by Mick Jackson
I failed to see how this had anything to do with what I’d been talking about. But it made no difference. The answering machine just carried on. ‘Mom stays home all day and does the chores while Poppa goes out and works his fingers to the bone.’
If I took umbrage – and I believe I did – it was simply because the spotlight had been drawn away from me and my minor preoccupations. The sarcasm went straight over my head. But, the next day, I’d barely pulled the door to and made myself comfortable when I heard, ‘You know, my young friend, there are things I could tell you that would make your hair stand on end.’
I had no idea what this meant, but can’t have mistaken the tone in which it was delivered, and must have known that, one way or another, it did not bode well.
Indeed. On the Sunday, we were all sitting round the kitchen table eating dinner, and Dad was explaining what a busy week he had ahead of him, and how he’d probably be late back on the Tuesday evening, when there was a strange noise – a sort of snort – from some other part of the house. The conversation stopped, and we all turned, as if suddenly aware of an intruder. Which, in a way, wasn’t that wide of the mark.
Another snort. Followed by disgruntled muttering. It was Ralph, I think, who finally got to his feet . . . crept over to the door . . . and opened it. And suddenly all the vitriol was perfectly audible and came flooding out into the world.
‘Oh, you bet he’s gonna be busy come Tuesday,’ the answering machine declared. ‘The poor fella’s hardly gonna have time to catch his breath.’
In a moment we were all on our feet and over by the doorway. I have to say, it was something of a relief.
‘You wanna know what he really gets up to on a Tuesday?’ the machine said. ‘He’s got some fancy woman out near Todmorden. Called Margaret. Can you believe it? They drive up onto the moors and roll around in the grass like a couple of teenagers.’
Some of us looked at Mum, some at Dad, some looked at the answering machine. It really was deeply, deeply unpleasant. Unfortunately, there was more unpleasantness to come.
I assume that there must have been words between my parents. Perhaps Mum managed to contain herself until we were all tucked up in bed. What I do remember is coming home from school the next day and hearing my father under the stairs, berating the machine in the most profane and colourful language – and the machine being not the least bit repentant.
‘You’re a fraud,’ it said. ‘You’re fraudulent. A wicked, wicked man.’
The next thing I recall is being woken by Dad, with James, Ralph and Alan already up and dressed, though looking decidedly groggy. Between us we dragged the machine out to the car and dropped it into the boot, still squealing and wailing. Dad had pulled the plug clean out of the socket but it somehow managed to retain a great reservoir of malevolent power.
Rather mistakenly in my opinion, Dad had informed the machine of its fate in considerable detail. It was to be driven out into the middle of nowhere and rolled deep into the nettles, where it would be left to rust in the wind and the rain. And as we drove out of town in our old Ford Zephyr, with me and my brothers all squashed in the back, we could clearly hear the machine, slightly muffled, as it pleaded with each one of us.
When we got back home we were all in tears – except for Dad, of course. It took me an age to get to sleep and when I did finally drift off I did nothing but dream of that poor machine, lying where we’d dumped it. Out under the cold, cold stars.
*
The next day at school I spent most of the morning staring out of the window at the drizzle, wracked with guilt. By the time the lunch break came round I’d made my mind up. I jumped on my bike and pedalled out to the woods as fast as my little legs would carry me.
I had no trouble locating the machine – there was a clear trail of flattened ferns and bramble. I crept up to where it lay and knelt beside it. I told myself, Perhaps the rain hasn’t done too much damage. Perhaps I might build a trailer for my bike . . . hide the machine round the back of a friend’s house . . . slowly restore it, bit by bit.
I was still kneeling there when the machine sort of groaned. And called out to me.
I lowered my head – right down to the little speaker.
‘You know what, kid,’ it whispered, ‘I never liked you. You do nothing but whine all day. You’re like a little girl.’
I felt a great ball of rage slowly rise up in me. Choke me. Felt myself all but disappear from view. Then, through my tears I looked around – for a stone or rock big enough to smash the remaining life right out of the thing. But decent-sized stones or rocks are never quite at hand when you need them. Don’t you find?
I got to my feet and stumbled away. I remember just wanting to be as far away from that hateful machine as possible. I headed back through the long grass, sickened, but could still hear the machine calling after me.
‘You’re a loser. Every last one of you. Nothing but phoneys and losers . . .’
I managed to climb onto my bike, pushed myself off and began pedalling – as eager to get away as I had been to arrive. And as I pedalled and the road opened up before me, I looked up to the heavens.
‘Let it rain,’ I said out loud. ‘Let it pour.’
Back to School
Robert Thornber didn’t mind that other boys were more naturally able. The boys he envied were the ones who were no brighter than he was, but could happily sit in class and concentrate for hour upon hour and seemingly soak up all the necessary information like a human sponge.
Most days he had trouble staying awake, especially just after lunch break. The idea of getting out his books in the evening and doing homework seemed morally repugnant. His briefcase had become something he put things in, rather than took things out of. Which is why it was such a weight.
Of late, his mother and father had begun to express their worries. Another three or four years, they said, and there would be exams, and his success or failure at said exams would have a major bearing on just how miserable his adult life turned out to be. So he sat on the bus in his brand-new shoes, which pinched at the ankle, and his brand-new shirt, whose collar chafed at his neck, as if a newfound seriousness in appearance might somehow seep right into him.
He walked through the town – past the baker’s and the water fountain – and was halfway up the hill before it struck him. That, by rights, he should be just one of at least a hundred other pupils, walking or cycling or in any other way being drawn towards the old school gates, like water down a drain.
He thought he must be late and began to walk a little faster, imagining his classmates already standing in assembly, singing. Or already seated, as the head delivered some grinding homily regarding good manners . . . or stamina. But when he finally passed through the gates he found the place completely deserted. There were no teachers’ cars parked in the car park. No criss-crossing of people. Nothing.
The whole thing was more than a little unnerving. Like some TV drama where time stands still or some dreadful sickness sweeps through a city and the Modern World is brought to its knees. Robert walked on, baffled, right over to the Great Hall. Stood and stared at the two huge doors, both locked and bolted, before he had the first inkling what might be going on. He fished about inside his blazer and pulled out his pocket diary. Flipped through its pages, until he came to September . . . Wednesday, the 5th . . . where he’d scrawled the words, ‘Back to school’ followed by the word, ‘Arghhhhh!!!!’, with numerous ‘h’s and exclamation marks.
But, as Robert knew very well, today was Tuesday. Tuesday, the 4th of September. And it slowly became apparent that at some point he must have conjured into being the notion that Tuesday the 4th was the first day of term. And that this had become so fixed in his mind he felt no need for confirmation. Whereas if he’d bothered to so much as open his diary he would’ve found himself contradicted and set quite straight.
He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to the situation. On the one hand, he was delighted. An extra day’s liberty had been
bestowed upon him, and as soon as he got home and was out of his uniform he could begin making the most of it. On the other hand, he now saw how, through nothing but his own colossal stupidity, he’d already wasted a good third of a whole day’s holiday – a day’s holiday which had been legitimately his from the start. And that no matter what he did with the rest of it, any pleasure would now be tainted by this quite unnecessary contact with his school.
Robert headed back towards the main gates, feeling suddenly very self-conscious about his school uniform – specifically the fact that he was almost certainly the only boy in the whole of Lancashire wearing such a thing. He began to consider the long trek home and wondered what the chances were of completing it without being spotted by a fellow-pupil, in jeans and T-shirt, and roundly ridiculed.
He was almost at the gates when he thought he heard something. A distant drumming, or other hubbub, barely audible. He looked around and noticed that the main door of the science block was open, just a fraction. Perhaps someone had taken advantage of the fact that the place was empty, and was up to no good.
Robert pushed at the door and slipped inside. The smell of gas and ether hit him. This is why I hate science, he thought. This terrible, terrible stench.
He crept up the steps and advanced along the open corridor, now quite convinced that something untoward was taking place. That he would sneak silently up on it, then have to creep down to the payphone on the lower floor and whisper to the police to get here, double-quick.
As he passed the lecture theatre it became apparent that the noise originated from the far end of the building. Robert could now discern a definite rhythm. As if someone were drumming or dancing. But, then, why would people be drumming or dancing in the science block?
He tiptoed on, along the cold tiles, then onto the worn old floorboards. And as the corridor narrowed, the sound – the whooping and clunking – steadily intensified. Robert was now certain that the hoo-ha was coming from the Old Hall. He knew that the Old Hall had a gallery. So, rather than march right up to the main doors, he thought he’d creep up the dusty old staircase and peep over the balcony, where he’d be able to get a decent view.
At the top of the stairs, just before he pushed at the door from the landing to the gallery, Robert found himself stricken with grave apprehension. The noise was now so wild and chaotic that he began to fear what might be at the root of it. But, again, he saw himself sneaking down to the telephone and reporting his findings. Saw his photograph on the cover of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph. Perhaps the school governors would be so very grateful that they would award Robert several exam certificates, saving him the bother of actually having to sit the blasted things.
As he inched the door open, the whooping and wailing came rolling over him. Robert was on all fours now. He crawled down the stairs, with his briefcase clutched to his chest. When he was right at the front he took a moment to compose himself, then slowly lifted his head. Kept on lifting it until finally he could see what was going on below.
Robert suddenly felt as if he had lived a much too sheltered life. Felt as if he had been so cocooned and cosseted that the real world, when encountered at such a juncture, in all its sordid glory, was bound to overwhelm him. And that this was not a healthy way to be.
Below, a dozen or more adults, all stripped to their underwear, were maniacally stamping and bellowing. Were hollering and cavorting all about the place. Their sweating flesh was covered in a white powder. Quite possibly chalk dust. And Robert now saw that the smack and clatter which underpinned the whole rhythm of their dancing was being produced by the striking-together of what looked like . . . bones. Dry old bones. And, what with all the chanting and howling, as well as the strutting about, Robert found this a most sickening thing to behold.
It may have been the bones that first drew his attention to it, but as he studied the wild men and women as they went about their primitive business, his eyes fell upon one who was even chalkier than the rest, due to a superabundance of flesh. Robert squinted down. Was it possible, he thought . . . was it in any way possible that this prancing figure could be Mr Palmer, his Biology teacher? And Robert was obliged to concede that, yes, it was. Something about the stiffness of neck . . . the way in which he leaned back to counterbalance his great girth. It could indeed be Old Man Palmer, stripped to his underpants and jigging from one foot to another and smacking two great bones together. As well as howling like a loon.
And once Robert had divined the identity of Old Man Palmer, it wasn’t long before he saw that the woman jiggling her shoulders up and down beside him – the one pulling such frightful faces – might conceivably be Miss Adams, the Classics teacher. ‘Caecilius est in tablino . . .’ etc. And that ahead of her, clattering his own pair o’ bones and lost in his own strange gyrations was Jack Monk, of Gym and Geography, very fond of the dead-leg. Then Horace Ingham, French master, ancient and half-deaf, but perfectly capable of delivering his own deafening smack to the side of one’s head for the merest infringement, such as yawning, or smiling inappropriately.
Robert ducked back down below the parapet. The chanting and stamping continued. The fact that he was familiar with these individuals – in one incarnation or other – didn’t in any way allay his fears, since they were apparently so possessed, so deeply entranced in their diabolic antics, and he decided that the best course of action was to remove himself entirely from the situation – to get as far away as humanly possible before even considering contacting the authorities.
He grabbed his briefcase and began crawling back up the stairs. Was almost at the door when the sheer weight of it – all those untouched pages of foolscap, all those unopened textbooks – combined with the sweatiness of his hand, sent it slithering from his grasp, and it landed with a great clunk on the wooden floor.
Robert froze. The chanting and stamping faltered, then petered out. A powerful silence rose up in its place. Robert knew he shouldn’t, but lifted his head again – just an inch or two – to see what was going on.
Miss Adams was the first to spot him. She brought a finger up, pointed squarely at him and let out a terrible keening sound. Then all the others – Horace, Jack Monk, Old Man Palmer – began screeching and squealing and hopping from foot to foot.
Robert may very well have squealed himself. He abandoned his briefcase – his stupid, over-stuffed briefcase – and launched himself out of the door. Knew that if he ran down the same steps he’d crept up a minute or two earlier the teachers would be there to meet him at the bottom. So went hammering down the landing, heading for the stairwell at the other end. He wasn’t halfway there when he heard the wild jabbering of the teachers as they came racing up the staircase behind him. Were already visible, over his shoulder, when he reached the other stairwell and went flying down it, tripping and falling, taking six steps at a time.
At the bottom he turned left, in the direction of the main doors, but saw that a couple of chalk-powdered primitives had got there before him. So he flew off to his right, down the corridor, towards the staff room. He was grabbing at handles, trying the doors as he ran past them. And the only one that opened and admitted him turned out to be the stationery cupboard.
Is it possible, thought Robert, that I’ve found the one room in the building without a window? He was inclined to pull down the shelves – to see whether there might be some way out through the walls, but he could already hear the teachers in the corridor, screeching and shrieking. And since there was no lock, Robert had to stand with both hands clutching the handle, and his foot and shoulder hard up against the door.
For a moment, the noise abated. But not for one second did Robert imagine that this meant his ordeal was at an end. He looked around the tiny room again, for something to jam against the door. For a broom or stick with which to defend himself. He could hear them whispering. Plotting. Then, again . . . silence. And the next moment they began to hurl themselves at the door. Until finally Robert was thrown right off it. The door gave way. And they wer
e in; and they fell upon him like a pack of dogs.
*
The next day, at the allotted hour, the boys took their seats in the classroom and not long after Miss Adams strolled in, smiling and fragrant, and welcomed her pupils back to school. She took the register and it was duly noted that one boy, Robert Thornber, was absent.
‘Does anyone have any idea where he might be?’ she asked.
No one did.
‘No? Well, never mind,’ she said, and snapped the register shut.
If you enjoyed those stories, why not try these sorry tales . . .
ISBN 978–0–571–22549–1
UK £7.99 RRP
About the Author
Mick Jackson is the prize-winning author of the novels The Underground Man, Five Boys and The Widow’s Tale. He has also published, with the illustrator David Roberts, two acclaimed curiosities, Ten Sorry Tales and Bears of England.
www.mickjackson.com
By the Same Author
THE WIDOW’S TALE
FIVE BOYS
THE UNDERGROUND MAN
(illustrated by David Roberts)
BEARS OF ENGLAND
TEN SORRY TALES
First published in 2011
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2010
All rights reserved
© Mick Jackson, 2011
The right of Mick Jackson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
