An extract from my first novel, ‘Mercian Nights’.
(A.K.A. ‘What happens when you get a few years of comments you’ve made on other people’s posts on social media and write a story around them where every line of dialogue is the comments you made taken completely out of context.)
“Ducks are cute. Yeah.” Castor bowed his head, sighing, “They’re also very sinister.”
I glanced over at Pollox. The switchblade in his hand glinting menacingly, catching the glare from the overhead lights as he span it deliberately in his hand.
“Yeah.” Castor continued, “There was a bunch of them outside my house last night. Wearing balaclavas and carrying sticks. One of them was leaning on my fence with a smoke hanging out of its beak.”
Castor looked at Pollux, nodding towards the knife in his hand.
“It was casually picking at its flipper foot with a knife just like that. Castor, old man, I thought. I’m not going out. Gonna go to bed and stay there forever, hiding under the covers.”
Pollux smiled. The sort of smile that you know isn’t really any kind of smile at all.
“A duck, brother?” he said.
Castor looked hurt. Crestfallen He always hung on his brother’s words. The judgement in his voice was easily heard. He looked away.
“They are very cunning.” He said, “There was a man in town the night before last, holding one of those signs. The sort that usually talk about the end of the world. It simply said, ‘watch the skies.’.”
I told him I just hoped the crows don’t kick off. Their blackness has always unsettled me. A portal into the shadows.
Castor smiled. Pollux continued to fidget with his blade. There was tension. Almost unbearable. But not quite.
I looked at Castor, returning his smile. I told him about the murder of crows I had witnessed a few nights before things…started to go wrong.
“They had been out all night at a nightclub, they just got home. The big tree at the end of my garden? You know the one.” I said.
Castor nodded sagely. Pollux looked up, finally, a glint of recognition in his eyes. His mind probably hooked on to the word ‘murder’, nothing more.
“They were still buzzing.” I continued, “Then one of them remembered that they had a fridge full of pizza leftover from yesterday, and it didn’t have pineapple on it.”
“I rode past Donald Duck and a massive Minion the other day.” said Pollux. His sudden outburst forcing me to visibly shudder, “It’s a great thing. But it made me think I was going mad for a minute.”
Pollux dropped his eyes once more to his blade, slowly spinning it. His expression, having lit up for the briefest of moments, settled back into his usual grim countenance.
Pollux. So dark. So troubled. He used to be full of light. Of laughter. Of compassion. He had changed. We all had. But Pollux most of all.
The events of the last few days were bound to change anybody.
On the roof outside, fifteen floors up, two seagulls were deep in conversation.
“How’s my plumage, Cyril?”
“Perfect as usual, Sven. My flippers?”
“Maximum flipperty, my friend. How’s my eyeliner?”
“Beautiful!”
“Right. Let’s go! We’re beautiful? We’re awesome! We’re fucking swans!”
“YEAHHHHH!”
Off they flew.
I asked Pollux about the little, funny videos he used to make and send to us all. I wondered why he’d stopped. After the events of the last few weeks, I guess it’s self-explanatory.
“Well…there was the one where I fell in the water near some swans.” He answered, a wry smile making a brief appearance on his chapped, sunburnt lips. “Not the swan’s fault. They were good. I just thought there was a little too much swearing in that one. And the swans couldn’t stop giggling!”
“Yeah.” Said Castor, glad that his brother had finally joined in, his attention drawn from the silver blade. “Not like seagulls. Bloody divas, the lot of them!”
Pollux snorted derisively. “And the less said about puffins, the better.”
I asked if they were the ones with the naturally evolved, space hopper underbelly.
“No.” said Pollux. His smile faded once more and he went back to staring blankly at his knife.
Silence fell like a scarecrow with termites.
“Bloody ducks.” Sighed Castor.
I looked at him. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past week. What we were doing was not good for any of us. It was taking such a mighty toll. I nodded in agreement.
“I was talking to a mate on the phone the other day.” Castor continued, “He had seen some ducks. I told him, I said, ‘Just you be careful, mate, those fluffy ‘ickle bastards can be vicious. The whole cute thing is just a scam to lull you into a false sense of security. Then they strike!’ But he didn’t pay much attention.”
Castor sighed deeply. The memory scraping through his mind like razor blades.
“Last thing I heard was: ‘Awwww, cute little ducky….AAARRRGGHGHHHHH! IT PECKED MY ARM OFF!!!!’ The line went dead. We never found his body.”
Recent memories were too raw for me to fully process that. It was obvious that Castor felt the same way. His eyes widened and then clamped tightly shut. He took a deep breath and shook his head. Maybe trying to shake the memory loose. Hoping it would fall out of his ear so he didn’t ever have to remember it again.
We sat in silence for far longer than was comfortable. Water dripped steadily somewhere off in a dark corner. Plick. Plick. Plick. The rhythm complicated but somehow calming. Like the world had a heartbeat and as long as that beat continued, you know you’re still alive. You know there is still hope. You know there is still love.
The silence continued. Stretched out. Bent. Full of unspoken things. Dark things that we all wanted to say but couldn’t find the words.
Castor eventually broke the silence,
“Them ducks are up to no good. You just can’t trust a duck.”
I tried to change the subject, tried to inject some casual conversation into the emptiness. Anything was better than dwelling on…what happened. I asked Castor if he remembered the last movie we went to see together, ‘Jack Daw and the Peanut Kid’.
“I remember the tagline,” said Pollux, “’Fuck all of ya, ya stoopid hoomins!’ People really didn’t like that.”
“I remember,” said Castor, suddenly smiling slightly, “Jack and the Kid get tooled up after one too many teenagers pissed in their forest and left beer cans everywhere. ‘The revenge will be swift and furious. Blood will be shed. Limbs will be chopped off and used to beat the people from whom those limbs were chopped off of from. Peanuts will be eaten and the shells discarded with anarchy soaked abandon. Death will come for all on wings of vengeance…..and with a fluffy tail, a little wrinkly nose and cute little fingers.’ Hilarious.”
His face betrayed his words. It didn’t look hilarious.
“Just watch out for pocket sausages!” Said Pollux, quoting another line from the movie.
I remembered how he laughed at that one. His face almost split in two by the huge grin as he turned and repeated it to me in the theatre, tears in his eyes. No such joy on that face now. Each wrinkle seemed deeper than it was last week, his eyes hooded, his skin pale and pallid.
I looked over at Castor. He smiled as a memory fired in his brain.
“The pigeons are no longer in the nest and the monkey butler has taken the cheese!” he said, smiling around the words. “Remember that one?”
I did. I remembered it all. It was the last time we were all truly happy. Before…this.
“I’m hungry!” said Pollux, finally folding his knife and placing it in his jacket pocket.
I agreed with him. I hadn’t eaten for days. We hadn’t had time. I told him that I had a strong craving for lasagne. I reminded him of the huge lasagnes his grandmother used to cook. Massive things. Big, glass baking trays packed full of pasta and meat. Crunchy, brown melted cheese on top.
She would bring them to his house all the time. She was always so concerned that he and Castor weren’t eating enough.
Every time I visited their house, there was leftover lasagne in the fridge. I always had permission to help myself, so I did. Often.
Pollux smiled at the memory, the true light of his soul briefly visible in his eyes before fading once more. Too much had happened. Even his memories had been tarnished.
“There’s never any leftover lasagne when ducks are around.” He sighed,
Castor watched. He was always good at watching. Learning. Examining.
“You know,” he said, “I quite like sprouts. People call them evil, but I quite like them.”
“Sprouts aren’t evil, they’re just misunderstood.” Said Pollux. “Now. Broccoli, that’s another story altogether. I once saw some purple sprouting broccoli eat a man!”
I stared at him, the surprise clearly evident on my face. He stared right back at me, almost daring me to argue with him. I wasn’t going to argue anything with that man. The things I had seen him do! Those memories will never leave me, never give me peace. I will be forever haunted by them.
His face was blank, his eyes blazing. Then a look of confusion rippled over his features.
“Oh wait.” He said, “I got that wrong. It was a man eating some purple sprouting broccoli, not the other way around. It was a very small man and a very large piece of broccoli though, so you can see why I got confused. I still stand by my statement. Just a bit further away from it wearing a sort of ‘he’s not with me’ expression.”
He stared off into the distance, his eyes focussed on some imaginary horizon. If my memories of him would haunt me, I have no idea what his memories were doing to him. This once gentle man. This humanitarian who advocated for peace his entire life. No peace for him now. Never again.
“You’re right about broccoli though, brother,” said Castor, “Always sticking its weird green, knobbly bits in other people’s business. I totally agree. Especially when it’s close to cauli-cheese.”
“Nothing should get involved with cauli-cheese, brother, except cauli-cheese. And me. With a fork. And possibly some peas and little bits of crunchy bacon.”
“My cheese, brother?”
“No, brother. Cow cheese. No one wants your cheese. No one’s ever wanted your cheese!”
Castor looked crestfallen. He glanced down at his feet and seemed to notice something. He lifted one foot and rubbed the toe of his shoe on the back of his other leg, the rough corduroy shining his toecap efficiently.
He looked up again, this time the smile on his face was manic. Over the last few weeks, Castor had become increasingly detached from reality. I guess it was his way of coping with what happened.
“Sprabbage? No! It’s a sprout! Run for your broccoli!” he said.
Pollux looked at his brother with something akin to sympathy. He knew. We all knew. Things would never be the same. Castor was broken. Sweet, young Castor had soured. It was a sad truth.
Castor looked at his brother like a dog who had just completed a trick. His face looking for praise, for recognition, for anything. But it never came.
Castor’s smile faded as quickly as it had arrived and he went back to examining his shoes.
Elsewhere. In darkness. Under a blizzard of sand. The world shifts and drifts in the wind. What once stood proud is buried. What once was buried is revealed.
Many times, the ancient ones spoke of;
‘The Day the Nob of Hobs Lay Unbursted’.
Throughout history, and even before it, there have been tales told of that day. Passed down through the generations. Only ever spoken of, never written down. For fear of evoking some evil god’s fury upon them for daring to believe.
Murmurs and whispers.
Myth and legend.
The Viziers of Egypt spoke of it.
The Legendary Large Lobed Lawyers of Cimmeria had a brain storming session about it.
The learned scholars of Ancient Greece knew the myth well.
The medicine men of the Apache and the Sioux sang about it in their songs.
There was a whole section devoted to the subject in the Great Library of Alexandria before it succumbed to the flames of heathens.
The wise men of Troy discussed it, didn’t understand it, declared war on it and tried to stab it.
It is believed the legend of ‘The Day the Nob of Hobs Lay Unbursted’ was originally encountered scrawled on the surface of a mysterious obsidian tablet found somewhere on the long-changed landmass known as Pangea.
That doesn’t really narrow it down that much but; facts are facts.
Legend tells of a pre-historic civilisation, rich in material wealth and scientific advancement.
They prospered in the harsh environment full of dinosaurs and whopping, great scorpions where so many rivals had fallen.
The unnamed civilisation built a great city in the young mountains.
One dark day, a fireball erupted over the eastern horizon.
It hit the city head on, consigning what had taken centuries to build to oblivion in mere seconds.
Most of the great city was vaporised upon impact.
What few survivors there were wandered back to the ruins of their home days later, when the heat had dissipated.
In the centre of the city, standing proud among the ashes and smouldering debris, un-scorched and unscathed, was a lump of obsidian; 1 cubit tall, 3 palms wide and four fingers thick.
It shone in the afternoon sun. Reflecting the light but at the same time, drawing it in.
The men spoke of the surface of the stone and how it seemed to move when they stared too long.
They felt the stone was sucking the very life-force from their bodies.
The wisest man among them stepped forward to examine the stone.
He saw figures inscribed thereon. Written in a language known to the wise man but containing words that made no sense to his relatively moronic brain.
“Lo.”
They said.
“Listen well to these words and remember them to your progeny.”
They continued.
“The day will come.
When the nations are beset by the sickening of the crow.
And the people’s place in this land will be stationary.
There shall come a time when the sweet oat cake will appear from the place beyond.
When coca bean paste is mixed with the manna of the cow.
And spread evenly on that hallowed oaty surface.
And, when the moon is in the seventh house of Aquarius.
The light of a new day will come from out of the west.
For two prophets will become known.
Their faces twisted in rictus grins.
Forced to smile for eternity and laugh until snot doth dribble from their face holes.
A quantity of sweet, cocoa painted oaty cakes will be brung from afar.
They shall bring forth the Nob of Hobs.
But their hands will be tempered by patience.
For they will refuse their animal instinct to tear the Nob of Hob’s skin.
Their inbuilt desire to rip, with tooth and claw, into the oaty goodness within will be denied.
They will instead sate their hunger on humble broth flavoured with the flowering head of the brassica.
The Devourer of Innocence
The Hob of Nobs will lay unbursted.
They will place the Hob of Nobs on cushioning made from caterpillar butt juice.
Thence placed inside a vessel which cannot be trespassed upon by the air.
Built into the vessel will be magicks to protect its treasure.
Grass seed from the land where the sun reigns at the time when night is darkest.
Maggot shaped pockets which draw moisture from the very air itself.
The pockets will guard the Hob of Nobs from wetness and sogginess for all time.
And the vessel shall have its name inscribed upon its surface.
And the name it will say on it will be Bis-Cu-Its.
Lo, will the Hob of Nobs be interred until hunger is felt among the prophets once more.
About three hours later.
Pollux shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The pangs of hunger in my stomach were getting stronger. I remembered a packet of biscuits I had put in the car’s glove box earlier, before we got embroiled in all this.
I asked Pollux to pass the Hob Nobs.
He looked at me with, first surprise, then growing anger.
“One doesn’t just ‘pass the Hob Nobs!’” he growled, “They must be given due deference. Rituals must be performed. Sacred words spoken!”
“Fuck that shit, I’m bloody starving!” said Castor as he wrenched open the car door. He ducked inside and opened the glove box, his fingers closing around the biscuits. As he stood back up he hit his head sharply on the door pillar. He screamed.
Pollux laughed evilly at his brother’s misfortune.
“Bonce bruises are all part of being a biscuit aficionado, I’m afraid,” said Pollux gleefully, “you just have to learn to live with it. Perhaps wear some kind of protective headgear?”
Castor rubbed his head, wincing. Then remembered that he now held a packet of biscuits in his hands and his discomfort vaporised instantly.
“If you can’t take the Hob Nob based violence, get out of the biscuit tin.” Pollux continued, still smiling at his brother’s discomfort and his own misplaced authority, “Head over to the dried pulses and carrot aisle, brother. It would be more you cup of wishy-washy, sprout based tea!”
We shared the biscuits, their meagre number doing little to assuage our hunger.
Castor licked his lips, casually wiping the biscuit crumbs from his chest.
“What we really need,” he said, “is some fried egg butties!”
Just the thought of it made me salivate.
“Different dimension fired egg butties!” said Pollux, his face lighting up once more. He walked over to his brother and put his arm around Castor’s shoulder. “Just like the ones we used to get from the van at the motorway exit near Glapwell, remember? I could never figure out how those egg butties tasted so good. With what’s happened lately, I think I know now. Multidimensional frying pans!”
It made sense. Reality and causality had been fracturing around us for days now. We were starting to get used to it. If you had told me a month ago that an egg fried in a multidimensional frying pan wouldn’t taste like a normal fried egg, it would be hotter and taste like butterflies, I would have called the police.
Now it made a lot more sense than it should. Chaos theory and all that string stuff. I don’t pretend to understand it, but getting first-hand experience brings more than a little comprehension.
Knowing what we now do, I couldn’t think about eggs. They were too, protozoic, too close to creation. I told them both. Don’t trust eggs. Never trust eggs. Not now. Never again.
“You’re probably right.” Agreed Castor, “They’re suspicious.”
“The right egg is always a good egg.” Added Pollux, “The left eggs are sinister.”
“Nuts.” Said Castor, “That’s what we want. Nuts. They’re full of nutrition and really good for you.”
“No.” said Pollux, suddenly looking angry once more, “Nuts are baby trees. You can’t eat baby trees. Baby tree’s lives matter.”
“But at least you can carry them in your pocket.”
“There are other foods you can carry in your pocket.”
“It’s really difficult with soup.”
Silence descended once more, falling over us like a gossamer blanket. Our minds couldn’t separate from the events of the last few weeks for long. History like that is heavy, insistent, and powerful. It has control over the present. No amount of casual conversation about eggs can deflect it for long. It comes creeping back into your mind like evil custard under the bathroom door. It flows slowly, inexorably, but it still flows.
Castor broke the silence once more,
“You know, 65 million years ago, there was huge roast spuds and massive baked beans roaming the Earth! I could really go some roast spuds right now. With some really thick, beefy gravy.”
Pollux turned to his brother once again. That anger flashing in his eyes.
“Gravy! What kind of soft southern cunt needs gravy? Dip yer spuds in gravel like a real man, brother. Ya daft bastard!”
Pollux slapped his brother on the back of the head. Castor winced at the impact. I could tell from his face that, momentarily, he thought about retaliation. But that thought vanished just as quickly as it rose.
“Gary’s Yorkshire pud market,” he said, casting a sideways derisory glance at Castor, “That’s where you need to go. Spuds and gravel in a massive Yorkshire pud. Speciality of his.”
I didn’t like the way this was going. Pollux was getting angry again. The last time I saw that look in his eyes, people died. Lots of people died. I tried to get his mind moving in a different direction. I remembered he always had a love for Cornettos.
“Cornettos,” I said, “Mint choc chip, how about that?”
“Oh fuck yes!” he said, “Even hooligans will stop what they are doing for a Cornetto. As soon as they hear the ice cream van, as soon as they hear that music. They drop their shivs and skip to the van like the rest of us. Holding hands.”
I smiled at the mental image of a bunch of hardened criminals, holding hands and skipping, on their way to pick up ice cream. I liked the fact that my mind was still capable of generating images that didn’t make me feel instantly sick. So many of my mental images lately did that. Images of the dead and dying. Blood and guts. Smashed bones and intestines. The skipping vandals holding hands was a lovely diversion.
Castor looked puzzled, like he was trying to make sense of some insurmountable cosmic problem.
“When does burnt bread become underdone toast?” he asked, “Where exactly is that line? Is toast cooked in an oven actually toast? Or is it baked bread?”
“Castor?” said Pollux.
“Yeah?’
“Have cornflakes tomorrow. You’re far too focussed on toast.”
Castor smiled.
“When this is all over, I am going on a food bender!” he said.
I couldn’t argue with that. It sounded nice.
“Go out to the pub, get a skinful and go home via the chippy.” Said Pollux, “Walk home trying to eat a red hot steak and kidney pie. Or chicken pie.”
“Trinidadian chickens have three legs and radar!”
“Bullshit!”
“I’m telling you!”
“And cake. Lots and lots of cake. Cakey cake. The cakier the better. I know a guy. I’ll set up a meeting.”
I laughed. This seemed like the old days. Before. Light hearted conversation and gentle ribbing. Not blood and killing and death. I tried to keep it going. I told them about my awesome salad recipe.
“Yeah?” asked Pollux, genuinely interested despite himself.
“Yeah.” I said, “Get iceberg and rocket lettuce, cucumber, radishes, onion, tomato, capsicum and carrot.
Peel the carrot and grate it. Slice the cucumber, radishes and onion. Roughly dice the tomato and capsicum. Chop the lettuce into smallish pieces. Put it all in a bowl. Add a dash of olive oil and vinegar, then some salt and pepper. Toss it all together.
Then throw it all in the bin and cook some sausages!”
Pollux and Castor burst into laughter. The ‘slapping your thighs, eyes watering’ kind. The sort of laughter I thought I would never see again. I smiled at them both as they guffawed and wheezed, Pollux leaning on his brother’s shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, a normal life might still exist. We might still have a future. We might get over this.
A big, black van pulled around the corner and crawled slowly towards us. Castor and Pollux stopped laughing and stood up straight, pushing their chests out in defiance.
They were here. It was time to go.
