Authors: Bernard Langley
“
Careful Slip
,”
warned Crinkle, fully aware of his tendency to break complicated looking bits of technology.
“
Take it
,”
Slip demanded, thr
usting the rod out toward Dink
.
“
No, I don’t want to
.”
“
Take it
,”
he growled again, rapidly losing patience.
“
No, I won’t
,”
replied a resolute Dink
, sitting on his one free hand.
“
Well, if you won’t, perhaps this thing will
,”
and as Slip finished, he shoved the fishing r
od squarely into
grafting tube four, where Dink
’s
new
hand was currently being transplanted.
“
Slip, what have you done?
!”
s
creamed Pete, before a whole host of al
arm bells started to sound.
“
Sit down, sit down
,”
fussed Ben
,
as Crinkle made her way into his hut with the Fendel creature hidden safely in her pocket.
Ben’s hut could only be described as that which would result from having the past and future positioned at opposite ends of a giant hydron collider, and then by pressing full cycle and leaving the whole thing unsupervised for a couple of million light
yea
rs. On ancient oak tables rested dark matter replicators and giah manipulators. A fire spat and clicked in an open hearth, and by it rested a self-phasing doget, its little digital chest rising and falling gently as it recharged. Crinkle found an old brown leather chair to sit in, and only when she had found herself ensconced comfortably in the old leather seat, did she realize that it was a actually a hard-light hologram, that was subtly adjusting itself on a quantum level to best make her feel comfortable.
“
Now
,”
began Ben
,
“
how about that cup of tea
?”
“
Oh yes please
,”
she answered
.
“
Sugar hump
?”
“
Yes
,”
she replied
,
“
two please
.”
“
Ask him about the shears
,”
said the Fendel creature telepathically.
“
Okay, give me a minute
,”
she replied, forgetting again to use her mind only.
“
So you don’t want any sugar
,”
responded Ben looking a little perplexed.
“
Erm, no
,”
she answered thinking quickly, albeit badly
,
“
I usually add the sugar after
.”
“
After you’ve drunk the tea?
!”
“
Yes
,”
she confirmed in a small voice, before adding
,
“
that way I get pudding
.”
“
I see
,”
lied Ben,
“
biscuit
?”
h
e asked, producing a biscuit tin seemingly out of nowhere, and holding it in front of her, with those giant hermetic claws.
“
Er
, no thank you, I’m on the one to ten diet
.”
“
Oh, and what’s that
?”
h
e asked, genuinely intrigued.
“
Well
,”
she replied
,
“
whenever I feel hungry, rather than eat a biscuit, some crisps, or any food, I will instead count all the way from one to ten
.”
“
Oh right
,”
he said, sounding deeply unimpressed.
“
Indeed
,”
she said unconcerned
,
“
usually by number seven, I’m feeling quite sated
.”
“
Here’s your tea then
,”
he replied gruffly, placing the cup on a h
over-coaster in front of her
.
“
Thank you
,”
she responded, blowing on the tea in an attempt to make it cooler.
“
Well Ben
,”
she continued, sipping on her hot tea and playing for thinking time
,
“
I’m very new to all this. This is my first after-afterlife after all
!”
“
Oh I didn’t realize my dear girl, well let me first to welcome you to Hupa Hool, how are you enjoying it so far
?”
“
It’s charming, if not a little odd
,”
she replied remembering the smoking caterpillar
,
“
how long have you been here
?”
“
Why I’ve been here forever!
Sometimes it feels like I was born here
.”
“
Y
ou were born dead?
!”
s
he asked
incredulously
.
“
Still born yes
,”
he answered.
“
Oh okay then
,”
she agreed quickly.
“
Ask him about the shears
,”
repeated the increasingly impatient Fendel creature telepathically.
“
So Ben
,”
she began
,
“
I noticed you have a lovely garden
.”
“
Oh really
,”
he replied, evidently cheered
,
“
where
?”
“
Outside, outside of your house of course
.”
“
Oh
,”
he realized
,
“
well thank you, very kind of you to say so
.”
“
Don’t mention it
,”
she said
,
“
must take a lot of work to keep it looking so beautiful. I noticed a particularly lovely rhododendron bush, what do you do to keep it looking so healthy
?”
“
Nice one Crinks
,”
encouraged the Fendel creature in her mind
,
“
subtle, real subtle
.”
“
Absolutely nothing
,”
he
answered
dismissively
,
“
everything is beautiful here
.”
“
Oh right
yeah
, forgot
,”
she replied crestfallen.
“
So why are you here young lady? I don’t get many visitors out this way
.”
“
Okay it’s like this
,”
she
levelled with the old man
,
“
a little bird told me to get some gardening tools from you, and then they’d help me get out of here
.”
“
Crinkle stop
!”
c
ried the Fendel creature out loud.
“
And by little bird, I mean giant caterpillar, and by gardening tools, I mean sacred shears of Salamaloo
!”
s
he unburdened at last, feeling all the better for having told the truth.
“
I see
,”
Ben replied after a moment
,
“
and I suppose the thing that spoke just then is the thief I had trapped in one of my cages out there
?”
“
Er yes, hello again
,”
said the Fendel creature appearing from Crinkle’s pocket.
“
I have to say
,”
he said, rising out of his chair
,
“
I am t
e
r
r
ibly disappointed with you both
.”
“But we only want to return the caterpillar’s rightful property!” she pleaded.
“Rightful property ha!” began Ben, “let me tell you about the sacred shears of Salamaloo…”
When I was just a little boy, I was made an orphan. I spent my youth being bounced around different care homes with indifferent foster families, and at a very early age I learnt to take care of myself. There was one kid at one of the many schools I attended that took an instant dislike to me, a dislike so intense that it bordered disagreeably on the verges of hate. I would never find out why that kid hated me so much, but if you were ever to see the way he looked at me, then let me tell you this, you would have felt cold, chilled to the bone. His name was Christophe and it was clear from the outset, that he was my nemesis. Everyday he would wait for me outside the school gates, and everyday we would fight. Sometimes he would win and other times I would. Though there was never an ultimate winner, it seemed to us both that on one of those days, either he or myself would not get up again, and it therefore followed that whoever had survived, had won. As I understood it, we no longer had any control over the events themselves, and that the inevitability of one of our deaths was as certain as the rising sun. One day, either myself or Christophe would lie dead, and as it just so happened, that day was today.
I was late for school that day so took a shortcut through the allotments. I knew this was dangerous as it was well known that this was where all the shady characters hung out, those without purpose loitered here looking to prey upon the weak and vulnerable. However as I saw it, it was either this way or I would be in serious trouble when I finally did get to school. I thought I had made it, just a couple more turns to go, a final gate to hurdle, and I would be out, back in society and just a short sprint to the school entrance. It was then that a heard a voice.
“You there.”
Damn it, I was discovered. Whatever this meant, of one thing I was certain, it would not be good.
“You there,” came the voice again.
I stopped, turning in my tracks. At first I thought it was Father Christmas, as I could make out an old man with white hair, a portly figure, probably from too many mince pies and sherry chasers, and clothed from top to toe in a characteristic red Santa suit. This image quickly dispelled however, as the man grabbed me with his grubby hands and shouted in my face.
“I’m cursed little boy, I’m cursed with the shears!”
It was now clear that it was no Santa suit but instead a large red bin bag he was wearing, with holes cut for his arms and legs. His girth was the result of binge drinking, and his beard simply the absence of a decent shave rather than any conscious grooming effort. The tramp, for that was what this man clearly was, was reaching inside his bin bag for something, and I could only hope that whatever he produced from it, would not be something that he had in mind for me.
“Take them, take the shears from me!”
I did what I was told and took the gardening shears he had presented.
“At last I am free!”
Said the man, before he scurried away like a mouse to a cheese evening.
I stuffed the shears into my school bag, and hurrying away, forgot about them.
School was like any other day. I learnt that Bunsen burners could melt rulers, two plus two would always equal four, and that girls really did not appreciate having their ponytails pulled.
After school I was the first on the scene and Christophe had yet to have emerge from class. I readied myself for the upcoming melee by eating a bag of crisps and double-tying my shoelaces. And as sure as the sun rises and the moon then tags along for fear of being left behind, there he was.
“Why are you such a freak?!”
He shouted rhetorically at me. I had no time to respond because already he was bearing down on me, fists clenched and teeth bared.
“Mumpf.”
I sounded out as his fist caught me square in the chin, causing me to fall to the street and drop my bag and coat.
He pinned me to the floor, and began a barrage of head shots with his well practiced punches. I was doing my best to parry his blows and I had managed to manoeuvre my knee close to his groin area now, so that in the next moment I would deliver a devastating counter attack. It was then however that I saw something new in my nemesis, it was now clear from the way he was looking at me that he was going to kill me. A resolve so concrete lay behind his steely glaze that I understood now that I would need something extra in myself if I intended to see the day out.
I kicked out with my leg and delivered my unpleasant surprise.
“Ooofphm.”
Christ
ophe crumpled up like a startled hedgehog. He was slowly returning air to his lungs when that was when I saw them. Sticking out of my school bag were the shears, the cursed shears. They would fend off my adversary and see me through to tomorrow, surely? I was up already and grabbing for them, when he spotted them also. It was a race now. I had a head start, but he seemed possessed by some lunging demon, and as my hand closed around one of the handles, so his hand made its way onto the other.