the gaps between the arcade machines. Paul stayed low and lightly ran to the end of the next aisle waiting for Punch to get closer. He counted to five and then dived round the corner.
Again it was empty!
The room fell silent.
Where was he hiding?
Was this just some kind of crazy nightmare?
The scraping sound had stopped and the gentle lapping of the waves below was the only thing he could hear. He called out and waited for a moment, his knife poised for an attack, but no one replied. Mystified, Paul turned to leave the seemingly empty building. As he turned he came face to face with the goggle eyed mask. The fixed grin seemed to grow wider as Punch swung the bat, delivering a heavy blow.
‘That’s the way to do it!’ Punch screeched as he rained devastating blows of wild aggression onto the early twenty something. As his cheekbone split and his forearm snapped in two he let out chilling screams of a man that knew he was going to die. His cries rolled across a deserted pier and were swallowed up by the sea. No one was around to hear the beginning of the end for Stanswick Sands.
Colin studied the pier through the window of the Minstrel café, oblivious to the scenes of slaughter that were happening over the road. Had the music not been blasting out the speakers in the deserted café he might have caught the screams of three men meeting their perilous ends. The café was due to close and he had stopped by to pick up his girlfriend Jo, ready for the carnival. He chewed on some sausages that Jo had lovingly prepared, awaiting his arrival, and he swung on a stool whilst dressed in a crocodile outfit. The green and yellow suit had a soft tail that dragged on the floor as he span.
‘These sure are tasty, Jo,’ Colin said as he stopped the spinning stool to face her, his elbows resting on the counter.
‘The best for you honey,’ she smiled, ‘even if you are wearing the dumbest outfit.’
‘Aww come on,’ he looked down at himself for a moment, ‘it’s a laugh. It’s almost closing time, do you want to get your costume on?’
‘Yeah okay,’ she replied with a loving look. ‘Can you watch the diner whilst I nip out back and get changed?’
‘No problems honey.’
Colin had helped shut the café down many times, especially on a Saturday night. But tonight he had more of a reason to be here than just to get out and enjoy the festivities early.
‘Thanks sexy,’ Jo looked into her lover’s eyes, ‘and thanks for showing up. I’ve been so worried since I saw Mr Powell come in here the other day.’
‘You needn’t worry baby,’ he puffed out his chest, ‘I showed him a thing or two. He won’t be bothering you again.’
Jo blew him a kiss and gleefully skipped into a back room to get changed. Colin watched the back room door close and could make out the shape of his beautiful girlfriend through the frosted glass as she began to take her clothes off.
He was glad Martin Powell had walked into the pub this afternoon whilst he had been there. Admittedly he was as shocked as everyone else to have seen him, but for the honour of his lover he made sure he was the first person to take a stand and punch the sick bastard to the ground.
‘Can you turn the music and lights off please babe?’ Jo shouted through the door.
She bopped to the sound of music pumping through a pair of headphones as she slid chequered lycra leggings from her harlequin costume over her smooth, shapely thighs.
He leant over the counter and switched the music off then, with the last song playing still in his head and an air of satisfaction in his movements, Colin half danced across the café and flicked the light switches, plunging the dining area into near darkness. As he headed back to his seat to finish his sausage supper he felt a gust of cold wind and the bell above the entrance jingled.
‘Sorry pal we’re closing up,’ he said with his back still to the door.
Turning round he saw a man dressed as Mr Punch stood in the doorway. Even through the darkness Colin could make out the fire damage to the costume that twisted its features.
‘Wow,’ he said, startled by the appearance of the stranger, ‘that costume has seen better days.’
Punch softly patted his bat into his hand for a moment, not saying a word. They both looked at each other for a short while before the crazed character broke the stand off and walked towards Colin.
