[Brenda & Effie 02] - Something Borrowed

by Paul Magrs

  I scald over with shame and I feel like simply turning tail and fleeing from this dreadful place. Henry puts a heavy, consoling hand on my shoulder and I shrug him off. I don’t want him calling me ‘old thing’ and being all solicitous just now.

  Right now I want action.

  Then, breaking into our scene, the huge and shattering voice of Goomba comes booming out of the wooden effigy. ‘Gooommmbaaa will speeaaak to youooo!’

  We are swept along on a tide of zombie neighbours. They are all filthy now, from building the pyre and the mud I was whipping up everywhere. Only Henry and I aren’t wearing madly ecstatic expressions at the sound of Goomba’s voice.

  ‘I am almost at the critical moment,’ says the creature, ‘of making my departure from this world, at long last.’

  A ragged cheer at this, from his exhausted acolytes.

  ‘You have served me well, you human beings from the place known as Whitby. Goomba has waited many thousands of years to be served so well. You will be rewarded too, in time.’

  I pipe up then. ‘Hello? Goomba? Could I have a word?’

  The wooden god’s eyes blaze. He is an awesome sight, it has to be said, with those hungry flames ravishing him, and growing ever higher.

  ‘Who addresses Goomba?’ the creature demands. ‘Who still has a will of their own?’ His twiggy claws flex irritably.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be me,’ I shout.

  ‘Brendaaa,’ he groans. ‘You promised meee. I called out to you for help . . . I thought you were going to save meee . . .’

  ‘I promised you nothing,’ I yell. ‘I pitied you, being trapped underground by Mu-Mu. I listened to your cries in my head. I had no choice but to listen. And maybe I would indeed have helped you. But not now, Goomba. Not now that I know you are planning to sacrifice someone in order to get your own way.’

  Goomba lets out an ear-splitting cry of rage. ‘Bring him forth! Bring forth the sacrificial pilot!’

  Now Effie, Sheila, and the other wild-haired women take up a ragged chant. Beside me, Henry has gone oddly stiff.

  ‘Oh, no, Henry,’ I whisper. ‘Not you.’

  ‘I’m . . . afraid so, old thing. Um.’ He is struggling to maintain control of himself. His movements are jerky and heavy, as if he is battling some incredible, invisible force. ‘I knew it. I knew it would be me. Um. In the end.’

  The worshippers pounce and Henry is dragged away from me. He hangs his head in shame and helplessness. I shriek and howl my complaints, but the crowd lays hands on me and holds me back. I am pinned to the ground. And they are forcing Henry to walk right up to that bonfire. He climbs up the rickety ladder. He is shoved inside the very head of Goomba. A huge cry of satisfaction comes from the bamboo god then, and his acolytes echo it.

  I sit up and struggle to see Henry, silhouetted, slumped inside the creature’s head. He has just given up. He knows that if he does this thing, then Goomba will go. We will all be saved.

  ‘Burn him! Burn him!’ shrieks Effie. She sways and exhorts the crowd to sing with her. ‘Send Goomba home! Send him home!’

  I am buried under their stampeding feet as they surge dangerously close to Goomba. I am trampled underfoot and for a moment I, too, feel like giving up. It seems absolutely hopeless.

  ‘Burn him! Come home! Burn him!’ Goomba’s cracked voice shudders through the very ground beneath us.

  The bonfire makes such a vast noise. More cries go up as the flames start to rise. Goomba shrieks in orgasmic pain and triumph.

  And I decide, no. I’m not putting up with this.

  Henry is my friend, and precious few of those have stuck with me over the years.

  I simply have to save him.

  But I am dragged down in the slimy, ashy mud. A creature of clay, as High Priestess Effie told me. I can barely lift myself on to my knees to see what is happening. I’m a mass of pain where the heedless acolytes have kicked and pummelled and trampled over me in their haste to rush to the burning.

  But I struggle and I heave and, at last, I get myself up on my feet.

  Now it’s my turn to bellow in triumph.

  Before I know it I’m on the rampage.

  I see red. I lash out with both flailing fists. I crack jaws. Snap arms. Despatch a few swift, deadly kicks up the arse. I cut a swathe through the crowd and they shrink back in fear, and so they should.

  ‘Get baaaaack! Do not approach Goooommmbaaa!’ howls Effie, keeping herself a safe distance from me. She knows I’m a devil in a hand-to-hand fight. ‘Keeep away from Gooommbaaa!’

  Goomba himself is oblivious of what’s happening. He moans and twists in the flames. I gasp then, because the flames look terribly high by now. Henry can’t have many minutes left.

  I plunge forward. I hunch my shoulders and plough through the crowd, buffeted by the force of the heat. I make my way to one side of the burning pyre where, as I suspected, the flames haven’t been quite so successful in catching the wood. Suddenly – before I can even question the wisdom of it – I am standing on the heap of branches at Goomba’s feet. And I can see there’s a way – still relatively untouched by flame – up which I can climb. There are footholds and handholds, all up the back of the creature.

  I am yanking myself up the hot, twisting branches of the wooden god’s calves, then the thicker, woven bamboo of his thighs.

  ‘Stooooop heeerrrr!’ shrieks Effie, above all the thunderous noise. But none of them would dare to follow me now. They shrink back; I can see them through the gaps in the wicker. They watch, appalled, as I clamber upwards.

  I am almost flung off, a couple of times. I ache and sweat like mad. I scale up his neck, hand over hand, praying that Goomba isn’t able to somehow throw me off. But I am strong and determined. I reach the head, which is latticed and woven from bamboo. Quite ingenious, really, the way his acolytes built him.

  But there is no time. I rattle on the wooden bars of the cage. I half squeeze my bulky self through a gap and I yell to get Henry’s attention. ‘Henry Cleavis!’ I shout. ‘Don’t just sit there! Don’t give up!’

  But can he hear me over Goomba’s savage, primordial cries?

  We’re both going to be burned to cinders together. This is it for both of us.

  Henry is slumped by one of the glowing eye cavities. He looks just about dead with heat exhaustion and mind control.

  ‘Henry, it’s me! I’ve come to get you out of here!’

  He jerks awake at the sound of my voice. ‘What . . .?’

  Below, the noise is horrendous. The crowd is baying for my blood. I am blaspheming against Goomba by being here, by attempting this.

  ‘Get away, Brenda,’ Henry splutters. He waves at me feebly. ‘We need to be rid of Goomba. This is the only way. But you . . . you need to save yourself, Brenda. You’re too precious . . .’ Henry’s face contorts as he forces out the words. He is struggling to retain control of his own mind.

  I wrench apart the bamboo, finding that it splits and shreds quite satisfyingly in my fists. ‘I won’t leave you, Henry,’ I shout. ‘You’re coming down from here with me.’ It’s hard to catch my breath, though, in the choking black fumes. My eyes are stinging like crazy, but I reach my hands out to him. I have to be strong.

  ‘The flames are too high!’ Henry cries. ‘We’ll never make it down!’

  Then he catches my eye. Through the streaming tears and liquid fury of the air, he sees my expression. He knows how serious I am. He knows I won’t climb back down without him. My clothes are smouldering. It’s starting to hurt. But I am not budging until he staggers to his feet.

  He comes close enough for me to grab hold of his arms and drag him across the cell. The whole construction is starting to rock. Goomba must have realised that something is going on. Something that jeopardises his plan. The fearsome red orbs of those eyes are flashing horribly. ‘Thank you, Brenda.’ Henry coughs. I help him haul himself through the gap in the wood. I hang on by one arm as he yanks himself free.

  And then we are out in the air. S
uspended above the garden. Still in mortal danger. But at least Goomba is deprived of his pilot.

  Together Henry and I climb backwards down the body of Goomba. Henry shakes and almost drops off the side as the great creature twists and shudders, but I grab him each time.

  We jump the last few yards on to the churned-up lawn. We’re coughing our guts up. But Henry is safe. I help him to his feet and hold him in a bear hug.

  He says something, right in my ear, but I don’t hear it. There is an almighty racket from Goomba’s worshippers. They don’t sound very happy at all.

  ‘Gooommbaaa!’ cries High Priestess Effie. ‘Talk to us! Speak to us! Why have you gone so quiet?’

  It’s true. The creature has stopped his howling protest. All we can hear is the fire and the noise of the human crowd.

  Henry steps forward and says, ‘The effigy is dead. Goomba is no more.’

  ‘Nooo,’ Effie gasps. Her lackeys wail and gnash their teeth. Then Effie’s eyes are flashing that terrible red. ‘Goomba!’ she shrieks. ‘Goomba is gone! And he took none of us with him . . . to the stars!’

  And then Effie collapses on to the ruined lawn.

  Henry and I go running, and all the others crowd round her. Effie is lying too close to the spitting flames. Her velvet frock is starting to scorch and, together, we only just manage to get her away before she goes up in a flash.

  The servants of Goomba suddenly stop in their tracks.

  It is as if everyone remembers something very important, all at the same time. They jerk awake and stare about themselves.

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ says Robert, looking alarmed at the scene around him.

  Then he and Henry and I cluster about Effie. ‘Give her air,’ Henry says. ‘Step back.’ He claps me quickly on the shoulder. ‘Well done, you. You’ve saved us all, you know.’

  I don’t get a chance to bask in that moment. We all watch as a weird, will-o’-the-wisp thing comes whooshing out of Effie’s unconscious body. It is like smoke, pouring out of her. It joins the smoke from the pyre as the wickerwork effigy finally catches light and is suffused in flame. All that smoke plunges upward into the dense night sky.

  What remains of Goomba crackles and shivers and blazes away. I can hear the ex-acolytes calling out in pain and frantic confusion. Sheila Manchu sounds the most alarmed and confused of them all, as she regains her wits, and stares in horror at the devastation of her beer garden.

  As the next hour ticks by, hardly anything remains of what was on the pyre.

  Ambulances come and go. We all gabble excitedly about what has happened. We watch Effie come to, and she’s got no memory of what she’s been up to. She just looks amazed to be her own self again and I know I’ll face some stiff questions in the morning.

  Robert comes over to me at one point and says, ‘This was all you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Hm?’ I smile. My wig is hanging on by threads, and I must look a terrible sight.

  ‘You’ve rescued us all again, haven’t you, Brenda?’ he asks.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say. ‘Not quite.’

  Sheila totters over and Henry has to support her. ‘Has Goomba gone?’ she asks me.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Henry says. ‘Brenda sent him away for ever. But not where he wanted to go. Without a pilot, he just burned up. There’ll be nothing left of him.’

  It makes me feel a bit sad, really, as Henry says this.

  But then there is a crowd gathering about me, congratulating me, and asking me how I knew what to do. And I’m aware of Effie glaring at me across the beer garden, furious at being left out at the end.

  It’s several days later that things start to feel as if they are getting back to normal.

  I have some new guests to look after in my B&B, and that helps. I clean the place from top to bottom prior to their arrival, and fuss over them a bit – perhaps too much – once they are under my roof.

  I don’t see anything of Henry. I can’t quite face going up to the Miramar for a few days. I’ve seen quite enough of it. And he doesn’t come to see me, either. I think we are giving each other a little bit of – as they say – space.

  There is an embarrassing editorial in The Willing Spirit written by Mrs Claus. It gushes on about my bravery in rescuing Henry and all the others from the out-of-control bonfire. Of course the paper plays down the supernatural element. But I am a heroine of the town, nevertheless. I get greeted in the street once my picture’s been on the front of the local rag and, I have to say it, I quite enjoy the whole thing.

  I’m having cinnamon toast and a pot of tea with Effie in the Walrus and the Carpenter on the morning the paper comes out, and I can tell she’s miffed about it. I turn the subject to her instead. I ask her: ‘Are you back to normal now? No bad after-effects from your . . . possession?’ I lower my voice towards the end of the question.

  Effie rolls her eyes. ‘Of course there’re not. Of course I’m back to normal. Though I don’t know why you insist on making such a big deal about it all.’

  She doesn’t remember details. She didn’t see the worst of it. Perhaps that’s just as well. Another terrifying affair sorted out, and no ill effects.

  Effie crunches down irritably on her golden toast. I think what’s mollified her more than anything is my telling her that we found a rare copy of Tyler’s book hidden away on her shelves. And she was glad to hear that it was the information in that book which ultimately saved the day. She positively beamed at this bit of news. ‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘Those books have always been rather special and precious to me.’

  That’s Effie for you. You have to keep her sweet.

  She rolls her eyes again as the café door shoots open, and we are joined by Robert.

  ‘I knew I’d find you here at this time,’ he says, sitting with us. He looks all windswept and handsome as we bunk along the banquette for him.

  ‘These teatimes of ours are sacrosanct, young man,’ Effie tells him haughtily. ‘We don’t expect all and sundry to come joining us.’

  He suppresses a smile at this. ‘There’s something I need to tell Brenda.’ Now he looks at me seriously. Of course it has to be bad news. My heart plummets and I put down my china cup. No one looks at you like that without its being bad news.

  ‘What is it?’

  He swallows. ‘Henry has gone. He checked out late this morning. Took all his stuff with him, all his bags.’

  ‘What?’ gasps Effie. I hang my head. I knew it would be this.

  ‘He took a taxi to the station. He was catching the train south. He didn’t leave any messages or anything. I asked him . . . but he said no. No messages.’ Robert looks at me. ‘I’m so sorry, Brenda.’

  ‘He’s gone?’ caws Effie. ‘Just like that? Without a by-your-leave, or an excuse, or . . .?’

  Robert shakes his head. I try to shush Effie.

  ‘But what about Brenda?’ Effie cries, scandalised. ‘He can’t just leave her! Not without saying goodbye, even!’

  I pat her arm. She’s getting too loud. Heads are turning. ‘He can if he wants, Effie. He didn’t make any . . . I don’t know, promises, or anything, did he? It wasn’t like we had . . . any kind of understanding . . .’I

  ‘Yes, but,’ Effie says. She looks completely shocked. I’m obscurely pleased that she is so angry on my behalf.

  ‘There’s no use me whingeing about it.’ I sigh. ‘Henry is his own person. He always was. And anyway, Effie, it was you who said – didn’t you – that he was only here for work.’

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘That’s true, but . . .’

  ‘So maybe he thinks his work here is over. Monster-hunting. The deed is done. The adventure is over. It’s time to go.’

  Effie opens her mouth to speak, and closes it. There’s nothing more to say.

  Robert gets up again. ‘I’m sorry for bringing bad news. But I knew I had to tell you. When he said he wasn’t leaving you a message . . . I just knew I had to come and find you . . .’

  I pat his hand. ‘Thank you, l
ovely.’

  And Robert goes, back into the streets of the ramshackle old town.

  I look at Effie and see that she’s dying to take umbrage again. She’s dying to say that she never liked Henry all along. She knew he was going to let me down. Break my heart.

  ‘So here we are,’ I tell her, mock cheerfully. ‘Two batty old spinsters in a quiet northern town. Looking for excitement again.’

  She tuts. ‘I wouldn’t be too keen on finding excitement. Not just yet.’

  We finish our tea, pay our bill, and link arms as we walk back through town, over the bridge and across the harbour.

  ‘It was my spare parts that did his head in,’ I say.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘When Henry came face to face with all my spares. When he saw them busying about like that. Like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. He couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t face the truth of what I am. I mean, he knows all right. He’s always known. But seeing the truth of it. That I’m not your average old lady. I think that put him right off me, to be honest.’

  We stroll along slowly, past lobster pots and fishing boats, and the gulls are shrieking and diving about us. Effie mulls over what I’ve said. She knows it’s right. Even Cleavis – a man so used to monsters – couldn’t cope with the idea of what I really am. And so he has run out on me, and I’m alone again.

  Effie surprises me then. ‘Well, it’s his loss,’ she says briskly.

  Which sounds, to me, uncannily close to a compliment.

  But it’s not over yet.

  When I get back to mine and find the post on the doormat, my first thought is: oh, not silly buggers again. No more poison pen letters, please!

  Because I don’t recognise the stationery or the handwriting on the letter that’s lying there for me.

  Horrible, jagged handwriting. Crude letters on cheap paper.

  I open it up and hold my breath as I read. Even before I start, I know it’s going to be something awful.