Wuthering Frights

---

Wuthering Frights - book excerpt

Flug was tired. Extremely tired. In fact, he was so tired that the three or four viable brain cells that he had left in his spacious dome had gathered straw and provisions, gone into hibernation, and wouldn't be likely to return to active duty much before the next millennium. Or any other gargantuan time span you'd cared to mention for that matter. Flug functioned on a time scale that made geological epochs seem a bit hasty you see, and the fact that he'd been standing on the office roof with his arms in the air for about five hours now, meant that he'd pretty much had enough when all things were considered (not that he considered many things of course. If asked to chew and walk at the same time he'd probably have a stroke and then have to pick the food off the bottom of his shoes whilst wondering why he had gravel in his mouth).

“Stitches,” he said, managing to instil a pleading tone into his deep, bass voice. “Can me stop now?”

The zombie looked down from the chair that he was standing on and pulled a face. Not his actual face of course because that would have come off in his hand. So would his hand.

“Just give it a little while longer, big fellah. I nearly had it then.”

The zombie reached up and carefully adjusted the coat hanger that he'd attached to the bolt in Flug's forehead. This, in turn, was connected via a length of wire to a small black and white television that was sat on the floor next to Flug's feet. At that precise moment, the ancient visual device was displaying nothing except a violent snowstorm, although there were probably adverts still being shown for really useful things like food (who'd have thought we needed that?), expensive cars that only a footballer could afford (and drive if he could figure out how to get in it), and Christmas stuff (well, it is July you know).

“Just hold still now,” said the zombie. “We're nearly there.”

About a week ago Stitches had found the old TV dumped in a bin at the rear of Mrs Strudels café, and he'd come up with the brilliant idea that if Flug was capable of picking up radio waves then logically he should be able to pick up a television signal as well. Unfortunately, Stitches' grasp of electronics, visual equipment, and how to utilise them and their various applications effectively, was the equivalent of a Roman Catholic priests understanding of the basic concepts of religion. In other words, he didn't have a bloody clue. Consequently, poor old Flug had spent most of the last six days standing on the roof come rain or shine (mostly rain) like a vast meat aerial. He'd also suffered the soul crushing indignity of having various bits of metalwork stuck to his face in a vain attempt to boost his reception capabilities. Forks, spoons, screwdrivers, hammers, and any other item of kitchen or garage paraphernalia that you'd care to mention had ended up stuck to him at some point over the last week or so. The anvil had been particularly hard work, especially when it had fallen off Flug's head, rolled onto Stitches' foot and left three of his toes looking like four-day old porridge.

Despite his best efforts though it was never going to work, because what Stitches had failed to realise was the fact that Skullenia was in something of a sound and vision wave black hole. For some unknown reason signals of any description had trouble getting in or out of the village no matter how hard you, or your equipment tried. It was bad enough trying to send a text message from one side of the square to the other let alone the next village over. In fact, it would have been quicker to use a carrier bat. Even quicker if you used a live one. You might as well be trying to get a signal from the outer reaches of the solar system to be honest. Or on T Mobile, the chances were about the same.

“Stitches me tired. Me want sweeties now.”

Just as he was about to plead with Flug for five more minutes, a crackle and a loud whoosh from above distracted the zombie, throwing his delicate coat hanger array awry.

“Stitches,” called Mrs. Ladle as she swooped and arced like a demented swallow. “What on earth are you trying to do to that poor boy?”

“Isn't it obvious?” replied the zombie.

“To a mental patient perhaps,” she said, deftly landing on the roof and dismounting. “But not to any sane person.”

“Well that leaves…”

“Easy now, sunshine,” said the witch. “Don't you go taking advantage of my good nature there's a good chap.” She made a show of checking her pockets. “I know I've got one somewhere, and it wouldn't take kindly to having someone taking the mick out of it. Come to think of it I seem to remember it's on my mantle-piece next to my grandfather's eyes and my mother's sense of decorum.”

She helped Flug divest himself of several bits of metal and handed him a packet of sweets.

“Oooh, Fruity Flanges. My faverits. Fanks, Mrs. L.”

He lumbered off cramming as many as he could get into his mouth as was inhumanly possible, which was a lot.

“Now, before you start moaning and groaning like a grumpy zombie,” said the witch to a disgruntled looking zombie who was just about to start moaning and groaning like a grumpy zombie, “just take a moment or two to think about what you've been doing to that unfortunate lad. You've taken terrible advantage of him as you well know.”

“Yeah, but that's the brilliance of it,” said Stitches. “He hasn't got a clue about anything so if he doesn't understand what's going on how can I be accused of taking advantage of him? He only knows the sky's above him because it's a slightly different colour to the ground and has fewer buildings in it. Besides, it's a bit of compensation for having to look after him all the time.”

Mrs. Ladle took a drag of the cigarette that had appeared in her hand as if by magic, which was ironic because that's exactly what had occurred. She tapped a leather booted foot on the roof and stared at the zombie with nary a blink.

Stitches could tell instantly that she was angry. He was quick on the uptake like that, plus he was more than used to it. There weren't many beings he'd met that he hadn't annoyed at some point or another, and for those that he hadn't, it was only a matter of time before he did.

He looked at the witch and gave her a smile. It didn't work. Even the stream of smoke that she exhaled looked annoyed, and when she spoke it was in a tone of voice that required nay, demanded obedience, oozed command, and left the perceptive listener under no illusion as to what might happen if the speaker was disobeyed. Stitches though, disregarded the danger signals and carried on regardless.

“But surely his innocence and lack of understanding are the very reasons that you shouldn't be doing those things to him in the first place. It's got to stop. Right now. Understand.”

“Spose,” said the zombie.

“Excuse me,” said the witch.

“Okay. Okay. I understand,” said Stitches, a little more warily than a moment ago. He couldn't be sure but he could have sworn that Mrs. Ladle's exhaled cigarette smoke had formed a noose. It was hanging in the air not two feet from his face and looked very keen to wrap itself around something. Something neck shaped and under his head.

“Good. Right. I'm glad that we've reached an agreement. Now don't let me catch you being mean to Flug again or I'll turn you into something nasty.”

With that she grabbed her broom and flew off leaving Stitches in her nicotine shrouded wake.

* * *

Ronnie sat at the kitchen table and drained the last of the tea from the cracked mug that, despite it's off white and slightly grubby appearance was his absolute favourite. It had character, history, and made the tea taste just right. It no doubt had trillions of deadly bacteria and malignant pathogens capable of wiping out entire civilizations in it as well, but that was just by the by as it all added to the flavour. The fact that it had a picture of a cute and fluffy teddy bear on it was neither here nor there either. That's what he told people anyway.

He swallowed his drink with relish, enjoying the burning sensation as the searing liquid flowed down his throat. Ronnie was one of those people that liked his tea ridiculously hot. In fact, the hotter the better, to the point that if you were unlucky enough to spill any of it on yourself, you would be in real danger of having to take a trip to the nearest accident and emergency centre. Stitches, reckoned that Ronnie must have asbestos in his throat, but that had been after he'd gotten some on his left forearm, an incident that had stripped the flesh from the zombie's limb in an instant and left it looking like a bread stick that had fallen on hard times. Ronnie knew different though and that it was from years of dedicated smoking. He might very well have the lung capacity of an asthmatic coal miner, but at least he could get a steaming hot brew down without wincing.

After returning the cup to the table he fished around in a coat pocket and retrieved his leather tobacco pouch because there was no better time to enjoy a nice smoke than after a lovely cup of tea (as well as after waking up, going to the toilet, before breakfast, after breakfast, during the morning, before lunch, during lunch, after lunch, all throughout the afternoon…oh, you get the idea. The only time that Ronnie didn't smoke was when he was in bed, and that was only because he hadn't yet figured out how to keep a steady stream of nicotine flowing into his system while he was asleep).

He flipped the pouch open. “Bugger,” he said to himself (which was just as well because there was no one else in the room). Save for a few lonely wisps of brown dust languishing at the bottom, his pouch was devoid of anything suitable for rolling. Usually Ronnie kept a spare with him at all times so that he would never run out, but seeing as he was recovering from a weekend away with a couple of friends during which he'd made a spectacularly heroic effort at drinking and smoking himself to death, it was perfectly understandable that his mind was still a little hazy. He put the bereft pouch back into his pocket, rinsed his mug and made his way to the office. When he got there he met Stitches, who was standing outside. The door was closed.

“Is he in?” Ronnie asked.

“I'm not sure to be honest,” replied the zombie, giving the door a gentle knock that wouldn't have roused a very nervous insomniac.

“Well, why don't you just go on in?” said Ronnie. “It's not as if it's off limits”.

“I would but when the doors closed it usually means that he's just got up, and you know what he's like about his appearance first thing in the evening. He doesn't like to be seen in a mess does he, but because he hasn't got a reflection, he can't see what he doesn't want us to see, so he just assumes that what he can't see is bound to be something that he wouldn't want us to see, or that we would want to see.”

“I see,” said Ronnie, ever so slightly confused.

“I can hear you out there you know,” came Ollie's voice from the other side of the door. “And I know you're talking about me.”

Stitches inclined his head and spoke to Ronnie in a hushed whisper.

“When he says, 'I can hear you out there you know', that usually means that he doesn't mind us seeing…”

“WILL YOU GET IN HERE YOU DUSTY TW…”

Tired of the verbal badinage that was threatening to turn him into a mass murderer (well, two at any rate), Ronnie flung open the door and marched in, closely followed by Stitches. Ollie was sitting behind his desk and had a 'just got up from a nap and haven't had time to sort myself out properly, you try it when you have the sleeping pattern of a two-year-old' look about him.

“Nice kip?” asked Stitches.

“Yes thank you,” replied Ollie, staring in horror at the pint of blood that had been sitting on his desk when he came in. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit so early in the night? And please note that that was directed at Ronnie and not you.”

“Well that's just charming,” said Stitches, feigning offence quicker than a die hard, soap box, anti-racist who thinks it's disgusting that people of colour still have to ask for black coffee in this day and age. He glanced around the room, desperately trying to find something to talk about in order to lighten the mood. His gaze finally came to rest on the wall above the fireplace.

“How long has that been there?” he asked.

“Only a couple of days,” said Ollie, rising from his chair for a leg stretch.

“It's a mirror,” said Stitches.

“Indeed it is,” said Ollie. “And congratulations on your keen powers of observation. They never cease to amaze me. What do you think of it?”

“Well,” Stitches said, “on reflection…”

“Forget it,” snapped Ollie.