The Unexpected Occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble

by Gareth Wiles

  ‘Yet I cannot die?’

  ‘We will never stamp out our enemies, because in reality we have no enemies – we humans just have each other.’ I outstretched my hand to his and helped him to his feet. ‘You will return to your country and have your life,’ he finished.

  * * *

  There had been no family waiting for me – they were all dead. There was nothing, save for perhaps everything – a beginning. I could start anew, have my life over. It was now 1961 and I was only thirty-six. I could put aside my past and move on, making a life for myself in the long future ahead. But, did I really want to?

  I’d never been used to having friends and, quite frankly, didn’t really want any. They were a burden and a tie, leeching off any potential good nature within me. Truthfully, there wasn’t much good nature – the horrors Hitler had subjected me to had seen off any sympathy I may have possessed for the human race. I now viewed what I was living as an apathetic sentience; knowing how low humanity sinks on a daily basis but having no ability, or want, to alter it. I felt I outgrew people, moved on from them and onto the next. Oh how self-indulgent to feel myself standing away from the crowd and being an individual – something all of them felt they were doing too. There’s nothing different about me, nothing different about any of us. We’re all the same, all here just existing and thinking that we’re thinking. All that, of course, went out the window somewhat when I met Gary and Sarah Noose. I felt an overwhelming pulse of purity permeating through their being – they were as one unit entirely; completely devoted to each other and beholden of a clean aura. It is difficult to explain fully, but when I looked at, or even just thought about them, I could see a clarity so transparently that it shot me in the stomach. The pain was a drug, a yearning for all of humanity to be the way they were.

  It was entirely by chance that our paths crossed. I would often walk alone in Myrtle Forest, vague moments of déjà vu taking me back to some lost childhood centuries ago as Mother pursued me playfully through the long grassy growth. It seemed rubbish and the truth in equal measure, especially when I came across a water well right in the middle of the forest – quite a queer place for one – and there, crouching the other side of it, were Gary and Sarah. Had I seen them at a distance I’d have scarpered in the opposite direction, but now that I was so close I had to interact.

  ‘Good day,’ I said to them, looking down the well. I could see myself jumping in. It was the perfect method of dashing away from this place. They’d probably fish me out.

  ‘Hello there,’ the man replied, getting up. ‘I’m Gary Noose, and this is my wife Sarah.’ He held out his hand to shake mine. I obliged. His was a firm workers hand, wrought with rough yet moist skin. He looked about my age, mid thirties – perhaps a little younger, and his black hair was thinning on top. He stood tall and slim, a very smart man, with a healthy complexion.

  ‘I’m Peter, Peter Smith.’ I moved to have a look at Sarah, who remained on the ground. She was sitting on a tartan blanket with a picnic basket between her legs. I could see she was pregnant, her swollen belly sitting proudly there. She was wearing a loose-fitting flowery dress and had her brown hair tied back. They were both so ordinary and so beautiful that I felt at once drawn to them.

  ‘We’re having a picnic, care to join us?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I’d love to,’ said I, the words escaping my mouth before I could do anything about it. ‘If I’m not intruding, that is?’ Pray I was not. I could not leave now. Queer that I should wish to turn to prayer to fulfil my desire, yet it seemed the logical option – unabated wishful thinking right this second.

  ‘Of course not,’ Gary comforted, encouraging me to sit down as he did. I did so, easing myself slowly down across from them.

  ‘Are you local?’ I decided to ask them, forcing idle chit chat. It did not feel natural to me, but I felt I wanted to continue.

  ‘Yes, we live in Myrtleville,’ Gary answered. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I was born here, and spent my youth here. The war took me abroad, but I’m back now.’

  ‘Such a devastating war,’ Sarah sighed.

  ‘I stayed here throughout, trained as a police officer,’ Gary explained.

  ‘Not an easy job,’ I tried to brown-nose, ‘but a rewarding one.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  It was now I realised Gary seemed overly relaxed and accepting of me and my sudden presence, despite him being an officer of the law. My preconception would have assumed his skepticism and suspicion at my wandering alone in the forest.

  ‘I’m just in love with this wishing well,’ Sarah gushed, holding her stomach as she turned a little to look it up and down. ‘Do you know, I’ve lived here my whole life and this is the first time I’ve ever seen it. I could have sworn I’ve been this way as a child, yet I never saw it before.’

  ‘Well it’s certainly not a new well, darling,’ Gary pointed out, rubbing a finger along the rough stone as bits of the age-old lichen broke away into dust and blew away in the slight breeze.

  Some particles got in my nostrils, and I knew I’d smelt that scent before – I saw my mother chasing after me, hundreds of years prior, as I sought to hide this place from her. Something awful had happened to her and I, just a child, had sought out suicide as my solace. The well had saved me, somehow, but that remained yet hazy in my mind. Now my well was exposed, discovered by this couple and their unborn child. Perhaps this was the family I had returned home for? Sarah giggled a little and the couple kissed briefly. They were so wonderful.

  I stayed with them another hour or more, waxing lyrical about my trouble with Hitler and the unexpected occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble. They didn’t believe a word of it, of course, but found my story ever so entertaining and, more importantly, me charming.

  ‘We really must be heading off,’ Gary eventually announced as Sarah began to feel weary.

  ‘I’m more than eight months gone – not long now,’ Sarah added, getting to her feet with the help of her doting husband.

  I sensed I had outstayed my welcome somewhat, so said my goodbyes and left them to it.

  * * *

  That night I tossed and turned in my little bed in the bedsit, not a window to look out but four dark green walls to hide the outside from view. I thought of nothing else but Gary and Sarah Noose, the summation of everything possibly good in mankind. I wondered if I’d ever see them again, and in a way hoped I wouldn’t – to leave it at that, with them high on a pedestal of perfection, was enough for me. Were fate to steer their lives towards mine, then I would certainly go with it and allow a lasting friendship to occur. The rest of my life would be very lonely without good people to populate it. There was nobody more good than them.

  Eventually I rolled over and managed to struggle into sleep. There, I was bombarded with colliding visions of multiple me’s, all vying for my attention. They were me, I knew it, but some had different names and different faces as well as the duplicates. I was all these people and more, and they all cried out something different, draining each other out. I could not make out any of it. Suddenly they all ceased, turning their backs to me and pulling up a hood over their heads. When they turned back their faces – my faces – were concealed and the hellish din did not return. One single figure emerged from within them, a tall thin blonde woman with her hair obscuring her features and a long greyish white dress dragging on the floor. Yet, there was no floor for it to drag on. No floor I could see. She was not me, yet she seemed familiar and distant – someone I should have known but couldn’t remember, or perhaps I had yet to meet. I called her towards me, asking to see her face. She neared only minutely, stopping and pausing as I sensed I should now move closer to her. I could not, I was fixed and useless. Then, I fell backwards and woke up covered in sweat. I got up and dressed, I would not sleep again tonight.

  * * *

  Early the next morning I took a stroll around the village, deciding to head into town to look for some more permanent employment than odd jobs and gardenin
g. On my way I passed the police station, stopping outside and wondering for a brief moment whether or not to go in and see if Gary Noose was on duty. No, that would not endear me to him – to hassle him at work would be detrimental to any potential friendship ahead. Just that second a police car pulled up alongside me and Gary himself stuck his head out.

  ‘Get in,’ he called out.

  ‘Hello there,’ I replied.

  ‘Get in,’ he repeated, snappier this time. His tone was completely different from yesterday. I obliged, jumping in the passenger seat and shutting the door just in time for him to speed off down the road. ‘It was easier than I thought it would be,’ he suddenly said.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Finding you, Peter. I imagined driving around town all day or traipsing the forest again to try and spot you.’ He wiped the sweat off his brow, briefly flicking his eyes to look in the rear view mirror. ‘Chance, or fate, brought you right to me.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  He pulled over in a lay-by and burst into tears. I wanted to put my arm around his shoulder to offer my support, and nearly did – but something just held me back, some emotionally apathetic shield crippling my joints.

  ‘I’m just so weak right now, Peter, and this isn’t like me,’ he sobbed like a child.

  ‘What do you mean, weak?’

  ‘It’s the baby coming, I guess.’ He pulled a hanky from his breast pocket and blew his nose, his tears easing. ‘I feel I can turn to you, confide in you. We’re very similar, you and me.’

  I felt honoured and terrified at this opinion of his. ‘Go on, Gary,’ I uttered, my arm still unable to reach out to him. Perhaps I could do that verbally instead.

  ‘I love Sarah so much, and now she’s going to make me a father, a daddy.’

  ‘You’ll make a great father,’ I encouraged, thinking it the right thing to do. Equally, I could think of nothing else to say and couldn’t quite understand the predicament he felt he was in. Perhaps his tears were jubilation, or panic?

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ he replied with a warm smile, reaching out to shake my hand. We stayed silent, holding hands for a minute or more as I felt his blood pressure easing. ‘You must come and visit Sarah and me at our home,’ he went on, giving me his address. It was an open invitation.

  After this he was as he had been the day before. His opening up to me made him even more perfect and complete.

  * * *

  That evening, as the sun had gone and I strolled along the countryside away from Myrtleville town, I spotted a car parked up between the trees – it was Gary’s. For a moment I was pleased, then worried, and finally suspicious. I approached the vehicle slowly. The windows were steaming up and it was rocking from side to side. As I neared I could see Gary’s bare bottom going up and down, two well-shaven female legs either side of it wrapping around. She was a blonde, her skirt still on but pushed up and her small breasts bobbing as Gary’s thrusts intensified. With the passenger seat wound all the way back, Gary had all the space he needed to commit his infidelity. I pulled away, devastated, dashing away before I was seen.

  I didn’t know what to do, but eventually found myself at Gary and Sarah’s house. Knocking on the door, I got no answer. As the strain I was under intensified, I tried the handle and it was open – I stepped inside without a moment’s thought and called out for Sarah.

  ‘Gary?’ she screamed out from upstairs. I dashed up them, following her voice.

  ‘It’s me, Peter,’ I shouted back, entering the bedroom where she lay sprawled on the bed with her bare legs spread apart. The sweat was absolutely raining off her and she kept on screaming out in pain. The bed was soaking.

  ‘The baby’s come early,’ she cried out through her deep breaths.

  ‘Oh God!’ I blurted out, the sweat now pouring off me as well. I neared, peering between her legs as a tiny little head was making its way from within her. Instinctively I put my hands down there and supported the tiny little body as it kept on coming. ‘Push,’ I called out to her, not knowing what else to say. ‘Push!’

  ‘I am!’ she yelled back.

  Suddenly the baby was out. ‘It’s a boy,’ I cried, the tears streaming down my face.

  ‘A son,’ she sobbed. ‘My son Henry Noose.’

  As I knelt there holding her baby, I felt myself come over all queer. I looked ahead and the wall behind her bed had fallen away. There was now a large black box, standing upright. A very slim, very pale blonde woman seemed to be with it, but her face was covered by her long hair – she was the one from my dream. I slumped back, stumbling to the floor and slamming against the wall behind me. I looked down, the baby still in my arms and its umbilical cord stretched out and still attached to Sarah. I felt myself dying – I knew I was dying – and the last intake of air to enter my lungs occurred. Gary appeared at the door as my vision darkened then extinguished altogether. I was dead.

  A SIMPLE EXPLANATION FOR ANTHONY THE SILENT

  In every young person’s life there comes the realisation that the world is not as clear cut as Mother and Father had painted it. Usually this happens at school, when mixing with contemporaries. Child’s simple cosseted ideals are swiftly washed away in a swathe of pack mentality. For Little Tony, however, it came about in a most unexpected place and way.

  Little Tony wasn’t short – far from it. He was rather tall for his meagre seven years, and not thin, and he’d never been to school. In fact, Little Tony had never left the house. He was Little Tony because of his intelligence. It was low. So low, in fact, that his parents deemed it inappropriate to educate him at all. He would be much better served by isolation, they decided, and so the boy found himself constantly present in just a single room. A bucket for his waste, and his meals thrust through a hatch at the bottom of the door, Little Tony knew nothing of the outside world. If truth be told, it could be said he didn’t want to know. He was happy to wee and poo both in (and quite often around) his bucket, and feast upon the scraps Mother and Father shoved through the hatch. So contented was Little Tony, that he could occupy his time entirely free from thought. He knew no different, and having no access to any stimulation other than his own flat mind alleviated him from resentment. His parents weren’t his captors, they were just unseen deliverers of sustenance. Little Tony never even gave any thought as to how his bucket got emptied. It just did. One minute he’d be feeling sleepy, the next he’d wake up and his room was clean. It was his room, but he didn’t feel possessive over it. There was simply no need to feel possessive. He’d never had any interaction with anyone, not even his own parents above a superficial level, and so knew nothing of possession. He knew nothing of anything, except that he pissed and shat in the bucket and ate from the tray shoved through the hatch. That was his entire world.

  Life wasn’t slow in Little Tony’s room. It wasn’t quick either. Time just didn’t exist at all. There were no windows to ascertain day and night; only the single bulb dangling from the ceiling did that. When it went out, the boy felt sleepy and then he woke up when it came back on. He didn’t think anything of sleep, it was just something that happened. It was neither bad nor good, it was just an occurrence like the bucket and the food tray. There was nothing else apart from these in the room, save for the rug he slept on. Now that could have been instinct – using it to sleep on – for Little Tony could possibly sense that it felt more comfortable than the bare floorboards. Not that he knew what a rug or floorboards were. He didn’t want to know either; he was quite happy existing in blissful ignorance. There he would lay, on the rug that was possibly his – though he found no need to insist on ownership over it – staring up at the yellow ceiling. The light only ever cast the same circle-shaped shadow on it – never moving, never relenting its presence. He would stare up at it, not much thought going through his head. He never had a care in the world (or room) to trouble him. His food would always arrive, the bucket would always get emptied and the light would always go off and come back on again. Mother and F
ather were the other side of the door, and Little Tony seemed to know this. That was their life, and this was his. Nothing had ever happened to shatter that. And then one day, his food tray did not arrive.

  At first, the boy was not concerned. Concern had never been a concern of his. And, time did not exist here. But, as the period of the tray of food not appearing extended, Little Tony began to feel like he needed the food. This new sensation grew and grew, the concept of time beginning to show glimpses of formation in the boy’s head. After two days, the contents of the bucket were looking decidedly enticing and Little Tony was forced to consume them. Instinct registered – this was not a good idea. But, it was his only idea. Rather quickly it made him feel even worse than before. His bubble had been well and truly burst. Suddenly half of him felt really awful, whilst the other half felt like he’d just been born this very second. All at once he knew stuff – in the sense that he was aware there were actual emotions. He sensed desire, anger, abandonment. The door now looked like it led somewhere else, away from this awful place. Little Tony now wanted to be away from this room – only briefly – then he just wanted things to go back to how they were before. The sheer horror of having to change things didn’t bear thinking about. Surely Mother and Father would just start up the old routine again? That was the best possible outcome, the boy felt. This was all new to him, all these ideas and feelings, and he wasn’t too fond of them.

  Suddenly the door opened. It was the first time Little Tony had actually seen it opening for himself, though by now he had reasoned that that is what it did. In stepped a strange figure in a strange uniform. ‘Anthony,’ he called out as he just stood there looking at him. ‘My name is Henry Noose, and I’m from the police. Are you okay, Anthony?’