A Witch In Time

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A Witch In Time - book excerpt

“Do we have to?” said Stitches.

“Yes, I think you'll find that we do,” said Ollie.

“So you really think this is a good way to spend a Friday evening then?” complained the zombie, like a child told it's bath night (or a farmer for that matter, the whinging, dung covered bumpkins. And by that I mean a child having a bath, and not a child being told it's a farmer. We don't want any confusion now do we, not this early on. Blimey, imagine getting a six year old farmer into the bath. It'd be easier to polish a rhino's horn. If you can find one obviously. Not the horn, they're attached to the rhino, I meant the rhino. I…oh, hang on. Right, I've been told to stop this meandering nonsense and get on with the story. Some people are so touchy).

“Well, yes actually, as a matter of fact I do,” replied the half vampire, with a distinct air of superiority. “And just to make my point, and in the spirit of fair play of course, I'll bet you a months wages that you can't think of a better alternative?” he added, replacing the distinct air with one of a more definite nature.

Stitches looked at his friend. “Well, I wasn't given the chance was I?” He pointed a finger. “But if I was, I'm sure I could've come up with something more constructive. And considerably more productive actually. And a few other uctives as well as it goes. And since when do we get wages?”

“Okay then,” said Ollie, sidestepping the salary related question with all the agile grace of a Welsh outside half from the 1970's. “Here's your opportunity. I'm going to give you the choice. You've got one minute to come up with a better alternative to tonight's cornucopia of delights. Our pleasure and relaxation for the next few hours is in your dusty mitts.”

“And if I do come up with something we'll go and do that instead, yes?” said Stitches, hopefully. He had a bag of pork scratchings in the kitchen that he planned to give to Flug telling him it was a jigsaw of a pig.

Ollie pondered the question for a moment.

“Um. No. It would upset too many people, and by that I mean a few. Come on, mate. You know how much Mrs. Ladle looks forward to our visits, as does Ronnie. And you know very well that Flug would be beside himself if we cancelled.”

“Oh, come off it,” said the exasperated zombie. “Flug doesn't know what town he's in let alone whose house. He only comes along for the cakes and sweets anyway.”

“Flug, Ronnie,” called Ollie, bringing the conversation to a close. “It's time to go.”

Within seconds they could both hear the rumble of Flug's heavy footsteps as they beat a rhythmic tattoo on the upstairs landing. Then, as he got closer to the top of the stairs, his fervour increased, and such was the pounding that he was giving the floor, each pace that he took could be heard and felt throughout the entire building as he hurriedly made his way to the office. It was like being at the epicentre of a rapidly intensifying earthquake.

“Me comin', Ollie. Me…”

There then followed a crash of such tremendous force that it practically shook the foundations of not only the buildings in Skullenia, but those in the neighbouring town as well.

“Good grief, he's down again,” said Stitches. “I don't believe it. It's the same every week. You'd think he'd never seen a plate full of cakes before. Or his feet.”

Whilst possibly being a bit mean, that statement was based upon a very astute observation relating to Flug's mental capabilities, such as they were. For instance, if you showed him something, it doesn't matter what, removed it, and then showed him the exact same something again straight away, he wouldn't have a clue that he was looking at the thing that he'd just been looking at. This was the very reason that they tried to keep him away from mirrors and shop windows. You didn't want to be standing on the other side of a pane of glass that Flug has just punched because he thought he was being followed by 'a big, ugly fing dat was dribblin' and looked fick'.

Ollie was getting used to the idea, but it could be extremely frustrating if you were trying to make a point, or attempting to get him to follow instructions, but then again, on the bright side, it was very handy when it came to say, birthdays for example. A few years back, before Ollie had taken up his tenure and money had been a bit tight, no less than eight people had given Flug the same gift. They just stood in a line, proffered the reanimate birthday boy a parcel, which he duly opened, and told him to put it on a table behind him where it was immediately snaffled, quickly re-wrapped, and passed to the next person to give to him. And whilst I know that sounds horrible, don't be too downhearted at this treatment of the big, loveable bag of bits. The pressie in question was a ten kilo lump of chocolate, and Flug wouldn't have noticed if the devil himself had handed it over in exchange for his soul. And then handed it to him again.

And whilst I'm explaining things, the phrase, 'a plate full of cakes', shouldn't strictly be applied to anything that comes out of Mrs. Ladle's oven. Even the term 'comes out' is a bit wide of the mark to be honest. Some of her pastry concoctions had walked out, others had flown, whilst one batch, much to the amusement of everyone that had seen them, had shot out of the four hundred degree inferno telling obscene jokes about ogres and what they did with root vegetables when they thought no one was watching. (They don't go in a stew if that helps. The vegetables that is, not the ogres. They prefer to bathe in thick gravy).

Be warned. You go to Mrs. Ladles for tea and fancies, there's a very good chance that you'll get rudely molested by a Wayward Flan, or stoned to death by a deluge of sentient Lumberian rock cakes. Literally. Gravel is one of the main ingredients.

Five minutes later, after he'd managed to get himself vertical, Flug came into the office, although he was still a bit on the wibbly wobbly side. (Amongst many of the other things that were the bane of his existence, poor Flug still had a bit of trouble with his balance, which is why he kept toppling over like a pole-axed lamppost. 'So what are the other things then?' I hear you ask. Well, let's just say that the big lummox has issues with just about everything else associated with a normal, everyday existence. He is rather good at lying down though, a position that he finds himself in with monotonous, noisy, and not always intentional regularity).

“We go now, Ollie? We go now?”

“I think he's a little bit excited,” said Ronnie, following Flug into the office. He'd been at the foot of the stairs when the reanimated juggernaut that was his friend had come clattering down the entire flight at something just under seventy miles an hour. Only a deft sidestep had prevented him from being turned into a very sticky and gelatinous, bloody mess.

“I should think he is,” said Stitches, the tiniest hint of sarcasm in his tone. “I mean, he's hardly ever spent any time over at Mrs. Ladles at all has he?”

“Come on then, guys,” said Ollie, getting up from his chair. “It's time to go. Let's not keep the old girl waiting.”

A couple of months back it had come to pass that every other Friday night was to become game night. And why? Well, I'll tell you. On account of the fact that the only time Ollie and the boys ever seemed to visit her was when something went wrong, or they were in some sort of trouble, Mrs. Ladle had requested (or decided. The effect is pretty much the same), that they put some time to one side so that they could all get together and have some good old fashioned fun. So that's what they now did. So far they'd partaken of Rumblesticks, Count the Coffins, and Grabbed by the Ghoulies.

Tonight though, Mrs. Ladle had promised them something special. Not only was it a game that they wouldn't have heard of, but one that hadn't been played for a very, very long time. (Hungry Hippos would've been my guess. No one owns that anymore, let alone plays it, with all the ones ever made having been consigned to the bin or left outside the nearest charity shop. The next time you're perusing the wares on offer in your local Sue Ryder have a look, you're bound to see a set. Half the balls will be missing, there'll be at least three rude drawings on the lid, and the hippos will have a touch of mange, but it'll be sat there in the window, looking all forlorn and lonely next to a crockery set from the 1970's, a video of car crashes so old there's a brand new Ford Escort on the front, and a selection of clothing that wouldn't look out of place in a silent movie).

As they approached Mrs. Ladles' house, Flug put on a burst of speed.

“Slow down, mate,” shouted Stitches as the meaty monolith took off. “We don't want a repeat of what happened last time do we?”

Flug came to a screeching halt (well, he slowed down over a distance of about thirty yards or so), and turned round.

“No, we don't,” he said, convincingly.

“Do you actually remember what happened last time?” said the zombie, not at all convinced that Flug's conviction was as convincing as he was trying to convince them it was.

“Uh, no.”

“Thought not. What colour is Mrs. Ladles' front door, Flug?” said the zombie.

“Um. It blue. Always blue.”

“Right you are. Have a look.” Stitches pointed at the door.

Flug had a look.

“What colour is that?” said Ronnie, taking over the conversation. Trying to get Flug to recall and understand things was a tricky and time consuming business that was best done on a shift system utilising rostered tea breaks, time of in lieu for a lie down, and annual leave.

“Uh…”

“Come on,” said Ollie, encouragingly. “You know your colours.”

“Um…”

“You only learnt them a little while ago,” said Ronnie.

“Uh…hammers.”

“Well, at least he managed an answer I suppose,” said Stitches. “And he's still conscious which is always a bonus. That much cranial activity usually ends up with him in a coma. It's red, mate.”

“Red,” said Flug.

“Yes. Red,” said Ollie. “It used to be blue, but the last time you came over you knocked on the door a bit too hard didn't you.” (In fact, Flug had hit the door with such force that he'd sent it, and the frame, right up Mrs. Ladles' hall and into the kitchen. The poor witch had been making a cup of tea at the time and had gotten such a fright that she'd accidentally released a small, but potent dose of magic, the result of which was her bread bin temporarily assuming a bit of an attitude and spitting her loaf of Beetles Split Farmhouse onto the floor).

Now that he'd been reminded of the door related incident, Flug still had no idea whatsoever what they were talking about. That was hardly a surprising reaction though. After all, we are talking about a being who, on a regular basis, forgets that the sun goes down at night and cries because he thinks that the sky is broken.

“Can me knock, Ollie?” said Flug as he got to the front door.

“Yes, okay, you can, but very, very gently, understood,” said Ollie.

With a determined look on his face, Flug nodded to indicate that he had indeed, understood. When informed what to do directly, and then be afforded the opportunity to carry out the required instruction there and then, he usually managed it without too many problems. It was only if a passage of time elapsed that information started to drift out of his massive head. Two or three seconds was usual. After that he started to panic because he couldn't remember what he'd been told to do and started making things up. It was for that precise reason that Ronnie always made sure that Flug was sitting on the toilet when he told Flug to go to the toilet. It saved a lot of time. And a hell of a lot of cleaning up.