Mixed Bag 2
Shannon Le'Vin
Copyright Shannon Le'Vin 2011
Smashwords Edition
1
Bimbo
He was up to something. It was obvious. Sneaky. That's how he was behaving, dead sneaky. You think you know somebody, then they start doing strange things. Out of character things. And he was definitely up to something. When you've been married for a few years, you can tell. And men, well, so bloody obvious, aren't they? And this husband of mine must think I'm stupid if he doesn't think I can tell. It's been going on for a while. A couple of weeks, at least. Coming home late from the office, that sort of thing.
He would say things like, “Sorry love. Got a lot of work on.” And then going out on his own in the evenings, with some lame excuse or other. “Gotta see a mate of mine about something. What? Oh, nothing important. Just bloke stuff. You know who I mean. Charlie Pike. Anyway, I won't be long.” And off he goes.
Well, he's not usually one for going out much, that one. Terminal boredom he'll die of, I used to tell him. Now it looks as if he's taken me a bit too literally. Found himself a bit of excitement. A little bit of “fresh”. Some bimbo from the office, I expect. Young enough to be his daughter, with enough Max Factor on her face to camouflage an army. I bet she has legs up to her armpits, with enough bleach on her hair to do a months housework, not that she'd know anything about housework.
He came home late again, tonight. He ate his dinner, all dried up and whose fault was that, then when I was washing up, you would think he'd offer now and then, wouldn't you, and then he's on the phone in the hall to somebody. I'd gone into the dining room to collect the coffee cups, and I could hear whispering. That got me suspicious. His voice was low and quiet, not like a normal conversation at all. So I hide behind the door, where he couldn't see me, but I could hear him.
“Yeah, gorgeous. So beautiful. Perfect. Just what I'm looking for. I'll see you tonight, if I can get away,” he said.
I hear him put the phone down, so I dash back in the kitchen. I was up to my elbows in suds, when he came in.
“I gotta go out for a bit. Charlie bloody Pike, the pest. I don't want to go, but I said I would.”
Then the sod kisses me. A horrid little kiss on the cheek. The sort of kiss you give a wife up to her elbows in washing up. Definitely not the sort of kiss you give to a leggy, dyed blonde bimbo. I hear the front door shutting, and off he trots. I don't hear the car starting up, so it must be in walking distance. Right!
Quick as a flash, I run to the bedroom, and open the wardrobe. Just the thing, tucked away at the back. A long black gaberdine coat, worn only twice in the last ten years. It makes me look like a bag of washing. I hate it. Hat. One of his. Leather. Somebody told him he looks just like one of The Village People in it. He hates it. You know? I think it suits me. That'll have to do. At least he'll never recognise me in it. I'll have to hurry, or I'll lose him. I see myself in the mirror. What do I look like? Humphrey Bogarde on a bad day.
It's dark outside, but I catch a glimpse of him as he turns the corner. Wickstead Street. I'm practically running, damn, I still have my slippers on. I have my hands in my coat pocket as I hurry along, feeling completely ridiculous. The hat falls off, lands in a puddle, I grab it, shake it and jamb it on my head, muddy water dripping all over my face. My hair's all over the place, so I poke it all back under the hat. Dyed blonde hair. Okay. I know what I said about the bimbo; all bleach and no brains, but my hair usually looks okay, thank you very much. It certainly cost enough, but with my birthday coming up, I'd thought, what the hell?. I wanted to look nice, not that he'd care. I'm thirty seven. He's had the best years of my life and he goes messing about with some bimbo; some brazen hussy.
I'm walking fast and I collide with some man and his bloody dog, coming round the bend on Wickstead Street. My feet get tangled up in the dog lead, and I go flying. That'll bruise. The dog's snapping and yapping at me, all teeth and no brains, and the poor bloke is trying his best to stop it from chewing on my ankle. The lead is one of those extendable ones, and as he tries to unravel me, and the idiot goes the wrong way with it. Now I'm trussed up like a turkey. If the dirty old bugger touches my legs one more time, I'll kick his nuts where the sun don't shine. I get free, and with both man and dog yapping angrily at me, I'm in hot pursuit again.
I see my husband, heading for Victoria Avenue. Where the hell is he going? It can't be much further, otherwise he would have taken the car, lazy sod that he is. Is he off to the Rutland Arms? He likes the beer in there, I do know that. He's at the crossing, and he's waiting for the lights to change, and then he walks over. Coal Street. Right. Not the Rutland, then. Hell, he nearly saw me then, and I dive for cover in a shop doorway. Some detective I'd be. He's off again. The lights change as I step off the pavement and this spotty moron nearly runs me down. His face looks like a pizza, complete with anchovies, and he's mouthing something obscene at me. The rear of his car is actually bouncing up and down with the racket from the speakers, so at least I can't hear what he's saying. I give him the finger and hurry on.
Two more streets. I have never known him walk this far before. You would think he'd conserve his strength for the bimbo. God know's he'll need it. Pathetic in bed he is, always was. If he was a cup of coffee, he'd be instant, if you know what I mean. I really can't imagine why a young thing would want to bother with him. Come to think about it, I don't know why I bother with him.
Wait. He's stopped. Some grubby little apartment, by the look of it. The front door's opening. Damn. I can't see what she looks like. Too dark. It could have been anybody. If I go round the side, I might be able to see in a window. I'm not tall enough. This place is a right old rubbish tip. If I stand on this pile of old beer crates, I might just be able to see inside. There's a gap in the curtains. What a horrid colour that wallpaper is. No taste, some people. I can't quite see them. Tiptoes and I might just find out what the hell is going on.
Oh, God. I don't believe it, I really don't. That bloody idiot. Damn, I'm falling. Ouch! That hurt. My knee, my bum, my head. They heard me; I can hear them coming. My knee's killing me, but I have to get home, fast. Back along Victoria Avenue, It's him again. That spotty moron with a volcanic irruption where his face should be, and speakers in the back the size of small mountains. He's seen me, his vile mouth yelling something out the window. I'd yell back, but he must be stone deaf from all that noise. I give him the finger with both hands.
Wickstead Street. I'm sure my leg's seizing up. Is that husband of mine following me? I can't see him. Back home at last. I'm exhausted and black and blue. What a night. My knee, head and backside are fighting it out to inflict the most punishment on me. I'll run a bath and soak away the pain. Ooh, lovely. Bloody wonderful. Some of that bubble stuff. Nice. Was that the front door? Did he see me, like an idiot pirouetting on top of a pile of beer crates, spying on him? Spying on them. Beautiful, true. Gorgeous, definitely. Big brown eyes, small and irresistible. And there's nothing I can do about it. Just pretend that there's nothing going on. I'll lie here, close my eyes and let the aches and pains soak away.
If he comes in here and tells me he saw me, shall I just deny it? No choice. I'm not going to admit I followed him tonight and found out his secret. He'll tell me soon enough. He'll come home and confess everything. And then what will I do? I'll just say thank you for the most beautiful little puppy dog I have ever seen, my thirty seventh birthday present from the most wonderful husband in the world. I think I'll name her Bimbo.
The Ugly
It was perfectly hideous. The monstrosity was the ugliest thing Julius Jennings had seen in all of his sixty two years. Huge pointy ears, a bulbous, wart infested crooked nose, lips like bicycle tyres, protruding yellow teeth that were as sharp as needles. Its eyes were bulging white orbs, with tiny red pupils, that dominated a no-neck head that had the appearance of being hammered onto its pot-bellied body. Two short arms wrapped around its flabby chest and twisted fingers gripped stubby toes from its legless undercarriage. It was an earthy red and was heavy enough to have been carved out of some ancient cannonball.
“It's really beautiful,” said Julius. The sweet bearer of the 'gift' stared up at him with big shining brown eyes and he didn't want to hurt her feelings.
“You mean it, Granddad?” said the beaming six year old girl.
“Did you choose it yourself?” asked Julius, doubtfully.
“Yeah. But Mommy helped a bit. She said you'd pre-she-ate it.”
“I bet she did. Well. I think this is the best birthday present I ever had. I'll have to find a special place for it, won't I?”
The only place she wanted to put it was in the rubbish bin outside. The very idea of having to share his home with the horrid thing appalled him. Surely it couldn't have been made there in New Zealand?
“I gotta go now, Granddad. Mommy's waiting in the car.”
Julius watched Tara skip down the path, then he heard the car drive away. He could imagine his daughter, Elaine, laughing all the way home.
Two weeks later, The Ugly, for that's what Julius called it, had been given to the young woman collecting for the church fund-raising fete. She had given him a strange look as he handed it over, but graciously accepted it and said thank you, and took it anyway.
Reverend Thomas had placed it on one of the trestle tables, hoping it wouldn't collapse under the weight. He wiped his hands on his trousers, as if holding what was obviously a pagan idol, would curse him forever.
“What on Earth is it, John?” asked his wife, Elizabeth. She had her arms full of homemade scones wrapped up in clingfilm.
“Not something I wish to speculate about.”
“Do you think anybody will actually buy it?”
Reverend Thomas shrugged and moved as far away as he could.
Much to Mrs Thomas's amazement, The Ugly was sold quickly to a young man who gave two dollars for it, hinting it would make a suitable gift for somebody he wasn't fond of. The Ugly was placed in a bag, carefully so as not to have it fall out the bottom, and the young man, still chuckling, left the church hall.
“I believe it's an antique,” he assured his aunt. “Probably quite valuable.”
Aunt Rosemary didn't know what to say. This was the first gift she had ever received from the obnoxious twerp she was unfortunately related to. The look on his face, however, was an expression of affection that passed as genuine but then looking at The Ugly, she doubted his sincerity.
“Thank you, Peter. Would you care for some tea?” she asked, hoping he would say no. She had no desire for him to be in her home any longer than necessary.
“Sorry. I have to get going. When I saw this cute little fellow, I thought of you right away. I couldn't resist buying it for you. I have to run along. Bye for now.”
She was still holding the blessed thing when Peter had long gone. She looked about her immaculate home, with the Capo Demonte and cut crystal, and knew it had no place there. It would be completely incongruous and what's more, that was exactly why her nephew had bought it her, unpleasant little creep that he was. It just had to go.
Doris Harper, lifelong friend of fifty years, was virtually blind. On her seventieth birthday, she became custodian of The Ugly. Although she couldn't see the thing, she could feel it with her sensitive fingers. Doris was as repulsed by it as much as any sighted person would be. But she smiled pleasantly at Rosemary and thanked her profusely. As the weeks rolled by, Doris tried to ignore the abomination. For once, she was almost thankful for her blindness, but she knew it sat there, staring at her through its awful eyes. She also knew she'd been given it, because she couldn't see it.
“Somebody should throw you in the nearest lake,” she said to The Ugly. “But I suppose it isn't your fault. You didn't ask to be made, did you?”
When you start talking to inanimate objects, It's a bit of a worry. Which is precisely why The Ugly ended up in an antique shop. The ten dollars she'd been given for it was largely immaterial. It was out of her home, and that's all that mattered. Fredrick Fyle of Ranken Fyle Antiques, had been busy that morning, filling a tea chest with a load of “unsellables” for his partner, Paul Ranken. They often exchanged items between New Zealand and Australia, with a view to offload them, somewhere or other.
As soon as Doris had left the shop, her white cane tapping the ground in front of her, Fredrick dropped The Ugly into the chest, and hammered the top down banging in far more tacks than usual, just in case the thing tried to escape.
“Thanks, mate,” said Paul Ranken as he emptied the tea chest in his shop in Sydney “Any old crap you're sending me these days.”
The Ugly was placed on a shelf with a display consisting of 'ethnic' artifacts. He wrote out a price card with a black felt-tipped pen, putting down fifty dollars. Then in a moment of inspiration, he put another naught on the end. “What the hell.”
The tourist who entered the shop shortly afterwords was obviously American. An oldish man, and one who reeked of money. He seemed particularly interested in The Ugly.
“I see you are a man of taste, sir,” fawned Ranken, “And one who can spot a bargain when he sees one.”
“How old is...it?”
“Hmm. Difficult. But pretty ancient, I should say. It should really be in a museum.”
The American stared at the thing, his gold ring festooned fingers drumming the counter top. 'What's your best price for it?”
“Oh, really, sir. I'm robbing myself at five hundred....”
“Three hundred,” said sir.
“Done.”
Which is exactly what sir's wife had said he had been, when he finally got the piece to his home in New York. “Haven't we enough junk? She demanded.
“Well, the man in the shop said....”
“Arthur. Just stop pretending you know anything about antiques and stop buying junk like this. And another thing. I hope you don't intend to tell me it's a present for me. You did bring me something nice from your business trip? Arthur....?”
It was one week later, Arthur stood before all forty eight of his company's employees when he announced, “...and without further ado, it gives me great pleasure to present the employer of the year award of five thousand dollars and this priceless antique, to Alexander Northgate.”
Sandra Northgate was seriously concerned about her husbands future prospects with the company. Surely The Ugly wasn't something given to a valued employee? Then again, it did have five thousand dollars to go with it. When her husband proudly handed over the cheque and then cautiously gave her the thing, she didn't know what to say.
“Are you sure the old fart said priceless and not worthless?”
“What should I have said? Stick it up your....”
“Alex. Language.”
Sandra Northgate was certain The Ugly had no place in her home. She considered burying it in her back garden, but was sure she would be always haunted by its close proximity. After due deliberation, she decided on a plan of action. That evening, with The Ugly safely incarcerated in the trunk of her car, she set off with a fixed and determined expression. Parking just before the river on the outskirts of the city she picked up The Ugly and carried it to the middle of the bridge. With a quick glance to make sure she wasn't being watched, she dropped it into the river.
This was at the exact moment that the Mud Lark, an old tug boat, chanced to be chugging its way under the bridge. Instead of a splash, there was an almighty crash as the weighty Ugly smashed through the deck, missing the deckhands head by a whisker, landing on the the huge belly of the skipper, Billy Lark, who had been sleeping off the effects of half a bottle of whiskey. Bouncing off Billy's belly as if it were a trampoline, it landed on the cabin floor with one hell of a bang.
With the ensuing screams still ringing in her ears, and quite convinced she had committed grievous bodily harm if not actual murder, Sandra Northgate ran for her car and raced for home.
Billy Lark, who suffered no more than a bruise on his well padded stomach and a near heart attack from the shock, stared up from his bunk at the hole in his roof and saw the deckhand staring back at him. The skipper was still screaming blue murder all the way to the docks, the deckhand wisely making himself scarce in the engine room.
Sally Lark, Billy's long suffering wife of forty years, was not at all impressed with The Ugly. It had more than a passing resemblance to her fat husband and it had to go. Two Ugly's in her home was far too many, in her opinion, With this final insult, Billy did the only sensible thing he could think of, and with the thing tucked under his arm, he made his way to Rick's Bar. It took him an hour, but he finally managed to lose the little horror in a poker game. Archie Morris would rather have had the cash, but with Billy being twice his size and having a temper, he decided it was prudent not to argue.
Staggering solemnly out of the bar, Archie found the weight of his poker winnings too much for his puny muscles and accidentally dropped it onto the tarmac, creating an impressive pothole, and then he rolled it along the gutter with his foot. Archie's wife was as impressed as Mrs Lark had been, particularly as it now had a liberal coating of mud and dog mess. Archie was forced to sleep on the settee as punishment for being both drunk and stupid.
Fortunately for Archie, his wife had mellowed by morning, but still insisted The Ugly had to go. She didn't care where, as long as it was out of her house immediately. She stared at it, and decided that America wasn't going to be burdened with it at all. She was far too patriotic for that. It was eccentric enough to belong in England. Her friend in London was getting married, and she had been at a loss for a suitable wedding present. Explaining in a letter that this artifact was an ancient fertility symbol, and guaranteed to bring them luck, she carefully cleaned it and sent it off.
At the wedding reception, the bride carefully covered The Ugly with other presents on the table, not wishing to reveal to the world that they had friends so lacking in taste as to give them something so disgusting.
“Well, she's your friend, love,” said the groom. “She might be offended if she thought we didn't appreciate it.”
“She's not here, so I don't care,” replied the bride. “Besides. I'm the one who should be offended.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
The bride grinned. “I'll send it to Uncle Julius in New Zealand for Christmas.”
“I thought you didn't like him.”
She smiled, wickedly. “I don't.”
Tin Man
“If you knew how much he cost to make, Hannah, You'd think of a better name for him than Tin Man.”
My brother wasn't going to tell me how much the thing had cost to produce, but I was sure the figure had a lot of naughts on the end.
“Jack. It isn't that I don't appreciate it, I do...very much, but...”
“But what?” Jack demanded, screwing up his face in the same way he used to do when we were little kids.
I almost burst out laughing at the juvenile expression on his forty eight year old face.
“Well, I'm just not sure I want him around the place, that's all.' I replied. trying not to sound ungrateful. “I mean, what does he do, exactly?”
With a sigh, Jack tried to explain. “Just about anything you ask of him. Give him a command and he will comply with it.”
“Anything?” I said, with a mischievous grin.
“For Heaven's sake, Hannah. I have given you one of the most expensive presents a brother can give a sister and you bring it all down to such a base level. Have you any idea how sophisticated he is?”
“If he is such a costly marvel, how come you're giving him to me?”
Tin Man may well have cost Jack's electronics company millions to develop, but all I could see was a rather comical looking mechanical device. It stood one meter tall and consisted of several spheres of different sizes, all inter-connected with linkages and appendages. It stood with the aid of two discs the size of dinner plates. The tops of his legs disappeared into a squat looking body, from which arms, each made from three spheres sprouted. The arms had hands with three long tapered fingers almost reaching the floor. The head was another shiny ball with a translucent black face. Red lights shone behind the mask, placed probably more for aesthetic reasons than practical ones, roughly where the eyes and mouth should be. There was nothing menacing about the little guy; just a sense of the ridiculous.
“Strange as this may seem, I actually thought you might appreciate him. XP1-99 didn't quite make the grade for the military, but I thought it a shame to break him down again.”
“XP1-99?” I said. “And you don't like the name I gave him.”
Jack gave Tin Man a pat on the head. “Besides. Don't you think he's kinda cute?”
There was something of a lost puppy look about the thing. Just him standing there made you want to stroke him and say “Good boy.”
“Look, Sis. Just keep him for a while and see how you get along. If he isn't any use to you, I will have him back and use him for spares. How's that sound?”
“Okay. I'll try him out and let you know by Friday.”
“Good. Now, I have left you a copy of the instructions on how to use him. Just plug him into the wall socket each day to re-charge him. About an hour should do it. Oh. One last thing.”
“Yes, Jack?”
“Make sure the instructions you give him are simple and clear. Anything ambiguous might confuse him. Start with easy things, like dusting and taking out the trash.”
“I can do that,” I assured him.
“Are you sure?'
“Yes. Now go. I'll see you Friday night, at my birthday party.”
Jack looked at Tin Man, and then at me. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he said, “I do worry about you being on your own. You should get out more and meet somebody.”
“I'm still not ready for a new relationship yet,” I said, not being entirely honest with either him or myself.
Jack shook his head and sighed, and then he was gone.
I tried to ignore Tin Man for a while, but every time I passed him by, I couldn't help but stare at him. Apart from his black face mask, he was a rather nice shade of light blue. He looked nothing like the Tin Man in the wizard of Oz and I'm sure whatever he was made of, cost a great deal more than tin. I decided to give it a go.
“Walk forward.”
Tin Man began to walk slowly across the room. He was getting perilously close to a small table with a very expensive vase on it.
“Turn left,” I ordered.
Instantly, my new toy turned left.
“Stop.”
Tin Man stopped.
“Come here.”
Tin Man turned and obviously avoiding anything in his way, started walking towards me. When he was just one metre away from me, he stopped without a command. He didn't move at all, but stood waiting patiently.
“Well done, Tin Man,” I said. I wondered what I should have him do next. Could he make me a coffee? Jack had said he was pre-programed to do many domestic chores, but he required some education from me. “The kitchen is to your right. Go to the kitchen.”
Tin Man turned and walked into the kitchen and stopped. I followed him in.
“Right. Watch me and learn,” I said. “This is a coffee percolator. It is used to make coffee.” I demonstrated the noble art of coffee making, naming each utensil I handled. When I finished, I said, “Make me coffee.” Then I stood back and Tin Man proceeded to do what I had just done. And the result was a coffee just the way I like it. Strong, not too much milk, and one spoon of sugar.
“Well done. Follow me.”
I returned to the lounge and sat down in my favourite armchair. Tin Man followed me with the coffee cup on a saucer and he reached me without spilling a drop. At my command, he passed the coffee to me. I thanked him, not that I needed to, but it just seemed the right thing to do. The evening passed uneventfully, with me giving Tin Man odd, though often unnecessary tasks to perform, which he did so uncomplainingly and without hesitation.
I spoke to him as I would a faithful servant and he responded well. I asked him to run a bath for me, then before I got in, I plugged him in to recharge. I wallowed in the bubbles for nearly an hour, thinking how lucky I was with my life and how fortunate I was to have such a generous brother. I wrapped myself up in a white, soft cotton robe before entering the lounge. I knew it was ridiculous, but I would have been uncomfortable for Tin Man to see me naked. I unplugged him, and gave him instructions to wake me at seven a. m. and to bring me breakfast in bed. Why not? I thought. I got into bed, than I remembered I had left the book I was reading, in the bathroom. I was about to get it, when I decided to get Tin Man to fetch it for me. Off he went and came right back with it.
“I could get used to this,” I told him.
I settled back into my soft pillows and read my book. I was beginning to feel secure, with him standing by the door. I am sure that although he was just one metre tall, he could have effortlessly dispatched any intruder in a flash. I was beginning to feel drowsy. I had read the same paragraph three times and it still hadn't registered. I closed the book and looked at the young couple on the cover of that sloppy romance novel. Then I looked over at Tin Man. I was tired of being alone and not having a man in my life. Even Tin Man was better company than none.
“You know, Tin Man. If you were more like the hunk on the cover of this book, I reckon you would just about be perfect. If only you had strong manly arms, a kind heart and a handsome face, I think I could really go for you.”
He didn't reply, of course, but turned and went out of the bedroom, presumably to go to the kitchen to stare patiently at the coffee percolator and wait until it was time to bring me breakfast in bed. A perfect gentleman. I slept peacefully and wasn't surprised to see Tin Man standing at the foot of the bed.
“Good morning, Tin Man. Do you have my breakfast?” I asked.
He raised his mechanical arms and in his three fingered hands he held a pair of human arms, a head with a human face, and a heart, all still dripping with blood.
Oooh, nasty!!!
The Find
It shouldn't have been there. Even a novice like Tony Grant knew that. Nothing was supposed to be there, nothing much anyway. It was basically egg shaped, made of baked clay and judging by its position in the digs, between ten and fifteen thousand years old. The natural shaft was much deeper and the main excavation for the Neolithic age was right on the bottom. It was the sling seat on the hoist that had loosened the clod of dirt to expose the thing in the first place. Tony had carefully removed the surrounding compacted earth to reveal the profile of the thing. Gentle prods with his gloved finger tips told him it was solid enough to cautiously remove the soil around it, and take it out.
Easier said than done, suspended in the sling, and he knew he should have called the professor rather than attempt the job by himself. There would be hell to pay if he damaged it or worse, dropped it to smash to pieces at the bottom of the shaft. But then again, he was the only one who knew about it, so if the worse happened, who would know?
The light was fading on his helmet lamp by the time he had the thing in his hands, safely unscathed in the carry cage underneath the seat. Jabbing the controls to start the hoist, he was on his way back to the surface. The first thing he saw when he got to the top, were Professor Handley's muddy work boots and his baggy brown corduroy trousers.
“Took your time, Grant. What the hell have you been up to?” he said without a trace of humour in his gruff voice.
“Sorry, professor, but I saw something and I thought you might want to see it.”Grant retrieved the find from under the seat and gingerly passed it over to Handley, then he clambered out of the shaft.
“What the hell is this, Grant? An Easter egg?” he replied, turning it over in his gnarled hands.
“I've no idea, sir,” said Grant, dusting himself off. “I just thought it might be worth a closer look.”
It was getting too dark to see clearly what it was, so Handley carried it over to his hut-cum-workshop. It had served as a home from home for the last two years the site had been running. Grant followed him inside like a faithful puppy and Handley placed it carefully on the workbench and aimed the powerful inspection lamp on it. Grant explained where in the shaft he had found it, as they both examined it closely, Handley giving the occasional grunt. The camera was carefully positioned and Handley took several photographs. Then he took precise measurements and wrote them all down with a rough sketch of the find.
Into his recorder, he said, “Basically oval, not unlike the size and shape of a rugby ball. Fourteen inches long, by twenty three inches in circumference, slightly more rounded at one end than the other.” He ran his fingertips over the surface. “It appears to be man-made, out of some kind of clay pottery. It has no holes or handles on it anywhere, and no apparent markings on its very smooth surface, apart from a thin groove running continuously around it lengthwise, probably where the two halves were joined together to seal in whatever is inside. My opinion at this stage is that it is a storage vessel of some kind. What it contains will be revealed by X-ray tomorrow morning, before any attempt is made to open it.” Switching off the recorder, Handley said to his student, “Tell nobody about this, Grant. Got that? Lord knows what I have here.”
Grant didn't like the sound of that 'I' and it was obvious, what ever it was would soon become Handley's find, and not his. Typical of the man, he thought, solemnly. If it was something important, he'd get no credit at all. This was the main reason nobody liked the professor, or wanted to work with him on field trips and digs. Tony Grant had agreed to go, because it was archeology that fascinated him. There were just the two of them on this trip, with Grant doing the work of six, labouring fourteen hour days. Working with Handley was much like being a slave. The old man didn't even try to be civil.
Handley went over to the large makeshift safe in the corner of the hut, where the more valuable and fragile items were kept, before transfer to the university. Careful to conceal the combination from Grant, Handley opened it. Then he found a clean towel and placed that on the bottom shelf.
“Okay, Grant. Bring it here but be careful, mind.”Grant went to pick it up but just as he was about to touch it, Handley growled, “Gloves, you blithering idiot. It's been manhandled enough.”
Grant put his gloves on and picked it up. It seemed both fragile and solid at the same time. It had survived intact for thousands of years, and would have remained that way, had it not been for the professor's briefcase on the floor that Grant tripped over. The vessel flew from his hands, and before Grant hit the bare floorboards, Handley was also airborne, attempting to catch it in mid-air. His stubby fingers found purchase on it before it slipped from his grasp, and landed on the bunk-bed in the corner, and as it bounced back up in the air, Handley and Grant collided together with a crack of heads, as they both made an effort to save it. They both cried out as much in horror as they did in pain, as the vessel hit the floor and smashed open. They scrambled on their hands and knees towards it, but they both knew it was too late.
“You bloody fool,” snarled Handley.
“I...I'm sorry professor.”
“Too bloody late for that now, boy. You stupid, incompetent...”
”Sir, look,” said Grant, pointing a shaking finger at the shattered remains.
Handley gasped in disbelief at what he saw. As if laid to rest along the largest fragment of the vessel, was a complete, mummified body, molded to the inside. Although shrunken due to thousands of years of internment, the creature was obviously female and naked. From head to toe, she was no larger than a man's hand, like miniature young woman. From underneath her back, delicately spread out on each side of her, were what appeared to be wings, as fine as those of a large butterfly. The expression on what was once a beautiful face was one of peace and serenity.
“Is this some kind of a sick prank, Grant?”
“No, Sir. I've never seen it before. Until now that is, the same as you.”
Handley jabbed Grant in the ribs with his finger. “You're lying, Grant. You set this up to try to make a fool out of me. Do you think I'm stupid, boy?”
Grant was about to protest his innocence again, when Handley exploded in an uncontrollable rage, grabbing him with both hands around his throat.
“You tried to make a laughing stock out of me, didn't you, Grant?”
His strong hands were choking the life out of the student, who was struggling to breathe, let alone reply. They wrestled each other on the floor, Grant fighting back, thumping the older man in the face, drawing blood from his nose.
“Listen to me, you old goat. Whatever that is, it's real.”
Sanity returned to Handley. “You swear to me this is not a hoax?”
“I swear, I swear.”
On hands and knees, they both went over to take another look. It was obvious that exposure to air after thousands of years of being interred, was having an effect on it. It was disintegrating.
“Damnation. Grant. The camera, fast.”
Grant scrambled to his feet, and he grabbed the camera, then kneeling down, he tried to focus with his shaking hands.
“Hurry, Grant.”
The flash went off and the shot was taken, just one second after the tiny winged body crumbled to a little pile of grey dust. She was gone, and both men wept.
Ah. Wasn't that nice?
A little bonus story for you as a thank you for buying this book.
Andrew
Andrew Sinclair Wilson lay rigid on his bed. He was sure his heart had stopped with fear, and he instinctively reached up to his chest to make sure he still had a pulse. Below the palm of his hand he could feel the beat, reassuringly steady. But would he still be alive when the sun's dawn light pierced the gloom of his room, he wondered. He wasn't stupid. He knew it was only his imagination running rampant. There was nothing to fear in the safety of his own bedroom. His own father had told him that, just a few hours ago as he tucked him in for the night.
“Now come on, Andy. You're nine years old, not a baby,” he had said. “It's a bit strange getting used to our new home, that's all. You just think about you and me going fishing in the morning.”
He had ruffled his hair. It was the nearest he got to a kiss from his father these days. Too old for that now, he knew. Although his mother still gave him hugs and kisses when she tucked him up. Andrew knew that his father was right. He was a big boy now, not a baby who was afraid of the dark. All the same, his father had left the night-light on, glowing softly on the wall by the side of the bed. The dim light was supposed to reassure him, but he wasn't sure which was worse, the darkness, or the weak light, hiding more than it revealed. He knew exactly what he was afraid of, but he hadn't yet told his parents about it. How he wished he had an older brother to confide in, and share his nightmare with. But he was an only child and he was for now at least, entirely on his own in this.
Sleep had eluded him, and he decided he had to see what had frightened him, rather than merely be aware of its presence. Making his mind up, he got out of bed and raced to the switch that turned on the main light, then he ran back to the bed and jumped in, pulling the warm flannelette sheet over his chin, his blue eyes open, too scared to close them. And there they were all around him, hundreds of them, staring right back at him. They were all over the walls, the ceiling, everywhere. The wooden planking that the whole house interior was constructed of, was covered in them. Eyes.
Well, not really eyes, he knew. But if you looked at the swirling patterns the wood grain made, and the knotholes, they did look just like eyes. They looked like the eyes of strange alien creatures. Those two there, for instance. Almost in the far corner of the room, half hidden by shadow. That looks like some bug eyed monster from Startreck. Large saucer shapes that stared back at him. It even had the outline of a face, elongated grotesquely, with another knothole making a shape like a small but evil mouth. And there, higher up on the ceiling, that huge wild cat, ready to pounce on him and rip him to shreds with vicious sharp claws. It seemed to be waiting for the moment he turned his back on it. All around him, monstrous creatures with huge staring eyes and vague distorted faces, were just waiting for the opportunity to jump right out of the wood and get him. He counted more than twenty creatures hidden in the patterns and knotholes of the walls and ceiling. A few of them were too alien to identify, and that only made them more frightening. But there was something even more terrifying hidden in those natural whorls and knots of the wood. Something he had noticed in the first few days of them moving in. It was something he dearly wanted to tell his parents about, but he knew they would only ridicule him if he did. But now he was sure, absolutely positive that it was not the result of an over active imagination, because he had proved it. The eyes and faces moved.
At first, he had refused to accept it, even though he had irrefutable proof he was right. But he could clearly see the small mark he had made in yellow crayon on the wall above his head. During the safety of daylight, he had drawn the line, three centimetres long, down the side of one of the faces. He had chosen this particular face, because it looked like a hobgoblin and seemed less evil than the others. It almost seemed to smile at him in a twisted, slightly sinister grin, but it did look like the one least likely to bite his fingers off. He had made the mark that morning, when his parents couldn't see him. He had picked yellow, because it blended in with the colour of the wood, but because he knew it was there, he could see it clearly. Now the line wasn't almost touching the face by the staring left eye. There was a gap the size of the palm of his hand between the yellow mark and the unblinking eye of the hobgoblin. So, either his yellow mark had miraculously slithered away from the face, or the hobgoblin had shifted its position, when he hadn't been looking. Now he knew for sure. The faces did actually move. The creatures were alive!
For long, long hours, Andrew watched the hobgoblin with the malevolent staring eyes, and the yellow mark by the side of it. If the creature moved even a whisker, he would run and get his parents and show them the proof. He would shout and scream if he had to, and make them come to his room. He didn't care what time that was, or if they were fast asleep, or even if they were angry with him. He would make them believe him. If that hobgoblin moved only slightly, he would see it. As he stared at the strange shape, less than an arms length above the top of the headboard, he thought it peculiar that it was only in his room that the strange shapes moved. He had watched the others around the house, in the lounge, the bathroom and even the kitchen. He was sure the only ones that moved, that seemed to have a life of their own, were the ones in his room.
His eyes were heavy with fatigue and he had to keep pinching himself to keep awake, terrified to allow the blanket of sleep take him. But it was a hard battle, and one he could not win. As the night moved on into the early hours of the morning, those small hours that belong to unnatural beings that share our world, little Andrew Sinclair Wilson gave up his vigilance and reluctantly drifted off into an uneasy sleep, filled with the creatures from the dark dimensions.
The early morning light finally did glint through the curtains, turning away the shadows into their dark corners, banished by the daylight. It was a bright sunny day that promised so much and was so welcoming. Andrew's father opened the door to wake his son.
“Come on, sleepy head. If we are going to catch those fish, we gotta be making a move.”
Andrew's father had been talking to himself. The bed was empty.
“Good boy,” he said to himself. “Up already, eager to get going.”
Expecting to see Andrew in the kitchen eating his cereal, he went down stairs. Not finding him there either, he tried the garage where the fishing tackle was stored. The boy wasn't there, either, so he tried the garden, also in vain. A search of the entire house proved futile, even trying the most unlikely places, like the woodshed and the airing cupboard. Then both the boy's parents
were out frantically searching the entire neighbourhood, but Andrew could not be found. In a desperate hunt for clues, they tried his bedroom again.
“We have to call the police,” said Andrew's mother, her face white with fear for her son. “We have to find him.”
“I'll call them now. But where the hell could he be?”
Before he went downstairs to call the police, he took a final look around the bedroom, not wanting to believe harm could have befallen their son. Everything seemed just as it should have been. Andrew's clothes from the day before were draped over the chair. In the corner of the room, scuffed sneakers. Nothing to tell him what could have happened. And never in a million years would he have noticed, high up on the wall above the bed, next to the shape that looked like the face of a hobgoblin, there were a handful of brand new knotholes in the wood.
Hope you liked that little lot. A review would be nice if you have the time, please. Anyone wanting to contact me, can now do so on Wattpad, user name, unclegarf. Don't forget, I'm after ideas for a book, and if I pick your idea, I will dedicate it to you. Thanks, Shannon