Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales (43 page)

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. At once he examined the pellet then made a phone call. Tim was to be taken to the hospital for observation.

After a check-up, the boy was found to be in a weak condition, with worms and various other intestinal infections caught from the raw meat he had been eating. He was admitted to hospital.

His plan was working. At last he was out of the clutches of the Megowl.

Tim’s mother was distraught. She was convinced that her son was going mad.

‘Is it because his father and I got divorced?’ she asked the doctors. ‘Is that why He’s been eating these horrible things?’

The doctors were of the opinion that Tim was indeed deliberately trying to get attention.

‘He probably feels rejected by his father,’ they told her. ‘And, as you say, you’re very busy yourself, trying to earn a living. It’s not an unusual situation. He needs to stay in our care for a while, until his physical health improves. Then we’ll sort something out to help him mentally. He’s not mad. He just needs some care and attention...’

That night Tim had the first real rest he had enjoyed in a long time. Snuggling down between starched white sheets, he felt cosseted by the hospital and its staff. The nurse called by every so often and there were three other patients in his room. It was like a fortress to him: a clean, stark
fortress which
would not permit entrance to a foul creature of the darkness. Tim was sealed inside a safe haven and he hoped that by the time he went home the Megowl would have either gone away or died of hunger. He thought of her vicious white face, ringed with feathers, and buried himself deeper under the bedclothes. She would be very angry. She would be spitting poison by now. He fell asleep.

Tim was kept in hospital for a fortnight, during which time he talked with the psychiatrist. He told the man that he had been having nightmares and after these dreams he ate things like mice and other small creatures. He still could not speak of the Megowl, for she had hypnotised him permanently, so that there was a blockage between his brain and his tongue. Every time he even attempted to tell someone about her, he experienced a kind of seizure during which his lips and tongue were locked and would not move. So he did the best he could, by laying the blame on nightmares.

The doctors were still convinced that the problem arose from his parents’ divorce. His father was informed of his illness and came to visit him.

‘I’m sorry to see you like this, Tim,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s our fault—your mother’s and mine—but sometimes people have to go their separate ways.’

‘I know all that,’ Tim said. ‘You told me before.’

‘Yes, well, it doesn’t change with time. It’s unfortunate you’ve taken it so hard—but I can’t change, nor can your mother. We’re as we are, and that’s that. What I can do is see you a bit more. Would you like that?’

It was better than nothing and Tim nodded.

His father placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We can start by you coming to stay with me for a while,’ he said. ‘Susan, my new wife, has agreed that we need to see more of you.

‘Would you like to come to Lancaster for a holiday?’

‘I’m not deserting Mum,’ said Tim fiercely.

‘I don’t expect you to. She agrees that a holiday will do you good and though we’re divorced she still trusts me with your welfare. You are my son, after all. It’ll just be for a holiday—nothing more. Then you can go back to your mother to live, but we’ll still see a bit more of each other. What do you say?’

Tim nodded dumbly. He knew it would get him out of the house and away from that terrible creature.

That night, the night before he was to be collected by his father and driven to Lancaster, there was a scratching on the hospital
window pane
. As if in a dream, Tim got out of bed and slowly crossed the room. The other patients who shared the room with him were fast asleep. He lifted his hand and pulled back a corner of the curtain. There on the sill sat the foul
creature which
had caused him so much misery. Her grey-white features sneered at him, as if to say, ‘Did you think you could escape this easily?’ She bared her white, even teeth and hissed some ugly words. Tim reached up, mesmerised, for the window catch. His fingers pulled at the handle but the window had not been opened for quite a time and it was stiff.

The Megowl screeched at him, jabbing the glass with her face, ordering him to pull harder so that she could get in. Her feathers were fluffed in fury and her owl-eyes blazed.

Just as Tim was about to give the handle a good hard wrench, a voice from behind him cried out,

‘What do you think you’re doing, young man?’

Tim whirled, to find the night sister watching him, amazed.

‘I...I...er...nothing, Nurse.’

‘Get back into bed,’ she said, straightening the curtain, ‘and let’s have no more nonsense.’

Tim did as he was told.

Later that night there were more scratchings at the window, but Tim heard nothing. He had claimed that he could not sleep and the nurse had given him a strong sedative.

The next day his father took him to Lancaster.

Away from the Megowl, Tim gradually began to recover. He still looked fearfully at the window at night and waited for the scratching
sounds which
meant that the creature had caught up with him again, but the sounds never came. His father’s flat was in the middle of town. There was the comforting noise of traffic well into the night, running below the bedroom window. In the centre of a city, amongst modern houses, machines and industry, the idea of a supernatural creature, especially a being of the woods and fields, seemed faintly ridiculous.

Tim stayed with his father and Susan for several weeks. He found Susan pleasant and willing to please him, but he had little real interest in her. She was not his mother and she had no children of her own, so she treated him like an adult, which suited Tim fine.

The day Tim went back home, all his fears came rushing back. His mother was enormously pleased to see him, but he could hardly keep his attention on what she was saying. ‘And how did you get on with... with Susan?’ ‘Oh, okay. She was all right...’

Tim then noticed his mother’s worried look.

‘She wasn’t you, of course,’ he added quickly. ‘She was just someone else. You’re my mum.’

His mother looked relieved to be told this and Tim was pleased he had said it.

Once his mother had satisfied herself that he was glad to be home, Tim went on a search of the bungalow. It was past Halloween—he had deliberately remained with his father until after that date—and he hoped the Megowl had gone. It should have set out to trap some other adolescent by now but Tim wanted to be sure. He looked in all the likely places—under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the curtains—until it seemed certain that the creature had fled in search of a new slave.

With an enormous sense of relief, equal to that of his mother when she learned he was well again and had missed her, Tim went back to his normal life. November the fifth arrived, with all the excitement of Bonfire Night, and then the days fell away like leaves from the trees, until it was December.

December crawled by, for both Tim and his mother were looking forward to Christmas. Deborah had met a man she liked, a divorcee like herself with a daughter and son both younger than Tim. They were all coming to stay for Christmas and arrived on the evening of the 24th.

Tim liked Edward, his mother’s new friend, and though the children were shy he wanted to make friends with them quickly. He knew it was important to his mother and he had never had the pleasure of young companions living in the same house. Everyone said ‘hello’, smiled a lot, and went to bed early.

In the early morning Tim woke to hear noises in the kitchen. He crept downstairs to find Edward looking very sheepish.

‘Sorry I woke you, Tim,’ said Edward, ‘I’m afraid I was a bit hungry and raided the fridge. I made myself an egg sandwich... I’m sure your mother won’t mind.’

He held it up for Tim to see.

Egg sandwich...Egg. Something suddenly clicked in Tim’s mind.

Leaving a surprised Edward, Tim dashed out of the kitchen and went straight to the airing cupboard. Flinging the door open, he reached underneath the tank and found his old shoebox. Even as he pulled it out he could feel a movement coming from within.

The Megowl had laid its egg inside the box and left it to be incubated by the hot water tank.

Tim grabbed the box. Then he ran out of the house in his pyjamas and bare feet and along the lane to the main road. There were sounds coming from the box. He held the lid on tightly, his chest heaving with the exertion of the run in the cold morning air.

The thing inside the box began to struggle. Tim stopped, pulled out his pyjama cord from his trousers and tied the lid down firmly. He could not allow it to look at him. Once it looked into his eyes, he would be its slave again. Then, one hand holding up his pyjama trousers and the other clutching the box, he finally ran the last few yards to the road.

He waited.

A car went by.

The chick inside the box began gnawing at the cardboard.

Another car went by.

It was furious. It scratched and tore at the bottom of the box. In a few moments it would be free.

An open-backed Land Rover came into sight. Tim waited until it was level,
then
threw his burden with all his might. The shoebox and its contents landed in the back of the Land Rover and were taken away along the winding road, out of sight.

He was free at last!

My daughter Chantelle actually dreamed this tale on the eve of her marriage to Mark, her husband now of 20 years. I have merely wrought her base dream into the written word. Readers will be pleased to know Mark is not a vampire but a fine family man and a son-in-law of whom we are all proud.

The remote Scottish island came into view as the sun was setting. Outside the natural harbour, the sea was kicking a little in its traces and tossing its white manes in the dying light. My small outboard motor struggled against the ebbing tide, sometimes whining as it raced in the air as a particularly low trough left it without water to push against the blades of its propeller. By the time I reached the jetty, the moon was up and casting its chill light upon the shore and purple-heather hills beyond. There was a smothered atmosphere to this lonely place of rock and thin soil, as if the coarse grass and hardy plants had descended as a complete layer to wrap the ruggedness in a faded cover, hiding the nakedness from mean, inquisitive eyes.

As the agents had promised, he was waiting on the quay, his tall, emaciated figure stark against the gentle upward slope of the hinterland: a splinter of granite from the rock on which he had made his home.

‘I’ve brought the provisions,’ I called, as he took the line and secured it.

‘Good. Will you come up to the croft? There’s a peat fire going—it’s warm, and I have some scotch. Nothing like a dram before an open fire, with the smell of burning peat filling the room.’

‘I could just make it out with the tide,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should go now.’ It was not that I was reluctant to accept the invitation from this eremite, this strange recluse—on the contrary, he interested me—but I had to be sure to get back to the mainland that night, since I was to crew a fishing vessel the next day.

‘You have time for a dram,’ his voice drifted away on the cold wind that had sprung up within minutes, like a breath from the mouth of the icy north. I had to admit to myself that a whisky, by the fire, would set me on my toes for the return trip, and his tone had a faintly insistent quality about it which made the offer difficult to refuse.