Poor Jacky, page 19
***
Jacky was standing on the church steps. Behind him the interior was burning. Flames danced in the stained glass windows. Smoke poured from the belfry. In front of him, in a wide semi-circle, an assortment of men had gathered.: fire-fighters, police, and even members of the Territorial Army. Weapons and hoses were trained on this innocent-looking little boy in the old-fashioned, smouldering costume. His large eyes surveyed them as individuals, looking right into them. He had allowed them to gather. It would make a more interesting display as they went up and how they would scramble and try to escape!
A narrow tongue, forked at the end, lashed out of his mouth and licked his thin lips.
His eyes changed, assuming their true, goat-like appearance.
Every man tensed.
And then Poor Jacky disappeared.
***
Jacky blinked, confused to find himself in a hole in the ground. A human male was standing opposite him, facing him with that wide-eyed expression that had become so familiar. This male was holding something behind his back and was trembling visibly.
His incineration was a matter of seconds and then Jacky would float out of the hole and resume his course of destruction.
“Hello, Jacky,” the man blurted out. Jacky’s eyes flashed yellow. The man brought his arm around into full view. Jacky bleated in surprise and backed into the wall of the hole.
Paul held the rattle ahead of him like a weapon and a shield. He dared to take a step towards the unholy child.
Jacky’s face was a mask of panic. His clothes began to burn as his rage grew. His hair became a halo of pale fire. Within the flames, the face began to change. The nose and jaw contorted and lengthened into a snout. The breeches and stockings turned to ash and fell away revealing bowed legs covered with black fur, tapering into cloven hooves.
Paul was horrified but he took another step towards this creature, pressing him back into the wall with the power of the rattle.
Rick, looking down from the edge of the hole, covered his nose and mouth as the stench of sulphur rose from the foundations.
“Get back!” Paul yelled, addressing both his young friend and the infernal creature.
This provided the distraction Jacky needed. With an angry grunt, he launched himself at Paul’s chest, knocking him backwards and sending the rattle flying. Jacky sat on Paul’s ribcage, pressing his hands into the man’s neck. He let out a series of bleats that may have been laughter. He would blast this weakling’s head off and have done with it -
Jacky toppled sideways from Paul’s chest. Rick grabbed Paul’s hand and yanked him to his feet. In his other hand, he held the rattle. It smoked where it had come into contact with the back of the creature’s skull. Paul took it from Rick and urged him to get out.
“The cement mixer!” he reminded him, when the younger man showed no sign of moving. Rick tore his gaze away from the goat-boy floundering on the floor and nodding, climbed out of the hole.
Jacky got to his feet. He stamped the floor with his hooves, like a bull preparing to charge.
“Come on then, kid,” Paul set his jaw in determination.
Jacky lowered his head. A pair of horns sprouted at his temples, flames at first but coalescing into something sharp and deadly.
He threw his body at the man but the man didn’t try to fight him off. Instead, Paul wrapped his hands around the demon, locking him in an embrace, pressing the rattle into his spine.
The walls of the foundations shimmered away. Paul and Jacky were on grass, in a field, two hundred years in the past. The outlines of caravans pulled by phantom horses were leaving the scene. The shouts of men wafted towards them on the breeze.
“They’ve all gone, sire!” a man called.
And there, inches from Paul and Jacky, the shade of Edmond, Earl of Dedley, appeared. He watched the caravan leave before issuing the order to check for survivors and see that they were dealt with.
Paul became aware that Jacky had changed. He was no longer the raging goat thing but had shrunk to a tiny baby, an apparently human baby. Paul realised where he was. This was the moment the servant found the child and took it to his master.
Paul threw himself to the ground. To these ghosts he was nothing but a shimmer in the air. He hoped it would be enough to conceal the baby from their search. He put a hand over Jacky’s mouth to stop it crying out.
The servant walked past. A shiver went through both him and Paul. The servant paused and looked around. The shout of another called him away.
Paul froze. Edmond was right there. At any second he might glance down and see the child for himself...
The curse could not be lifted but Paul reckoned there was a chance it could be averted - even if it meant holding the unholy child pinned against his chest with the silver talisman between them, keeping Poor Jacky held in that moment forever.
***
Rick, hearing nothing from the foundations, peered over the edge. The hole was empty. Paul and the thing were gone. Only the rattle remained. He relayed this information to Miss Beamish. She shook her head sadly and pressed a green button. The bowl of the cement mixer began to grumble and churn. Rick directed it towards the foundations. Wet cement poured from the lip of the mixer.
Was it enough?
Rick didn’t know what he was doing but he dragged across a sack of gravel and refilled the machine, adding sand by the shovelful and water from a hose. He made another batch of cement or concrete or whatever it was he was making and poured that in. And then another. He worked through the night, frantic to get the job done. The rattle was covered; that was the main thing. Let the workmen come and do what else they needed to do. That thing must never see the light of day again.
At sun-up he conceded there was nothing more he could do. He wheeled Miss Beamish back to the car. The old woman was asleep but her breathing was harsh. He drove her to the hospital and left her with a puzzled receptionist who called after him to provide details.
Rick went back to his house. He sat sweating on the sofa. He pulled out his mobile, hoping against hope that there would be a message from Paul. There wasn’t; of course there wasn’t.
He tried Paul’s number and got nothing but silence.
Paul Beecroft was gone.
Struck by a sudden idea, Rick sprinted up the stairs to his room. The furniture was as it should be. There was no sign of the upheaval that had occurred. Everything was in its place.
Except...
Rick dashed to the bookshelves. His collection of Paul Beecroft novels was no longer there.
Had they been stolen? Who would take them? The ghosts of Paul’s friends?
That didn’t seem to make sense.
Rick pulled out his mobile again and logged into an online bookseller. He searched for PAUL BEECROFT and came up with no results. He tried to remember one of Paul’s titles so he could search for that, but came up with nothing. Rick could not remember a single book Paul had written.
Confused, Rick took himself to the shower before any of his housemates could get up. Perhaps sleep would help clear his mind and he would be able to work out what had happened.
***
Months later, a set of house keys arrived in the post. The card in the plastic fob bore an address. Number Two, Gypsy Paddock. There was no note.
Rick was somehow comforted to have the weight of them in his pocket as he went to work. He realised he hadn’t thought about Paul and what had happened - and what had happened, exactly? There was nothing in the news about the destruction of the town centre. Rick walked through it on the way to the Railway Hotel. Some areas around the marketplace were cordoned off. Bright posters proclaimed the redevelopment of the High Street that would benefit everyone. Apart from these, nothing had changed.
It wasn’t until his day off when he was sorting his clothes out for a wash and the house keys fell from his trouser pocket that Rick considered he ought to go and check out the address.
He drove to the newly completed estate of modestly-priced housing a mile or so from Dedley town, right next to the grounds of Dedley Hall.
Welcome to Gypsy Paddock proclaimed a billboard. Affordable homes for people like you!
Many of the neat little houses were already occupied even though the grass had yet to grow on the front lawns. Rick found his way to Number Two, knowing where it would be right away.
A ribbon and bow had been strewn across the front door. Rick turned the key and pushed the door open. On the doormat were leaflets welcoming him to his new home and advertising an after-care number from the developers. Rick stooped to pick these up.
Surely there was some mistake? At any second the householder would confront him in the hallway and demand to know what he was doing, barging into a private home.
“Hello?” he called out. There was no answer.
Tentatively, Rick moved along the corridor and into the fully-fitted kitchen. More bows and ribbons across the appliances. A helium balloon was attached to the neck of a champagne bottle that was cooling in a bucket of ice. Beside it, on the counter, an envelope with Rick’s name on it.
Rick snatched it up. There was no address, no postmark, just his name.
He slid his thumb under the flap and tore the envelope open.
“Dear Rick, Welcome to your new home. I hope you’ll be happy here. Everything is taken care of. I hope the furnishings are to your taste. All you need to do is move in. Have a great life. “
There was a signature that Rick couldn’t decipher but beneath that, clearly printed, “On behalf of the estate of P.B.”
Rick’s legs gave way. He pulled out a tall stool and hitched his backside onto it.
He felt as though he had won a lottery he didn’t remember entering. He examined the letter over and over.
This house was his!
He couldn’t believe it.
And who the fuck was ‘P. B.’?
2023
Rick switched off his computer and rubbed his eyes. Another novel finished - well, the first draft. He would send it to Judy later for her perusal. Although she had retired years ago, she still liked to show an interest in the young man who had proved to be her best client.
He went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. A nice cuppa to celebrate reaching the end of the story and a chance to go through the morning’s post.
Fan letters. Rick supposed he had the time to answer them now the book was done. A bank statement. Rick rarely bothered to look at them these days. There was more money in his account than he knew what to do with. Thank you letters from some of the many charities to which he made generous donations. He kept telling them not to bother - they should save the postage. More invitations to literary functions and dinners given in his honour. He would send them the polite but brief response in which he regretfully and gratefully declined.
The kettle boiled. At the same moment the doorbell broke the silence, making Rick jump.
He padded along the hall in slippered feet. He recognised the colours worn by the shape beyond the opaque glass. His online delivery of groceries and other essentials had arrived. He unlocked and opened the front door. It was a new chap. Rick signed the electronic clipboard, murmured his thanks and lifted the brimming plastic tub inside. The delivery man saluted cheerfully and got back into his van.
Rick stood on the doorstep, watching the van back up and drive away. He lingered for a moment, noticing that yet another house on the street was empty. Another family had moved away.
People didn’t tend to stay for long on Gypsy Paddock. First time buyers got married and started families and moved away. That was natural, Rick supposed, but there did seem to be quite a rapid turnover of homeowners, and prices seemed to be bucking the national trend and were ever falling. It was as though you couldn’t give the houses away.
He closed and locked the door. He carried his shopping to the kitchen. He put a teabag in the pot to brew while he unpacked his purchases. Ah, he really deserved that cuppa. Perhaps later he could put his feet up, download a new movie or something. There was an adaptation of his previous book, Trapped in Time ; that one had received good reviews. He’d been invited to the filming - he was always invited to the filming - but he never went, making excuses that he wouldn’t be able to refrain from interfering.
No; he had everything he needed right here in this little house. You can get everything you could possibly think of from the internet. There was no need to leave. Ever.
He stirred his tea and - why not? - cracked open a packet of the biscuits that had just arrived.
He munched his way through half a dozen of his favourite chocolate-coated brand; the crunching filled the silent solitude of the house.
He flicked through his trusty old scrapbook, scanning the familiar newspaper clippings and other jottings in the idle hope of igniting a new book idea. If this exercise failed to stimulate anything, he could always access the online archives for juicy bits of local history. So much more convenient than trekking into town to the actual building itself, which was named after someone called Evadne Beamish, whoever she was. Perhaps she warranted investigation... No; probably just a dusty old bookworm with nothing remarkable about her.
He always lingered at the page with the yellowed report of a local lad who had gone missing in 1988. Paul Beecroft, a university student, had been messing around at Dedley Hall with three others who later admitted to the police they had cajoled him into going. He had run off across the common and no one had heard from him since. The parents and the sister had never really got over Paul’s disappearance. The three bullies, as far as Rick knew, were probably still in the area, bloated and middle-aged with the truth of what happened that night buried deep in their memories.
Suddenly, Rick paused, his mouth full of biscuit. He cocked his head, listening. His ear was turned towards the floor. He listened. He waited.
Was that -?
No. There was nothing. The house was as silent as he liked to keep it.
Silent in case he ever heard the sound he dreaded to hear.
A baby’s rattle.
THE END
Also Available
William Stafford, Poor Jacky
