The Unexpected Occurrence of Thaddeus Hobble Page 6

  One night I did just that, dressing up in my best clothes and heading over to her house in the very early hours. Creeping around the back, I put my muscles against the door and forced it open. Utter silence hit my ears inside, and so I gingerly moved about in the darkness. All of a sudden, however, a heavy weight came crashing on the back of my head and I dived straight into the first silent sleep I’d had in a long time. No woman, no big box; just emptiness.

  * * *

  I wakened with a splitting headache. Keen I was to clutch it to in some way try and ease the pain, but it was no good – my hands were bound tightly above my head. I tried to rub my head between my arms, but quickly I grew tired and concentrated more on how sore my hands and arms were becoming. They were supporting my entire body, as my dead weight hung there supported by them. I felt cold and looked down to see that I was naked, my penis drooping like a new sausage slipping out of a butcher’s hands. The room was dull and dreary, the faint smell of grease permeating from the cooking stove ahead of me. On top of it sat a filthy shallow pan. Suddenly, the door ahead opened and Lauren walked in, going over to the stove and lighting it. She moved the pan about, loosening the hard grease within as the heat from below melted it. I stayed silent, just watching in awe as she went about this basic task. Was this to be our first meal together as a loving couple?

  Without a single word uttered between us, Lauren brought out a knife and stepped up to me. I looked at her – the first time I’d seen her this close in a long time – and felt utterly terrified. She took hold of my penis and slashed it clean off with the knife. I couldn’t feel it, I was in complete shock, watching on as she tossed the severed object into the frying pan and cooked it. Blood bubbled and spat and my penis became all burnt and hard. When Lauren decided it was cooked enough, she removed the pan from the stove and pricked my cooked penis out with a fork. She marched back over to me, opened my mouth and forced it into it. The searing heat of it at once burnt the inside of my mouth, and then choked me as Lauren forced it further down my throat with the fork. She stepped back, smiling, as I writhed in agony and jerked my neck back and forth to try and dislodge the charred remains of my manhood. Blood poured out of the stump betwixt my legs and I felt no more air enter my lungs.

  It was a few minutes more before Lauren’s smile turned to a frown as she perhaps became upset at my lack of death. I too was puzzled why I had yet to succumb to this torture. She grabbed hold of the knife and buried it into my chest, leaving it there, as I again wriggled and writhed in pain. Still death did not come. My attacker began looking very stressed and overwhelmed with the situation, for the first time ever letting her hair down as she pulled at it. It hung completely over her face, concealing it, as she lunged forward and pulled the knife from my chest. Frantically she thrust at her own chest with the weapon, stabbing herself a dozen or more times as I carried on choking. Soon she fell in a heap, throwing the knife at me with her last ounce of strength and clutching at the wounds on her chest. She fell backwards, hitting her head on the stove and rolling forward onto her side. I stayed, hanging there, the choking a constant sensation for a week or more as Lauren’s body rotted in front of me.

  It was not until the stench of her decaying corpse, which had so filled my own nostrils for endless days, raised some villagers that I was freed. My body was completely drained of blood and the sorcery of my survival was quick to fill their minds. I was indeed lucky to survive – they sealed the stumpy wound that was once my penis with salt.

  * * *

  So here I am, on Beagle, with no penis. I think constantly of Lauren, the woman who I saw in my dreams and fell in love with only to watch her kill herself and turn to a maggot-eaten pile of stinky sludge. She was the never girl – the only penis she had ever touched was the one she’d quickly dashed off with a knife and cooked. In some ways that drew me closer to her; she had been able, right at the end of her life, to touch a naked man. I am that man, and it was worth losing my penis over.

  To try and give my life meaning this far along is utterly pointless. I just repeat what I have done the previous day, and follow orders. My very brief moments of rest are used up, as I say, with thinking over my past. I say past, but it would feel more natural to say pasts. It sounds perfectly mad to surmise that I do not feel this has been or will be my only life. I have been unable to get to the bottom of the idea, but I do feel that I have been here, on this Earth, before – and will be again. I sense that I know things and have many other life experiences, but cannot completely remember. It is an aching sort of feeling. I am wholly alone in these thoughts, with not one single friendly shipmate to discuss them with. I have only briefly come close to making a friend, but I scuppered any burgeoning connection. Charles his name is; one of those geologists who think they see things that aren’t immediately there. That’s what initially drew me to him. Our first conversation, though on a subject which bored me, was nonetheless an enticing link back to my own niggle of an unreachable memory.

  We had come ashore some peculiar island inhabited by weird creatures I had never seen before, and cared not to really look at. My mind was insular, my vision warped. ‘All of these animals I have studied,’ he called out to me as I passed, ‘are both similar and different in equal measure.’ I yawned, but stopped.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This giant tortoise,’ he went on waving his hands at one, as though I should have known what he was trying to tell me.

  ‘Big, isn’t it,’ I responded glibly.

  ‘Very big, and yet I have seen other adult tortoises in other parts of the world which are minuscule in comparison.’

  ‘And?’ I pushed, tiring somewhat at his lack of clarity.

  ‘Where the tortoises are small, the food is less and their predators more. Here, I see no natural predator and the food is abundant – both may have shared a common ancestor, yet have adapted to their surroundings.’

  He trailed off, turning from me in excitement and darting away. I mused more on his motivations than what he’d actually said, likening his search for something to my own. My life here, right now, is on hold; shut off and without merit. I am travelling the world, but feel separate from it. Half the man. No, quarter the man. It is as though there is more of me out in the distance somewhere – both similar to me and just slightly different – not remembering who I have been or who I will become.

  DARREN THE DANDELION CHILD

  It is difficult to appreciate one’s own life until it has been endangered, or is undeniably coming to its end. For me, I have experienced both of these – the latter is ongoing. As for experiences of endangerment, they were constant throughout my youth. On this, likely my final day or thereabouts as an elderly man, let me regale you with a brief recounting of my early years. I was born over a month prematurely on Christmas Eve 1870, my mother dying right there and then before she even had time to hold me in her arms – my father, a cruel man used more to thrashing than hugging, would delight in informing me thusly. That he died an agonising and humiliating death from a genitalia-rotting disease he’d caught from Mimi the travelling prostitute when I was but eight, was truly a blessing. My lasting memory of my father is a horrid smell and an annoying noise as he shat and spat into a bucket beside his deathbed. Now, here I was an orphan and ready to work full time in my uncle’s tweed factory. He was a widower, and didn’t really need or want another child in the house.

  The hours were long, the pay was nonexistent and I quickly developed a hunched back and crippled fingers. Uncle Joe would regularly order me to take my clothes off before proceeding to beat me with his belt after work, saying it was payment for my lodgings and food. The food, when I got any, were the leftovers off the rest of the family’s plates. Usually my cousins would ensure they finished their dinners so that I didn’t eat. Still, the brown water and whatever I could pinch from the animals’ troughs usually sufficed. Cousin Agatha, Uncle Joe’s only daughter, would sometimes make an exception and leave me her stale crust. I would eat it in
excitement, knowing that her beautiful thick pink lips had been near it. In spite of this lack of nourishment I grew into a strong young man, due mainly to all the hard work I put in at the factory. And, sheer luck. Though my back remained arched and my fingers severely warped, I was particularly tall and most people didn’t seem to notice any deformities.

  Uncle Joe lost his three sons before they turned fourteen; two to bouts of a mystery sickness. The third, feeling left out, promptly threw himself in front of a cart one afternoon whilst at market. The wheels made a terrible mess of his smooth face, and the authorities advised Uncle Joe not to come himself but to send me to identify the body so as to remember his darling son as he was. The body looked terribly sad, but I told Uncle Joe that he had looked peaceful. Left with only a daughter, Uncle Joe drew up a new will and made me the main beneficiary. I was to get everything, he told me, and to earn this I had to marry Agatha when she turned sixteen. I was already sixteen, she was just fifteen. She did not seem best pleased at the arrangement, but I didn’t complain. We could make it work, even though we were cousins and had really grown up as brother and sister. Things instantly eased up for me and I was allowed to join the family in the main house, away from my room in the barn.

  Two weeks later, we three were sitting having breakfast when Uncle Joe came over all queer. All the colour drained from his face and he looked up to the heavens. Giving out a big groan, his face slammed onto the table and into his food. I leapt up, pulling him up to see what the matter was. And, as the porridge slipped from his cheeks and down his neck, I knew it was no good; he was dead. Agatha wept stoically, maintaining her reserved gait. The early morning sun caught her perfect face and I couldn’t help but stare. Displeased at my attention, especially as I was clutching her father’s dead body, she scorned me for my sins with a cuttingly cold stare.

  I was now the owner of the factory, and my speedy rise bred disquiet amongst my workers. I had once been amongst them, but now that I was telling them what to do they were not too happy. Resentment was quick to surface and I found it difficult to establish my authority. One such worker, Jack Ffoulkes, had toiled alongside me all my years at the factory. He was a year older and had to some extent taken me under his wing. I would not say we were friends, for I knew not what friendship entailed, but we oft had shared private conversations to make the time in the factory more bearable. He had long heard me speak of the cruelty of my deceased father, and my appreciation for cousin Agatha’s physical beauty and quiet aloofness. One day he had come to my uncle’s house and seen Agatha for himself. I saw the way he looked at her, and she at him, and I never again spoke of her to him. Now that my uncle was dead, and I was the only thing in Agatha’s way, Ffoulkes took it upon himself to let me know how he truly felt about her.

  He came into my office one morning with a fierce look on his face, and I didn’t take my eyes off him. I knew not to, for had I it would have shown weakness to him. He stood very quiet and very still, his chest going in and out, in and out.

  ‘What do you want, Ffoulkes?’ I asked him.

  ‘The workers aren’t happy, Aubrey,’ he snorted back.

  ‘I was never happy as a worker. What is your point?’

  ‘Are you happy now?’ he grunted, stepping closer. I too moved closer to him, our faces almost touching. He was tall like me, and we met on equal physical terms. ‘Happy that you have Agatha all to yourself?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ I put to him. His face reddened and I prepared for his fist to meet my person. However, my defiance appeared to unsettle his bullying stance and he backed off, storming out of the room. I relaxed, sitting down. Suddenly he appeared again at the door.

  ‘I want her,’ he said smugly. ‘And, I’m going to get her.’ He disappeared, leaving me alone once more. I stayed seated for a moment, wondering why my entire life had been a struggle. I wasn’t particularly harmed by it in any serious manner, but it was a trifle trite to have to keep dealing with these challenges. I got to my feet and approached the window, looking down into the courtyard below. Ffoulkes came out of the building and jogged out of the gates. I just knew he was on his way to Agatha. Quickly I wondered what to do to make her mine and not his, for I had lost everything else in life. Yes, I had her father’s factory which brought financial security; but I wanted the love and affection of his daughter too. He had promised it to me, and I wasn’t going to let somebody take it away. Ffoulkes was the one who stood in my way. I decided the only way to deal with him was to fight fire with fire, and I instinctively punched myself in the face. Blood wept from my nose as I repeated the action numerous times, before I made for the ground floor to leave the building and get to the lovely Agatha.

  * * *

  I arrived as he was banging on the door. He hadn’t seen me, so I held back behind the hedge at the bottom of the path for a moment to hear what he had to say to her. She must have been reluctant to open the door, as he was commanded to thrash again at it. Eventually the door did open.

  ‘I have come straight from the factory,’ the romantic gushed, ‘walked away from my work in order to tell you my true feelings.’

  ‘Master Ffoulkes, what do you mean by this indecency?’ she replied in haste.

  ‘I love you, fair Agatha, and I want your hand in marriage so that we can express our passion together.’

  Such drivel nearly emptied my stomach of the morning’s meal. Though, having led almost my entire life so far on scraps of food, now that I was eating well my stomach was often unsettled.

  I peeped around the hedge and saw him bent down on one knee, her hand in his. No more of this hiding, I thought, and showed myself. As I marched to the pair, Ffoulkes got up and turned to face me.

  ‘Oh Darren, what has happened to you?’ Agatha gasped, dropping her usual decorum and coming to me. She looked up at my bloodied face, placing her hand on my cheek.

  ‘Is this the man you truly want to marry, Agatha?’ I said, waving my hand over at him.

  ‘What? No!’ she cried out, ‘never did he do this, surely?’

  ‘You cannot seriously be accusing me of hitting you,’ Ffoulkes laughed.

  ‘I am sorry that you find humour in my pain,’ was my reply.

  ‘Go,’ she shouted at him, ‘leave us.’

  ‘These are lies, Agatha, lies,’ he shouted back, trying to get to her. I blocked his way, smirking at him when my face was shielded from her gaze. He turned and went as Agatha and I stepped into the house.

  ‘And don’t come to the factory anymore,’ I called after him, ‘there is no job for you there now.’ I slammed the door shut, locking it.

  * * *

  Later on, after Agatha had cleaned me up, she settled down by the fire to do some sewing. She wasn’t very good at it, having had no mother to teach her, but she got by. I watched her from the doorway for a while, thinking I could not be seen in the dim light. However, she must have sensed my presence as her shoulders stiffened and her hands were shaking.

  ‘Do you love Ffoulkes?’ I decided to ask her.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she responded, her usual reserved, quiet voice returned.

  I did as she had asked, coming to sit across from her by the fire. ‘Do you love Ffoulkes?’ I asked again, more pronounced, determined to get an answer.

  ‘I do not know what love is,’ was her whispered reply. Nor did I, so I couldn’t very well have accused her of lying. I wanted to, but I thought it best to play for sympathy rather than fear and resentment. I had seen my competitor off, and was stronger for it.

  We sat in silence for a time, she struggling to complete her sewing under the dim light. Eventually she slammed it down on her lap and sighed. ‘Why must it be women who have to sew?’ she huffed. I didn’t reply, instead catching her eye as I pretended to be rather uncomfortable in the armchair. ‘Are you-’

  ‘I am fine,’ I shot back, holding my chest. ‘He struck me in the chest as well, is all. It is aching.’

  ‘Here, let me look at it,’ she said, setting her
sewing down on the table beside her chair and kneeling before me.

  ‘No, I am ashamed,’ I went on.

  ‘Ashamed of what?’

  ‘That I let him beat me – I should have had a go back at him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she smiled, looking rather delightful against the grey-orange glow of the smouldering fire. ‘I am not one to go after brutes. Now, let me take a look.’

  I unbuttoned my shirt and opened it as she placed her warm hand on my chest. ‘Are you in the habit of going after me?’ I asked coyly, looking into the fire.

  ‘You’ll live,’ was her only reply as she quickly moved back to her chair and renewed her effort with the sewing. ‘It’s late, time for bed soon.’

  She was beyond perfection in my eyes, truly that which I desired most in life right now. If only she would have me willingly, we could make a happy life here. Uncle Joe had promised her to me, but it would make it all the more pleasant were she to accept it. Today I felt I had progressed in the right direction, and tonight we had been closer than ever before. The distance between us all the years gone by could work in my favour; she might perceive me less as a brother figure and more of a lover. There was no real rush, I certainly had time to mould her. But, as had been seen with Ffoulkes, she was an attractive potency for male suitors. There was nothing else for me to do other than warn them off and isolate her for my own desires. This I would do, and we would come together in matrimony.