The Unexpected Occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble (13 page)

‘I'm Peter, Peter Smith.' I moved to have a look at Sarah, who remained on the ground. She was sitting on a tartan blanket with a picnic basket between her legs. I could see she was pregnant, her swollen belly sitting proudly there. She was wearing a loose-fitting flowery dress and had her brown hair tied back. They were both so ordinary and so beautiful that I felt at once drawn to them.

‘We're having a picnic, care to join us?' Sarah asked.

‘I'd love to,' said I, the words escaping my mouth before I could do anything about it. ‘If I'm not intruding, that is?' Pray I was not. I could not leave now. Queer that I should wish to turn to prayer to fulfil my desire, yet it seemed the logical option – unabated wishful thinking right this second.

‘Of course not,' Gary comforted, encouraging me to sit down as he did. I did so, easing myself slowly down across from them.

‘Are you local?' I decided to ask them, forcing idle chit chat. It did not feel natural to me, but I felt I wanted to continue.

‘Yes, we live in Myrtleville,' Gary answered. ‘How about you?'

‘I was born here, and spent my youth here. The war took me abroad, but I'm back now.'

‘Such a devastating war,' Sarah sighed.

‘I stayed here throughout, trained as a police officer,' Gary explained.

‘Not an easy job,' I tried to brown-nose, ‘but a rewarding one.'

‘Yes, it is.'

It was now I realised Gary seemed overly relaxed and accepting of me and my sudden presence, despite him being an officer of the law. My preconception would have assumed his skepticism and suspicion at my wandering alone in the forest.

‘I'm just in love with this wishing well,' Sarah gushed, holding her stomach as she turned a little to look it up and down. ‘Do you know, I've lived here my whole life and this is the first time I've ever seen it. I could have sworn I've been this way as a child, yet I never saw it before.'

‘Well it's certainly not a new well, darling,' Gary pointed out, rubbing a finger along the rough stone as bits of the age-old lichen broke away into dust and blew away in the slight breeze.

Some particles got in my nostrils, and I knew I'd smelt that scent before – I saw my mother chasing after me, hundreds of years prior, as I sought to hide this place from her. Something awful had happened to her and I, just a child, had sought out suicide as my solace. The well had saved me, somehow, but that remained yet hazy in my mind. Now my well was exposed, discovered by this couple and their unborn child. Perhaps this was the family I had returned home for? Sarah giggled a little and the couple kissed briefly. They were so wonderful.

I stayed with them another hour or more, waxing lyrical about my trouble with Hitler and the unexpected occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble. They didn't believe a word of it, of course, but found my story ever so entertaining and, more importantly, me charming.

‘We really must be heading off,' Gary eventually announced as Sarah began to feel weary.

‘I'm more than eight months gone – not long now,' Sarah added, getting to her feet with the help of her doting husband.

I sensed I had outstayed my welcome somewhat, so said my goodbyes and left them to it.

* * *

That night I tossed and turned in my little bed in the bedsit, not a window to look out but four dark green walls to hide the outside from view. I thought of nothing else but Gary and Sarah Noose, the summation of everything possibly good in mankind. I wondered if I'd ever see them again, and in a way hoped I wouldn't – to leave it at that, with them high on a pedestal of perfection, was enough for me. Were fate to steer their lives towards mine, then I would certainly go with it and allow a lasting friendship to occur. The rest of my life would be very lonely without good people to populate it. There was nobody more good than them.

Eventually I rolled over and managed to struggle into sleep. There, I was bombarded with colliding visions of multiple me's, all vying for my attention. They
were
me, I knew it, but some had different names and different faces as well as the duplicates. I was all these people and more, and they all cried out something different, draining each other out. I could not make out any of it. Suddenly they all ceased, turning their backs to me and pulling up a hood over their heads. When they turned back their faces – my faces – were concealed and the hellish din did not return. One single figure emerged from within them, a tall thin blonde woman with her hair obscuring her features and a long greyish white dress dragging on the floor. Yet, there
was
no floor for it to drag on. No floor I could see. She was not me, yet she seemed familiar and distant – someone I should have known but couldn't remember, or perhaps I had yet to meet. I called her towards me, asking to see her face. She neared only minutely, stopping and pausing as I sensed I should now move closer to her. I could not, I was fixed and useless. Then, I fell backwards and woke up covered in sweat. I got up and dressed, I would not sleep again tonight.

* * *

Early the next morning I took a stroll around the village, deciding to head into town to look for some more permanent employment than odd jobs and gardening. On my way I passed the police station, stopping outside and wondering for a brief moment whether or not to go in and see if Gary Noose was on duty. No, that would not endear me to him – to hassle him at work would be detrimental to any potential friendship ahead. Just that second a police car pulled up alongside me and Gary himself stuck his head out.

‘Get in,' he called out.

‘Hello there,' I replied.

‘Get in,' he repeated, snappier this time. His tone was completely different from yesterday. I obliged, jumping in the passenger seat and shutting the door just in time for him to speed off down the road. ‘It was easier than I thought it would be,' he suddenly said.

‘What was?'

‘Finding you, Peter. I imagined driving around town all day or traipsing the forest again to try and spot you.' He wiped the sweat off his brow, briefly flicking his eyes to look in the rear view mirror. ‘Chance, or fate, brought you right to me.'

‘What's this all about?'

He pulled over in a lay-by and burst into tears. I wanted to put my arm around his shoulder to offer my support, and nearly did – but something just held me back, some emotionally apathetic shield crippling my joints.

‘I'm just so weak right now, Peter, and this isn't like me,' he sobbed like a child.

‘What do you mean, weak?'

‘It's the baby coming, I guess.' He pulled a hanky from his breast pocket and blew his nose, his tears easing. ‘I feel I can turn to you, confide in you. We're very similar, you and me.'

I felt honoured and terrified at this opinion of his. ‘Go on, Gary,' I uttered, my arm still unable to reach out to him. Perhaps I could do that verbally instead.

‘I love Sarah so much, and now she's going to make me a father, a daddy.'

‘You'll make a great father,' I encouraged, thinking it the right thing to do. Equally, I could think of nothing else to say and couldn't quite understand the predicament he felt he was in. Perhaps his tears were jubilation, or panic?

‘Thank you, my friend,' he replied with a warm smile, reaching out to shake my hand. We stayed silent, holding hands for a minute or more as I felt his blood pressure easing. ‘You must come and visit Sarah and me at our home,' he went on, giving me his address. It was an open invitation.

After this he was as he had been the day before. His opening up to me made him even more perfect and complete.

* * *

That evening, as the sun had gone and I strolled along the countryside away from Myrtleville town, I spotted a car parked up between the trees – it was Gary's. For a moment I was pleased, then worried, and finally suspicious. I approached the vehicle slowly. The windows were steaming up and it was rocking from side to side. As I neared I could see Gary's bare bottom going up and down, two well-shaven female legs either side of it wrapping around. She was a blonde, her skirt still on but pushed up and her small breasts bobbing as Gary's thrusts intensified. With the passenger seat wound all the way back, Gary had all the space he needed to commit his infidelity. I pulled away, devastated, dashing away before I was seen.

I didn't know what to do, but eventually found myself at Gary and Sarah's house. Knocking on the door, I got no answer. As the strain I was under intensified, I tried the handle and it was open – I stepped inside without a moment's thought and called out for Sarah.

‘Gary?' she screamed out from upstairs. I dashed up them, following her voice.

‘It's me, Peter,' I shouted back, entering the bedroom where she lay sprawled on the bed with her bare legs spread apart. The sweat was absolutely raining off her and she kept on screaming out in pain. The bed was soaking.

‘The baby's come early,' she cried out through her deep breaths.

‘Oh God!' I blurted out, the sweat now pouring off me as well. I neared, peering between her legs as a tiny little head was making its way from within her. Instinctively I put my hands down there and supported the tiny little body as it kept on coming. ‘Push,' I called out to her, not knowing what else to say. ‘Push!'

‘I am!' she yelled back.

Suddenly the baby was out. ‘It's a boy,' I cried, the tears streaming down my face.

‘A son,' she sobbed. ‘My son Henry Noose.'

As I knelt there holding her baby, I felt myself come over all queer. I looked ahead and the wall behind her bed had fallen away. There was now a large black box, standing upright. A very slim, very pale blonde woman seemed to be with it, but her face was covered by her long hair – she was the one from my dream. I slumped back, stumbling to the floor and slamming against the wall behind me. I looked down, the baby still in my arms and its umbilical cord stretched out and still attached to Sarah. I felt myself dying – I knew I was dying – and the last intake of air to enter my lungs occurred. Gary appeared at the door as my vision darkened then extinguished altogether. I was dead.

In every young person's life there comes the realisation that the world is not as clear cut as Mother and Father had painted it. Usually this happens at school, when mixing with contemporaries. Child's simple cosseted ideals are swiftly washed away in a swathe of pack mentality. For Little Tony, however, it came about in a most unexpected place and way.

Little Tony wasn't short – far from it. He was rather tall for his meagre seven years, and not thin, and he'd never been to school. In fact, Little Tony had never left the house. He was Little Tony because of his intelligence. It was low. So low, in fact, that his parents deemed it inappropriate to educate him at all. He would be much better served by isolation, they decided, and so the boy found himself constantly present in just a single room. A bucket for his waste, and his meals thrust through a hatch at the bottom of the door, Little Tony knew nothing of the outside world. If truth be told, it could be said he didn't want to know. He was happy to wee and poo both in (and quite often around) his bucket, and feast upon the scraps Mother and Father shoved through the hatch. So contented was Little Tony, that he could occupy his time entirely free from thought. He knew no different, and having no access to any stimulation other than his own flat mind alleviated him from resentment. His parents weren't his captors, they were just unseen deliverers of sustenance. Little Tony never even gave any thought as to how his bucket got emptied. It just did. One minute he'd be feeling sleepy, the next he'd wake up and his room was clean. It
was
his room, but he didn't feel possessive over it. There was simply no need to feel possessive. He'd never had any interaction with anyone, not even his own parents above a superficial level, and so knew nothing of possession. He knew nothing of anything, except that he pissed and shat in the bucket and ate from the tray shoved through the hatch. That was his entire world.

Life wasn't slow in Little Tony's room. It wasn't quick either. Time just didn't exist at all. There were no windows to ascertain day and night; only the single bulb dangling from the ceiling did that. When it went out, the boy felt sleepy and then he woke up when it came back on. He didn't think anything of sleep, it was just something that happened. It was neither bad nor good, it was just an occurrence like the bucket and the food tray. There was nothing else apart from these in the room, save for the rug he slept on. Now that could have been instinct – using it to sleep on – for Little Tony could possibly sense that it felt more comfortable than the bare floorboards. Not that he knew what a rug or floorboards were. He didn't want to know either; he was quite happy existing in blissful ignorance. There he would lay, on the rug that was possibly his – though he found no need to insist on ownership over it – staring up at the yellow ceiling. The light only ever cast the same circle-shaped shadow on it – never moving, never relenting its presence. He would stare up at it, not much thought going through his head. He never had a care in the world (or room) to trouble him. His food would always arrive, the bucket would always get emptied and the light would always go off and come back on again. Mother and Father were the other side of the door, and Little Tony seemed to know this. That was their life, and this was his. Nothing had ever happened to shatter that. And then one day, his food tray did not arrive.

At first, the boy was not concerned. Concern had never been a concern of his. And, time did not exist here. But, as the period of the tray of food not appearing extended, Little Tony began to feel like he needed the food. This new sensation grew and grew, the concept of time beginning to show glimpses of formation in the boy's head. After two days, the contents of the bucket were looking decidedly enticing and Little Tony was forced to consume them. Instinct registered – this was not a good idea. But, it was his only idea. Rather quickly it made him feel even worse than before. His bubble had been well and truly burst. Suddenly half of him felt really awful, whilst the other half felt like he'd just been born this very second. All at once he knew stuff – in the sense that he was aware there were actual emotions. He sensed desire, anger, abandonment. The door now looked like it led somewhere else, away from this awful place. Little Tony now wanted to be away from this room – only briefly – then he just wanted things to go back to how they were before. The sheer horror of having to change things didn't bear thinking about. Surely Mother and Father would just start up the old routine again? That was the best possible outcome, the boy felt. This was all new to him, all these ideas and feelings, and he wasn't too fond of them.

Suddenly the door opened. It was the first time Little Tony had actually seen it opening for himself, though by now he had reasoned that that is what it did. In stepped a strange figure in a strange uniform. ‘Anthony,' he called out as he just stood there looking at him. ‘My name is Henry Noose, and I'm from the police. Are you okay, Anthony?'

* * *

‘An aberration,' Inspector Hastings announced – both vaguely and stoically – as he strode through the grey corridor leading to his office in Myrtleville police station. He opened the office door and briefly paused to look back at Sergeant Noose.

‘Horrific – keeping a child prisoner since birth. One of the worst cases I've worked on,' Noose replied.

‘Not that, my medical,' Hastings snapped back. The younger man studied his superior's prematurely white hair and reddened complexion. ‘I investigate crimes, not chase after drugged-up youths. I shouldn't need to be as fit as a butcher's dog!'

‘It does help if you're healthy though, Sir,' Noose cautiously uttered. With a big sigh, Hastings vanished and slammed the door behind him. Noose turned and bumped into Peter Smith. The young teen dropped the papers he was carrying and promptly fumbled to pick them all up again. ‘Who are you, what are you doing in the station?'

‘Sorry, I'm after Inspector Hastings,' the boy coyly replied, gathering his papers and trying to move on. Noose stepped in his way.

‘I'm Sergeant Henry Noose, I can deal with whatever you want.'

‘No,' Peter chuckled, ‘I need to speak to an inspector – not his tea boy.' Suddenly Peter realised he'd overstepped the mark, and he hadn't been able to help himself. Noose's face was ashen with rage. ‘I'm in my last year at school and want to do my work experience here,' he blurted out, smiling.

Noose raised an eyebrow. ‘I see.'

‘I have an urge to solve mysteries – like I can sense there's unknowns to be uncovered,' the boy went on, again dropping his papers. This time, he did not bend to pick them up. He became transfixed on Noose's face – a very ordinary, longish face. Thin brownish hair lay atop the head, already beginning to vacate it slowly as a small bald patch fought for living space. He was tall, but round-shouldered, and hadn't shaved this morning. He was not unlike Peter Smith in looks, although Peter had yet to begin shaving.

‘What are you looking at?' Noose demanded of this weird lad.

‘You.'

‘Why, is there something on my face?'

Peter thought about Noose's face and decided it wasn't the face he was looking at at all; it was the man himself. The essence, the being. Startled, he turned and dashed away. The sergeant picked up the boy's papers and briefly flicked through them. They were just stories – crime stories – scrawled in pencil on the crumpled paper.

* * *

‘Isn't it beautiful?' Noose called out as he came to stand next to Peter.

‘What is?' the teenager asked the slightly older man, keeping his gaze fixed ahead at Myrtle Forest in the valley below and the Welsh mountains behind it.

‘The world – all this,' Noose went on, waving his hand around at the view. The late afternoon sun was just disappearing behind the mountains and the greeny golden trees were in shadow.

‘I guess.' He had sprinted from the police station at first, but soon found himself arrested by the view in the distance. The trees were beautiful, yes – what was left of them. Many had been felled for housing developments. Lots and lots of people. Buzz buzz buzzing.

‘The world is a wondrous place, lad,' Noose went on, ‘full of simple joyousness – if you look at things in the right way.' He held up Peter's papers. ‘There are some bad people, who do bad things. The good people have a framework set in place to try and stop them. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't – but there
are
good people. Maybe your stories would benefit from following a similar moral model.' He handed them back. Peter folded them up and stuffed them in his back trouser pocket.

‘You read some of my stuff?'

‘I saw some line about humanity being sick and evil.'

‘You say there are some good people,' Peter pondered, ‘but what is good?'

‘You're so young to be so cynical,' Noose sighed. ‘I bet you've done nothing in your life yet. You haven't lived.' The sergeant turned to leave, pausing and putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. ‘And please, stay away from the station. Go and find work experience somewhere else.' With this, he walked off.

* * *

‘Their daughter Kelly is already in care,' Hastings yelled down the phone, ‘how the hell did this brother Tony of hers slip through the net? They kept him locked up like a bloody dog!'

Noose was standing the other side of his superior's desk. He briefly eyed up the fish tank dumped on top of several filing cabinets. There was water in it, and bubbles pumping around, but no fish. Hastings slammed the phone down and leapt up, storming over to the cabinets. He yanked one of the drawers open and grabbed hold of some fish food.

‘It's a horrible case of child abuse,' Noose said almost nonchalantly.

‘You
will
see good in people, won't you boy?' Hastings grunted back, lifting the lid on the fish tank and sprinkling some food on top of the water. Noose stared blankly back, having witnessed this ritual for months now. There were no fish to miraculously appear and consume the food. ‘You'll come a cropper one day.'

‘What do you mean by that,
Sir
?' Noose gingerly questioned.

‘Horrible case? I can tell by the way you say things – horrible fucking case? It's downright depraved. The human race is a vile speck of shit under the sole of the universe's shoe.' Tears almost welled in his eyes, but not quite. ‘The things I've seen.'

‘I've seen some pretty awful things too, but I still try to stay positive. There's a lot of good out there,' was Noose's response. A sceptical Hastings turned to face his sergeant – more to ensure his raised eyebrow had been witnessed than anything else.

‘How's the family – your little boy?' Hastings suddenly asked, changing the subject.

‘Super, thanks.' Noose smiled as widely as he could. ‘Growing up fast.'

‘Yes,' Hastings replied vaguely, tapping his chin as he went about adding more food to the fish tank.

Noose's thoughts were filled with Tony and Peter. He somehow imagined them as the same person, or at the very least composites of some whole. The sergeant had shown a remarkable ability to pigeon-hole these things – these crimes he investigated. Peter wasn't a part of any crime he was involved with, but he was a part of the overall spectrum of goings-on at the station. He and Tony had come to his attention on the same day, thus they were in the same section in Noose's mind. They were one and the same – neither had seen or done anything yet in their short lives. Noose was certain of that. They'd been held back for different reasons, but held back nonetheless. Tony's bind was physical – an actual locked door. Peter's, Noose reasoned, was partly physical owing to his youth but largely mental – his outlook was tainting and halting potential experiences.

* * *

‘Hello Peter,' said his best friend David. Peter just smiled back, briefly, as David kept looking at his eyes and lips.

Suddenly Peter's younger brother Stuart – all a bright flop of blonde hair and deep cobalt eyes – dashed past in the school yard with a gang of other boys. ‘Get a room, bum boys,' he yelled at his brother and his friend as half the children on the yard burst into fits of laughter. Peter's face reddened as he gritted his teeth, but David hadn't appeared to have heard the comment. His features, positioned in the centre of a chubby round face, remained fixed and almost trancelike.

‘Don't listen to them,' he suddenly said, Stuart's words obviously having registered with him. ‘We can be who we want to be.'

‘What do you mean?' Peter interrogated.

David broke eye contact, wandering off. ‘Oh, never mind,' he mumbled as he went.

Just now the snootiest girl in school strutted past – Lucy Davies. Short, with an hourglass figure and sporting a face full of makeup, she swished her long dark hair away from her face and gossiped with her friends. Peter just stood and watched, transfixed on her as David had been on him. She didn't acknowledge his existence. He hadn't even registered in her peripheral vision. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do with her, but he knew it happened in the bedroom and that she'd have to enjoy it. Now his mind was filled with David, who had stopped in the distance and was looking back at Peter.

* * *

That evening the two lads went walking in Myrtle Forest. David wished to keep on going deeper and deeper in, moving further and further away from the main path. Peter went to turn back, a bizarre dizziness and visions of a water well overwhelming him. David grabbed his hand and pulled him – the pair fell over, David ending up on top. He gazed intently into Peter's eyes, suddenly kissing him on the lips. In an instant Reaping Icon appeared above the pair.

‘Peter Smith – so many pasts and so many futures,' said the one who looked like a man, but could not be seen. ‘You are trapped, I have halted you. You are mine to meddle with.'